Dearest devotees of the creative narrative, listen up:
In the need to meet the future with all the accoutrements of intellectual advancement, the irreplaceable institution of the written word cannot be crushed. The want to walk over the well-crafted composition or witty column has worsened as cartoon-addled crackpots continually crave quick cuts and concise captions. Literary luxury is being lead into the closet where they keep the hand-cranked can opener and the pull-tab soda can.
Ladies and gentleman, having comfortably crossed the high-water mark of the double donut, we at the Rubber Bomb want to remind our treasured patrons that complacency is the jagged jewel in the crown of the common place. Cynicism, the silver sliver on the sequined scepter of the simple. Apathy, the apotheosic thatch thorn on the throne of the idealistically asthmatic. I'm going to need an aspirin. As you venture further into this recently charted territory, we encourage you to ask more from yourself than you would have in, say, November or October of last year. This is no time for waxing melancholic over the missed opportunities of a thousand years past, but for putting a stamp on the letter that you boldly mail into the next century, the next millennium (Is everyone following with the reference to stamps and mail and the like? OK, let's press on).
I believe that we can make a difference instead of festering in a stew of rehash and repetition based on market research and demographic data compiled by some minimum wage hack too busy scouring the web for a freeze frame featuring a glimpse of the current "it" girl. I believe we can advance the cause of mankind in way that truly utilizes our innate ability to segregate and discriminate based on socio-economic status, crushing the weak and further trodding down the downtrodden. I believe that we can bring back a true sense of humanity and international good will. Clearly, the hippies were ill-equipped to wield the iron fist of compassion needed to demolish the loveless. They drew the short straw in the Darwinian lottery and thus, their feeble efforts simply lead to a generation of strangely named people, psychedelic children's television and a template for vile imitation by a race of miscreant, offensive underachievers who have littered the planet with tofu, veggie burritos and an abundance of beaded jewelry not seen since the purchase of Manhattan!
What am I doing here?! Why are my eyes habitually hook and looped to this friggin' box which functions as a bastardized outboard motor for my brain? Why do I feel forced to fashion faux catch phrases and stream of consciousness cyberspittle? What was my mortal sin that sentenced me to this Sisyphusian foulness, trapping me in a maddening circle of spirit-decimating shame, damning me to ever upload this stone only to have the system crash pre-completion? Oh let me die...!
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Rubber Bomb Summer Reading Guide. (Probably best you, uh... well, just never mind the previous announcement.)
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