Tender times such as these demand that history be taken up as a serious mandate against those who would run us underground, setting aside for a moment the orange cloth which marks one’s lame calligraphy from all other putrid liens.
The right to steel doors, skate parks, push-ups, tv contests, and mixed martial arts associations, guaranteed by the founding fathers, written in the blood that they whipped from their pens, will not ensure the safety of our women and children, our allies, nor our trading partners, namely Mexico, which is why we must pick ourselves up from the trash-heap of Nazism and dislocate the shoulders of those whom we respect with fashionable desecration. To pollute the environs with noise will be dessert enough.
We have pushed all candy and splash-pads toward the world’s would-be democracy and are hopeful the seeds of likeness and of fact will tend toward more delivery of what we know contributes to radical, hybrid penmanship, namely us. What can be done at great speed and precision should be done with an equally generous lament of those unable to program.
Meaning, you are either with us, or you are right in front of us, right where we want you, in the linux of ground-shattering premonitions, dead meat. A delay in errant freedom’s lore does not jeopardize this or any compilation of commitment because we technically care for you. No other body of work can make this claim, not even NASA which we fund.