Oh, you have something to say? A soap box to stand on? OK. I’ve
had plenty of my own soap boxes and teetered on my own scaffold. Soap box away.
You want me to believe, what? A conspiracy theory? We all
know what those are. They are the confluence of fantasy and actuality; peppered
with partiality, salted with intensity, and no one knows who tastes the broth.
Who knew our tastes were so refined. They are a way of processing the
unbelievable into diced meat and porridge. Bread and beer. Sage and onions. Then
we sup upon it and growl if someone tries to take it away. Your conspiracy
theory is my warning of danger.
I love a conspiracy theory. Never had much time for them
myself, but if you’ve got one, let her rip. Personally, I can’t keep track of
them all. JFK assassination? Elvis? Moon landing? Aliens? Trump Muppet?
How funny. That’s all fine if we are reading 1920’s sci-fi
pulp with the scantily clad space women on the cover and-never mind. It was
dime novel pornography. For a dime novel day and a dime novel mentality. In a
dime novel world.
What dime novel pornography have you got for me today?
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