Sometimes you don't have to look far to find something to talk about. You don't have to wait for the voice in your head; it just shows up and throws it in your face. Part of your mind, or someone's mind says that every one of these creatures should be rounded up and put on trial, followed by the quick and speedy execution of capital punishment, or life in prison, without hope of parole. That includes the oilmen performing it; the politicians permitting it, the oversight and enforcement agencies ignoring it, those explaining it and those... -
~ those only concerned with milking the greatest rent from their railroad flat apartments, greasy spoons and whatever side of the road, cash hijacking machines they've set up to wring some temporary vermin profit from it, can be left to the fate of vermin, once the plunder leaves town and all that remains are wide wastes where nothing grows and deep pits of wet, stinking, death assured, hot weather swimming pools for their stunted, hillbilly heroin addicted, children.
Corollary incidentals always appear in tandem with these things and even members of the socio-political retard army can see the connection ...but what's the fun or profit in that?
The people doing these things are the spiritual offspring of serial killers and mass murdering psychopaths. They know what they're doing and they know what happens but it just doesn't matter and... maybe, at this point it doesn't.
Once the sleepwalking, wide load, expando-pants, shit for brains, consumer zombies can really, absolutely, no longer put “food on their families” and the ones who haven't yet been matriculated to another world, by their murderous and insane progeny, or the temporary berserker status of the head of the household, or some relative come back from foreign killing fields, who can't live with themselves or you anymore; once it finally dawns on them that they have to go live in their car and they can't afford the gas to run the heater in their car, when winter comes, in order to take a nice carbon monoxide nap, prior to a morning that never arrives, when they meant, with all good intentions, to head down to the Slurpee factory, to see if they were taking on part time, day laborers, it's possible...
Those who are getting just what they deserve, from the government they deserve, will keep right on nodding their heads, like plastic, bobbing flamingos on high ball glasses, while whatever infernal alien in chief that runs their slice of Idiocracy, drones on and on about recovery and a return to the good life they never had to begin with.
Not only has it become illegal but the law will clearly state that they should have known what they didn't know and at least one member of the household is now to be dragged out on to the front lawn and impaled on a flaming spike, as a warning to their neighbors.
This probably sounds like satire or sarcasm to some and terrorism to others but it's all true.
I'm sure the heinous empires of Rockefeller and Rothschild, along with all those other names, so well known to some of us, would have long ago met their well deserved fates at the hands of the mob; possibly even at the hands of a creative, patient and fiendishly ingenious mob, except for the magic powers they wield that keep their lizard skinned bodies intact.
It would have never gotten this far if so many people hadn't wanted to become lawyers in their employ; hired guns for their protection, doctors in the service of disease, scientists in the service of plague, eugenics and euthanasia, office workers who produce and ferry all manner of official paper for the promise of a particular paper, confinement specialists who would rather be out than in, even though their confinement is just defined in another way.
It wouldn't have gotten this far, if most of the entertainers, artists, writers, musicians and self-deluded victims of bad inspiration, hadn't decided the best career move was to sell out the promise of everything they might have been and done, for a corporate tattoo on their ass, which they can display to the world during their moments of buggery and bacchanalia, in the ultimate public, performance art that all of this leads to.
Sure, satire, sarcasm, or terrorism as you prefer. It all becomes something different anyway, when you check into the roach motel at the end of the universe and... you don't have to go any real distance. There's one close by. It's a franchise and that's just what they call it, something like putting the glimmer of romance on your already bought and sold ass.
Read a little history about other times like these and keep in mind that this is the time when they really let all those potentials and appetites loose.