Sunday, September 6, 2015

The Subject Was How Much Better My Family Is Than Yours

by Frankish Hairy Bruin

The Subject Was How Much Better My Family Is Than Yours

Well, here we are again, America. Evidently David Brooks is nearly dying of something so they editorial board felt forced to appoint another useless vapor cloud. In this case, me, Frankish Hairy Bruin, one who seems to have been feeding from a silver-lined trough for so long that I can't accept that my one real qualification for this job is being shot out of my mother's baby cannon with a "trust fund baby" tattoo.

But if biology is destiny, then surely I deserve to be here. Or maybe I just sucked the right sausage at the right time, who knows? It's clearly not because I am wise,
 or clever, or have anything worthwhile or interesting to say. Let's face it: A braying mule could probably get a job at the Times these days, as long as it would say hate unions, the minimum wage, and Hillary while shoving caviar into his fat gob in a restaurant staffed by underpaid migrant labor.  

I mean, can you believe my fucking egocentricity? I actually live in a mental world where I believe that most people can 'connect' with their families in a summer beach house? Am I actually completely fucking blind? Can I not see the misery and suffering of the homeless, the poverty, the desperation? Or am I just a sociopath who just plain doesn't give a shit about anything except what I'm going through. Expect on memoir in the near future about me dealing with the death of one or both of my parents--hey, it might even make the New York Times best-seller list. 


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