Warnings: below spans the verbose work of a madman working his way through the coffers of his ex-hippie Grandma’s stash. Underpinning the nuts and bolts of something that clearly makes no sense, trying to weed out logic and reason with cooked noodle tweezers, and a noggin’ high on primo peyote. Sadly, despite the free-flowing thoughts sizzling on the sidewalk, this is not a case of fantasy supplanting reality but of a government majoring in applied hubris and a populace working on semantics, trying to scoop-out form in a non-euclidean landscape and floundering helplessly in a sea of sheer insanity.
Standing its ground, like a diseased archaic remnant of the inbreed societal and political makeup of a pre-industrial Era, Venezuela chews at its own leg. A less than charming throwback to the late 70’s. A reminder that constantly points out the errors of our nostalgic obsessions. A country trapped in a bear trap of its own making, gashing and gnawing near the femoral artery trying desperately to escape its fate, while at the same time nourishing its empty belly. Kids at the zoo, like spectators at a car crash, gobbling up popcorn and live-streaming the horror movie in the making.
The proverbial roach fastened to the bread of tomorrow, the once petroleum giant fools around the world stage; a dunce cap on its head, a lopsided grin, and a muscled forearm… tight-roped fibers beneath the flesh made strong and firm by its aggressively robust wanking off at its neighbors. Colombia, the Caribbean and Brazil turning away hoping its radioactive spunk won’t get in their eyes. The Mercosur community thinking they can cherrypick the cringe-inducing moment the wad geysers out; unaware that Venezuela has partaken of Viagra’s majesty and won’t act in a gentlemanly manner; giving warning before facials make their presence known. Day in day out, Venezuela’s governing elite meander around the political halls of its crumbling institutions practicing a level of zen bullshit that would have amazed the holy crap of the lying baby Jesus. Playing with a series of half-baked solutions that are all but counterproductive to a positive solution. Lawmen, Presidents, Congressman, toadies and the lot working on new and vanguard ways of keeping the wheels from spinning off into a fiery mess. Each turn of the clock proving the sucking force of the quicksand they intrinsically planted below their feet.
On the other side of the aisle, an Opposition that has not only allowed itself to be castrated but has actually made jewelry of the aforementioned “cojones”. Gift wrapping them and forking over the hairy necklaces with kid gloves to their trainers, masters and governmental sugar daddies.
Like petulant and idiot Gods, Maduro, and his lackeys and cronies, carve out the country; desperately trying to band-aid the landscape into a measured semblance of order.
And, like a movie whose ending has all but been written, shot, and is now a cult classic, there is no real reediting only HD remastering. We’ve all seen the trailer, we’ve all seen the reviews, we’ve all read the pirated synopsis from Wikipedia and now are only waiting for the premiere. The boat will crash against the Iceberg; Tyler Durden will blow up the banks; Pixar will make us cry; DC will disappoint. There is no escaping the eventuality that 18 years of piss-poor management will inevitably produce. The incest baby of Chavez’s macabre orgy will be born… its gestation, like that of the antichrist, taking its eldritch time. The geometrical progression, greased and oiled by the shit and giggles of the governmental head honchos, shots down a 90-degree angle into a putrid landfill; a toboggan slide of Olympic superiority. The populace on a Wachowski slow-motion flight straight into the fan; each turning to one another, none acknowledging the fecal stench their elected officials bathed them in that very morning.
“Let’s give them something,” salsa dancing Presidental sachet wearing Jabba the Hut tells his subordinates. Riots and fire blazing across his country, the big guy deciding that Neron’s schtick was too much of a hassle.
Maduro, on a whimsical LSD fueled social initiative, trying in vain to maintain some semblance of good standing, started to fulfill his campaign promises in the oddest way possible… by mango madness.
Handing out real estate at the lop of fast flying fruit; his bodyguards practicing closely choreographed Fruit Ninja approved moves in order to safeguard their less than stellar charge.
Meanwhile, a Faux senatorial pipe dream committee, animated and influenced by the savvy proven doctorates of that great prosperous nation of Cuba, kicks whatever trees they find readily available, crossing their fingers that a steady cash flow will miraculously stumble out; their vigorous punts on public television, 24/7 for the world to baffle at. The party line to all the country’s economic woes endlessly re-caped on the nightly news can be quickly summarized as:
“Imperialistic, CIA induced strife. The product of the devilish website, dolartoday.com. Uncle Sam, The Brits, the Martians and a daredevil deviant iguana, each with a vengeful score against the weak and poor. People, come on, can’t you feel them working their voodoo magic against us.”
Sea Monkeys with two fingers to their name finding fault in their Swiss cheese rationality and fanciful deductions. The confusing, less than canny cabal’s confounding coherence caught, congealed and connected to a cybernated chronicle whose construction has more to do with Word Art and trappings of The Weekly World News and Gossip rags than with real journalism. The website, a monster of their own making, one of the last informative resorts for Venezualans. The madcap, clearly pro-swinging a stout stick or two against Maduro’s shriveled sack, news feed perhaps the only place for regular citizens to get the lowdown; the free-speech administration doing a Nazi cha-cha dance over other journalistic stables in the country. Freedom of Press in that area as magical and fictitious as a fire-breathing unicorn with the face of Abraham Lincoln. Nonetheless, all the economic and social woes of the country can be laid down at this villian’s, a CIA patsy no doubt with strong ties to the Illuminati, doorstep. A policy confession, that if true, only further demonstrates the unparalleled level of Maduro’s blundering dominance of Economy. How can something as trivial as a blog, orchestrated and run by an exiled Venezuelan who works at Home Depot, have such profound Earth shattering sway over a nation’s prosperity? It’s as if a lucid regime were to blame an Instagram account for their 10-year-old faulty management; one snappy update away from a drunken teenage dance off the edge of bankruptcy and social destruction.
Oh, and it gets better!