Comedy legend Rodney Dangerfield made a career out of getting no respect. He had a good shtick of self-deprecating humor and a sixth sense about never getting any. Aretha Franklin wanted some R-E-S-P-E-C-T, and she finally got some. But she had to grovel in the white privileged world for a long time.
Rumor has it, direct from the Idiot bobblehead Tucker Carlson and his butt buddy, Donald Trump Jr., that Michael Jackson is still alive, and Elvis too. Don Jr. played Nintendo with Jocko at Trump Tower decades ago. They were neighbors. Let’s not forget JFK and Jesus. Shrieks and simpering from the peanut gallery. They’re wiping each other’s buttswith old glory when reciting the Pledge of Allegiance/Lord’s Prayer mash up. Waxing their wooden crosses with Lemon Pledge.
While on military parade display, shiny ammo belts full of hollow point bullets in the shape of tiny penises are ready to go. Thank you. Have a blessed day. A modicum of respect goes a long way. When they hear the word culture, critical race theory, Black Lives Matter, or Antifa, they instinctively grab their automatic weapons. It’s an acquired taste, a matter of dazzling cretinism and warped perspectives, topped off with exploding frag narcissists blown way out of proportion with homemade pipe bombs. The GOP jerks off to candid videos of Marjorie Taylor Green in a camouflage bikini shooting targets of Mickey Mouse down at the local shooting range. So much for Disneyland.
So much respect. Some demand it, others earn it, fewer give it and many don’t deserve it. Everybody wants a piece of it. The gospel tune by the Staple Singers sums it up nicely. “Respect yourself, respect yourself, If you don't respect yourself, ain’t nobody gonna give a good cahoot, Respect yourself.” Forget about anybody else, respect begins with you. Doesrespect begin at home? Possibly. Maybe in church, with a lot of praying and charitable contributions. Are you deserving of a reward?
The still-living show more respect to the dead than most breathing creatures. A complete disregard for the sanctity of life and lack of compassion for those souls who wander aimless through life without hope. Please don’t diss the dead.
On Halloween, people dress like skeletons, butduring the rest of the year skeletons dress like us. By the same roadside casino token, it’s a sure bet that every face is different, but all skulls look the same. Celine wrote: “You can lose your way groping among the shadows of the past. It's frightening how many people and things there are in a man's past that have stopped moving. The living people we've lost in the crypts of time sleep so soundly side by side with the dead that the same darkness envelops them all. As we grow older, we no longer know whom to awaken, the living or the dead.” It’s a who’s-who of wanted dead or alive.
And you expect respect. Respect your elders, young whippersnappers. Forgone conclusions revolve around forlorn convolutions, furry little nothings scurry under my wheels. We go around in circles. Compassion? Familiarity breeds contempt. That razor-edged boomerang comes back to haunt the friendly ghosts of hellfire’s collateral damage.
Everybody’s a target. Every target, a feather in the cap of conformity. No disrespect here, but who do you have to bribe to get a shot from the bartender in this joint? I guess we should kill them all. Let the divine ones and their diabolical demons sort out the fleshy fodder. Show mercy unto the people.