It's Alright, Kid. You Ain't Fucking Broken

There ain't no winners at the game of 'life'.

Those silences are fucking blinding

You know the ones where you woz havin a nice day at the beach until you were informed that ya needed to discuss ya fucking problems in yer relationship n ya just couldn’t fuckin open up cos ya don’t feel fucking anything whatsoever like yer the damn Terminator with anusburgers and cos yer get fucking impatient when someone else starts gettin emotional or they require some kind o’ emotional validation n it ends with this horseshit energy hangin in the air like Darth Vader’s dick n yer sittin in the car sayin meaningless shit like,

Ooh, that's a big fucking ship

or,

The houses are real Art fucking Deco round here aren’t they, sweetcheeks.

Cos ya just can't fuckin handle another minute of empty etheric unfathomable intangible mental wave napalm penetrating yer fucking light body.

What was the question again?

Don’t make me repeat it, fucker.

There's always a standard isn’t there?

That gold standard is always fucking written in the finest ink from the rare Palestinian pipe squid on this two-ply, cold-dipped moluskwood paper and hung above the triple tiered Tuscan sand marble fireplace of every damn situation we encounter in this dry world.

N it always says something like,

This is how things should be. If they are any less than this, things need to be addressed, you sauce whisperer.

N it just doesn’t matter that this royal standard has never been reached. It's what we’re told we must shoot for.

The whole of capitalism is built on the premise of happiness—that it exists, and that it can be achieved through emotional, physical or financial labour.

We’re told that if our dick was two inches bigger or we had an extra metric centimetre of spunk in our loads or if our wives had three tits instead of two or one of those plastic anuses that you see walking round these days, or if we could drive the latest Spugatti or Furarri or the new Tesla Cunt Machine 5000 we would reach this state of contentment where we would never again seek for anything.

But you know all this horseshit, already don’t ya?

You’ve probably heard it seeping out the wet gobs or off the pages of one of yer special spiritual dick gobblers that ya worship cos they got enlightened when they trapped their dick in the car door when they were eight.

But, let’s not name names today, okay? I’m still unsure if the UK dick police might class it as hate speech and try to handcuff me to a sycamore tree and fuck me with a rainbow-coloured dildo.

Anyway, there was this nice lad called Siddhartha who lived fucking years ago, and who spoke about these four truths which can be perceived by NOBLE BEINGS as clearly as yer neighbour, Mrs Flapsberry’s pubes when she hangs out the washing in her semi-see through Wednesday turquoise knickers

The first of these truths was:

LIFE IS SUFFERING

I mean that’s a shit translation. It's what makes people think the Buddha was some kind of Emo that listened to Fall Out Boy and painted his nails black under the Bodhi tree and tried to slit his wrists every Christmas to prove how depressed he was while secretly singing show tunes like Liza Minelli through the thin walls of the school urinal.

But lets run with it, okay?

N ya might go,

Yeah nice one, Pops. Like we didn’t fucking know life is suffering.

N that's the thing, you goat fondler.

You DON'T know.

You still think there's a fucking alternative.

So ya keep pumping out those memes on Notes and makin ya YouTurd videos where ya buy a cat and starve the poor fucker n beat the shit out of it so ya can pretend to rehabilitate it or where ya pretend to be a retarded fuck who can't eat cos their hands are shakin just so ya can wait till the fucking hot waitress offers to feed ya with her delicate hands n so ya can just go,

TA DA. I’m not really fucking retarded, bitch.

and ya can offer her two hundred bucks for being kind N she has to take it and sign yer disclaimer cos it's more than she fuckin earns in a week n she needs some Nescafe to feed her unborn son who she keeps out the back in her 1983 Ford Shitberry cos she doesn't have a fuckin house.

But fuck it. It’ll get VIEWS.

Ya ever heard that story about the naked man eating a bag of chillies, burning like a bastard just cos he was waiting for the sweet one?

Yer whole life has gone from good to shite to black to white to dark to light like gettin’ yer tits sucked by Billy Eilish while yer get fucked up the arse by Connor McGregor on Adderall.

N yer still under some stinkin impression that yer can permanently extend Billy and permanently put an end to Conor like tryin to remove the night and extend the day à la Al Pacino in fuckin Insomnià.

Cos ya never worked out yet that Conor and Billy are the same.

Like the front n back of a playin card.

Like the front n back of ya nan (She’s tight).

Point is, they tell ya that ya broken cos ya can't extend the light.

N that's how they sell ya a bag of shite.

Siddartha said,

It's the game that’s fucking broken, not you.

That’s what the first truth of noble beings means.

You can keep playin, Ringo, but yer ain't gonna win.

It’s an unwinnable game, G.

It’s always gonna be tainted,

Like eatin’ the finest pussy while Jimmy Saville does a shit on your back.

I’m paraphrasing here.

The only way out is OUT, kid.

N I know yer hurtin from when yer Uncle Phillip showed you his weiner at your eleventh birthday party.

But I aint talkin about suicide. So get yer head out of that Thermomix.

It ain't a good method, trust me. It's just another capitalist trick.

I could tell yer a good method, but it’ll spoil the movie.

You don’t have to stop playin’ the game.

Just know it ain’t the damn truth.

And from this very moment,

Like a pigeon on heat,

Looking for a rubber,

Begin your search

For the truth.

Alright?

Kunto.

Cyaz

FTB

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