"To argue with a person who has renounced the use of reason is like administering medicine to the dead."
― Thomas Paine
While you were sleeping ― buying your seventh Lexus, getting married, paying "taxes," pumping out progeny, or watching TV ― the following happened:
The motorized cock pump sputtered. The hairy husband sporting it set flame to the business end of a Newport Menthol.
The fuck junky pounded away at the horny housewife. Craning his neck, he gazed at a "Thank You for Not Smoking!" sign on the hotel room wall.
The camcorder rolled atop the lube-drenched tripod, as the 70-something señorita did her best to hide our hero's harpoon between her thighs.
A warm, desert breeze caused palm trees outside to creak against rubbery trunks.
Tfj could hold the amount of food he'd eaten, in the past three days, in one hand. Racing through the lobby to get here, he'd passed a corporate-crafted sign that read: "Free Breakfast: 6 AM to 10 AM."
As soon as the wanton woman called the game ― due to extended overtime ― the fuck junky said his "goodbyes," and raced from the room.
The buttery muffins were as heavenly as the luscious labia he'd feasted on, minutes prior. Our protagonist gorged himself on perfectly-pressed pancakes, piled high inside the dining room of the Holiday Inn Express. He was as ravenous as he'd been devouring the maiden's anus, back in room number whatever. He hadn't had a cooked meal in a month, and all he could think about was―
Bluffdale, Utah? What the fuck―?!
Of course! It's a place that directly affects us all, but almost none of us have heard of. Bluffdale is a remote locale devised by festering, rotted minds.
If you've ever felt you were being listened to, this backwoods shithole provides proof. It's here the government has built a multi-billion dollar repository, in which it warehouses all electronic communication conducted by U.S. citizens. That means every E-mail, cell phone call, text, or tweet you've made, as of late, is stored in this climate-controlled dung heap amongst snow-crested buttes.
Recall those late night texts you pounded out to your mistress, while your wife slept beside you? They're all cached at Bluffdale.
Remember the E-mails you wrote, explaining your secret devotion to white supremacy, during your gubernatorial campaign? Well, those are also at Bluffdale.
What about your lunch break calls expressing homosexual desires to a coworker? That electronic correspondence, and so much more, can now be found and retrieved ― whenever government desires ― from Bluffdale.
In short, whatever privacy you're told you have is a lie.
And you laughed at those who'd invoked George Orwell's 1984, and the admonition "Big Brother is Watching You." Bluffdale, Utah, is proof positive Big Brother not only exists, but has been keeping track of you for a long, long time.
Yet, you still think you reside in the "land of the free"? How can you be free, if your private communications can be accessed by someone you've never met before? If I listened to your personal calls, you'd kick my ass! Yet, it's okay if government does?!
What if government wants to destroy you; label you a "terrorist"? Now they can. Couple this with the implementation of the Patriot Act, as well as the National Defense Authorization Act (NDAA) of 2012, and bureaucracy has given itself the right to arrest, imprison, torture, and murder you, without affording you a judge, legal representation, nor trial.
You may assume I'm some crackpot, but the aforementioned information was made available for anyone with Internet access, by the most credible of sources; persons in extremely high government positions. We're talkin' the likes of William Binney ― former head cryptographer for the NSA. During his tenure, Bill was the top code maker and codebreaker among the human race.
The jam slathered over the crusty toast was ambrosia, as the fuck junky recalled his early morning routine:
Thin as a reed, he'd awaken before dawn, on a mattress that doubled as his bed. Grabbing a bottle of baby oil, he'd stroke himself hard, and measure his cock. Nine-plus proud inches. While others would start the morning with a robust breakfast, he'd greet each new, nightmarish day reminding himself of the only reason he hadn't leapt off an overpass into oncoming traffic.
Tfj had been chased from his home by government. Everything he had ― except his over-sized penis ― had been purloined by the covetous.
His mother's brains were the consistency of rolled oatmeal, as he raced from emergency room, to psych ward, to assisted living home, in order to keep her alive. Her mush for a mind had become so, due to government-funded narcotics ― doubling as "medication." These, her drug pusher doctor had forced on her, when she became despondent over her husband dying of bureaucracy-borne cancer.
After government stole mom's house ― a 6,000 square-foot domicile she'd built with her late significant other ― she'd been rendered homeless. Being her son, the fuck junky found her accommodations, and faced his own destitution.
Battling against the forces engulfing him, tfj sped for the desert. If he was gonna be a vagrant, he'd do so in a warm climate. As such, he set up shop in a Super 8 motel that wreaked of meat-laden stool and mold.
Around him, the man's friends were dropping dead from cancer, and everyone seemed clueless as to why, even though they'd all been shown the thousands of atomic "tests" their government had ordered conducted on them. The fuck junky exposed the enemy, but those he knew were comfortable perpetuating a system that was killing them.
Craft of unknown origin ― proof of otherworldly existence ― continued buzzing the populace. Yet, folks were more interested in something called Rihanna, or how many balls a guy could hit over a fence with a stick.
On the television in the hotel dining room, some nameless politician shouted another useless speech that would result in nothing.
Tfj didn't notice. He'd humped another housewife ― this one number 3,847 in his quest for 5,000 ― and was momentarily content. He was satiating himself on a free meal ― the caliber of which he hadn't tasted in months ― and temporarily forgot about the insanity around him.
None of it made sense: Us willfully obliterating ourselves over pieces of paper we call "cash"; feeling wise in our ignorance; refusing to see the clues, nor reality, engulfing us.
The fuck junky washed his meal down with a goblet of freshly-squeezed. For a moment, he sat and relished in being fulfilled, rubbing his fattened tummy,...which was probably 29 inches at that juncture.
Speaking of inches, he'd brought his trusty measuring tape to a Motel Sex, the evening prior, and provided proof for another carnal couple seeking the Nine Inch Nail.
Our hero's metallic steed carved a path through the night, as a scratched cell rang in the seat beside him.
Activating the BlackBerry-style Brontosaurus, tfj squealed, "I'm on my way, amigo!" into earbuds packed with wax.
"Sorry, bro," came the response from the other end of the line.
"Huh?"
"She got cold feet."
