Sarcasm is an art.
It is the theatrical, however convincing
Performance that allows people to believe that,
I don’t give a damn.
But in my “horse and pony show,”
Behind the curtain,
There is…
Shit.
The kind that reeks and brings a tear to the eye,
Even if no one else sees it.

Sarcasm is its own language.
A sly, slithering, slip of the tongue,
Inserted whenever necessary to do one of two things:
1)Confuse those too dim witted to warrant the completion of this sentence,
Or,
2)To challenge those who may be worthy of a genius’s duel of linguistic superiority.

Sarcasm is a black hole in the soulistic heart.
Sucking matter into the unknown,
Which is precisely that because it is uncharted and non-consistent.

Sarcasm is the unfair advantage that the Chuck Taylor generation has over that of the pantyhose.
It is the infinite age of 42.
The automatic response of every English teacher of “I don’t know, can you,”
To a pupil who asks if they can go to the restroom.
It is the absolute rejection of maturity,
And it is my favorite manipulation of those who can’t keep up.

So bring on the water works, the ponies and the morons,
The cynical fucks and the Nylon Nancies.
The massacre is only as good as the carnage,
And I’ll tell you with tongue on left fang,
I’m thirsty.

07/01/2009

Posted on 07/01/2009
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