I am an affluent man yet I live in a 250-square-foot hermetically sealed egg off East Burnside Avenue in Portland, Oregon.
When friends come over for bull sessions, I place them snugly in a box using techniques I learned from a Boulder, Colorado street contortionist.
I don’t own a TV and I don’t abide by the rules of AmeriKKKa, which is a collapsing turd, a nightmarish pit of consumerism.
When I first made a killing with my Internet start-ups, I used the cash to spoil myself. Then Ástbjörg, an Icelandic beauty, arrived via ice floe at my front door one day, naked and rolling in cash. My soulmate. We were on a slow path to nowhere, despite our sexual admiration for one another.
The zeal with which we pursued material wealth left us curiously empty. I first realized this when I hired Sven, a midget bon vivant, to entertain me and occasionally do household errands.
Hiring the diminutive Sven didn’t have its desired effect.
At first it was great. My pulse hammered with excitement whenever Sven did a little jig while sorting through produce in my kitchen. Sven was also an ace composter. His value to me was incalculable.
But like the rest of the clutter in my life, I knew I had to jettison the dwarf and the very essence of my hollow, black life.
Things are looking up. See this clenched fist? The one lodged up my ass? I have more carbon offset credits contained therein than the entire square footage in your McMansion shit-cube. Deal with it, because you know what? Living large is a hate crime, and you and the rest of this pig society have a rap sheet a mile long.
I’m not saying I’m better than you — I mean, I am, of course — but it’s not too late for you to ditch this oil-dependent Pop Tart, AmeriKKKa. She’s a bloated bitch, pus-ridden with shame. Why not dive off the ol’ gal while there is still time to guilt others into doing the same?