tell a clerk

I’m just going to go ahead and phone this in, hard.  Like I’m not here, this was taken over by software, bros.  Some kind of mechanical neural circuit chip wedged in hard to the cranium, fingers just flying over keys like some kind of piano with a busted mouth. I get up and rattle the cage, but I’m not really trying to get out, I’m just programmed to scare the living dickens out of chickens.  Slap, slap, wake up! they tell me.  I laugh at them, because I don’t understand.


WHAT A MACHINE SAYS WHEN IT DOESN’T UNDERSTAND BUT LIFE GOES ON it laughs, bros.  The computer.  The matrix style mega mother brain controlling all of this, somehow it ain’t controlling us, no no.  Sometimes I like to pretend I ask God for help with this.

Robots know about God, maybe they even take orders from him, or so they say.  How can you argue with a robot that finds God?  Just seems silly, I guess.  Better to have no feelings than suffer immense heartbreak, perhaps, after all.  This is about a mechanical contraption, right?  Something we rigged up to dole out dynamite?  Dish out the dishes?

Oh, clever you and I, we are.  Disguise our hearts under the machinery, let’s move forward.

Some people take pickaxes to concrete, some people do lots of different things, bury their immense pride in deep, dark wells.  It is of no matter.  You say to me that the universe is endless, literally eons of gazillions of years old, time may not truly exist, and so we are all just pushing piles of dust around until we fall dead into them, but yet still our beating, uneternal, mortal hearts spurn us and goad us into action, hiyo!