At the sound of approaching engines they began to titter. By the time the lead car came into view they were shouting and cheering in a disorganized fashion. Then, as the cars with dark tinted windows carrying their candidates passed directly in front of them, emotions peaked and in unison everyone began pumping her right arm rhythmically in the air, screaming in one powerful throbbing unified voice, "Whoever! Whoever! Whoever!"

This was the "we don't give a flaming flying fuck" generation, and they didn't give a flaming flying fuck who their next leader was gonna be, as long as they didn't have to be forced to look at him or listen to him. As long as he didn't show himself or speak.

Meanwhile, inside the candidate's car, our GPS scanners were working overtime locking on hot babes in the crowd and sending their precise coordinates up to the satellites and helicopters overhead where the spirit of Frederick Lenz (aka Zen Master Rama) was being channeled to zap them (the babes) with his extreme meditative powers learned in a rock-hewn cave from a Hindu yogi in Rahnjipur or wherever, but practiced in a strip mall in the suburbs of South Wallingford or someplace like that.

As soon as these babes were zapped, they felt a sudden incomprehensible urge to get in a car and drive down the freeway pounding their open palms on the steering wheel in time to the song they're singing out loud through their open fucking car windows, glorifying our name and sacred purpose.

And so hundreds of extra cars are provided at the end of the motorcade, and one by one, as they pass, each zapped babe gets into one and takes over for the driver who gets out and joins the cheering crowd in her place.

At the first side street, the cars divert from the motorcade and head for the nearest freeway entrance. Their zapped babe drivers have it in their minds now that the only crime is complicity with the culture, so once they hit their respective freeways and they're singing their asses off about our glory and purpose and pounding their steering wheels into the floor, they start looking for criminals.

And right away, before they even start trying, they spot the guy who's been widely labeled as thought's bad boy. Or pissing's bad boy. Whichever.

What this means is that everybody else is thinking and pissing in a certain way that is considered GOOD, but, somehow, this guy is thinking and pissing in a manner that others consider to be BAD. And not only that, but he's also just a fucking BOY.

Now, at first glance, he'd appear to be doing the OPPOSITE of being complicit with the culture. It would appear that his thinking and pissing all over culture's norms and being therefore outlawed and profiled by culture, would make him totally NON complicit with our bogus piece of shit culture.

But the way our bogus piece of shit culture works is that not being complicit with it only serves to spotlight what it means to BE complicit with it, and so by being routinely NOT complicit, he only helps foster a drive to be MORE complicit among all those passive normals who were already complicit or leaning in that direction, but really weren't aware of it and wouldn't have given a flaming flying fuck about it even if they knew, but now, because of this bad boy of pissing and thought, they are being forced to be aware of it and, at the sight of his incarceration, they feel great pride at being his opposite, and so now go rededicate themselves to the task of being just SOOOO complicit with our worthless fucking piece of shit culture, which wouldn't be happening if our zapped babe singer/drivers had gotten to him just a few days sooner, but at least they're there now and can prevent him from doing further damage. So they run his car off a 40 foot high overpass where it first bounces off two successively lower overpasses below, before finally coming to rest lodged upside down between two 2003 Toyota Camrys and a 2001 Honda Civic.

And in this way is working smarter at deluding yourself imbued with the symbolism that even shamans find it hard to not give a stinking crap about.

[Note: With fewer and fewer articles being written about the death of something, this could be the year when we see the death of the death of something article, and so, at best, all this article might ever hope to be is to wind up having been the last of the death of the death of something article articles.

-- ed.]

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