Fuck!

"To argue with a person who has renounced the use of reason is like administering medicine to the dead."

― Thomas Paine

While you were sleeping ― buying your seventh Lexus, getting married, paying "taxes," pumping out progeny, or watching TV ― the following happened:

The motorized cock pump sputtered. The hairy husband sporting it set flame to the business end of a Newport Menthol.

The fuck junky pounded away at the horny housewife. Craning his neck, he gazed at a "Thank You for Not Smoking!" sign on the hotel room wall.

The camcorder rolled atop the lube-drenched tripod, as the 70-something señorita did her best to hide our hero's harpoon between her thighs.

A warm, desert breeze caused palm trees outside to creak against rubbery trunks.

Tfj could hold the amount of food he'd eaten, in the past three days, in one hand. Racing through the lobby to get here, he'd passed a corporate-crafted sign that read: "Free Breakfast: 6 AM to 10 AM."

As soon as the wanton woman called the game ― due to extended overtime ― the fuck junky said his "goodbyes," and raced from the room.

The buttery muffins were as heavenly as the luscious labia he'd feasted on, minutes prior. Our protagonist gorged himself on perfectly-pressed pancakes, piled high inside the dining room of the Holiday Inn Express. He was as ravenous as he'd been devouring the maiden's anus, back in room number whatever. He hadn't had a cooked meal in a month, and all he could think about was―

Bluffdale, Utah? What the fuck―?!

Of course! It's a place that directly affects us all, but almost none of us have heard of. Bluffdale is a remote locale devised by festering, rotted minds.

If you've ever felt you were being listened to, this backwoods shithole provides proof. It's here the government has built a multi-billion dollar repository, in which it warehouses all electronic communication conducted by U.S. citizens. That means every E-mail, cell phone call, text, or tweet you've made, as of late, is stored in this climate-controlled dung heap amongst snow-crested buttes.

Recall those late night texts you pounded out to your mistress, while your wife slept beside you? They're all cached at Bluffdale.

Remember the E-mails you wrote, explaining your secret devotion to white supremacy, during your gubernatorial campaign? Well, those are also at Bluffdale.

What about your lunch break calls expressing homosexual desires to a coworker? That electronic correspondence, and so much more, can now be found and retrieved ― whenever government desires ― from Bluffdale.

In short, whatever privacy you're told you have is a lie.

And you laughed at those who'd invoked George Orwell's 1984, and the admonition "Big Brother is Watching You." Bluffdale, Utah, is proof positive Big Brother not only exists, but has been keeping track of you for a long, long time.

Yet, you still think you reside in the "land of the free"? How can you be free, if your private communications can be accessed by someone you've never met before? If I listened to your personal calls, you'd kick my ass! Yet, it's okay if government does?!

What if government wants to destroy you; label you a "terrorist"? Now they can. Couple this with the implementation of the Patriot Act, as well as the National Defense Authorization Act (NDAA) of 2012, and bureaucracy has given itself the right to arrest, imprison, torture, and murder you, without affording you a judge, legal representation, nor trial.

You may assume I'm some crackpot, but the aforementioned information was made available for anyone with Internet access, by the most credible of sources; persons in extremely high government positions. We're talkin' the likes of William Binney ― former head cryptographer for the NSA. During his tenure, Bill was the top code maker and codebreaker among the human race.

The jam slathered over the crusty toast was ambrosia, as the fuck junky recalled his early morning routine:

Thin as a reed, he'd awaken before dawn, on a mattress that doubled as his bed. Grabbing a bottle of baby oil, he'd stroke himself hard, and measure his cock. Nine-plus proud inches. While others would start the morning with a robust breakfast, he'd greet each new, nightmarish day reminding himself of the only reason he hadn't leapt off an overpass into oncoming traffic.

Tfj had been chased from his home by government. Everything he had ― except his over-sized penis ― had been purloined by the covetous.

His mother's brains were the consistency of rolled oatmeal, as he raced from emergency room, to psych ward, to assisted living home, in order to keep her alive. Her mush for a mind had become so, due to government-funded narcotics ― doubling as "medication." These, her drug pusher doctor had forced on her, when she became despondent over her husband dying of bureaucracy-borne cancer.

After government stole mom's house ― a 6,000 square-foot domicile she'd built with her late significant other ― she'd been rendered homeless. Being her son, the fuck junky found her accommodations, and faced his own destitution.

Battling against the forces engulfing him, tfj sped for the desert. If he was gonna be a vagrant, he'd do so in a warm climate. As such, he set up shop in a Super 8 motel that wreaked of meat-laden stool and mold.

Around him, the man's friends were dropping dead from cancer, and everyone seemed clueless as to why, even though they'd all been shown the thousands of atomic "tests" their government had ordered conducted on them. The fuck junky exposed the enemy, but those he knew were comfortable perpetuating a system that was killing them.

Craft of unknown origin ― proof of otherworldly existence ― continued buzzing the populace. Yet, folks were more interested in something called Rihanna, or how many balls a guy could hit over a fence with a stick.

On the television in the hotel dining room, some nameless politician shouted another useless speech that would result in nothing.

Tfj didn't notice. He'd humped another housewife ― this one number 3,847 in his quest for 5,000 ― and was momentarily content. He was satiating himself on a free meal ― the caliber of which he hadn't tasted in months ― and temporarily forgot about the insanity around him.

None of it made sense: Us willfully obliterating ourselves over pieces of paper we call "cash"; feeling wise in our ignorance; refusing to see the clues, nor reality, engulfing us.

The fuck junky washed his meal down with a goblet of freshly-squeezed. For a moment, he sat and relished in being fulfilled, rubbing his fattened tummy,...which was probably 29 inches at that juncture.

Speaking of inches, he'd brought his trusty measuring tape to a Motel Sex, the evening prior, and provided proof for another carnal couple seeking the Nine Inch Nail.

Our hero's metallic steed carved a path through the night, as a scratched cell rang in the seat beside him.

Activating the BlackBerry-style Brontosaurus, tfj squealed, "I'm on my way, amigo!" into earbuds packed with wax.

"Sorry, bro," came the response from the other end of the line.

"Huh?"

"She got cold feet."

"I'm literally turning into the driveway!"

A pause as painful as a steel wool douche.

"Okay. C'mon up. It's Room 327― What?...Hang on."

Another intermission more agonizing than a paint thinner blood transfusion.

"Alright. You're good. Remember, though, she just wants you to stroke it for her. She's afraid of your size."

"No problem."

"I'm tryin' to get her to fuck it, 'cause that's what I really wanna see, but I can't guarantee anything."

"No worries. I'm a mellow dude. I'm happy to just show it to her."

"Cool. See ya' in a few."

The room was lovingly decorated in Modern Crack Den meets 16th Century Sewer. Empty Four Loko cans, spent condoms, an Xbox, a nude Mexican with a one inch penis, and another guy who sat in the corner ― barely coherent ― were part of the charm.

The object of the fuck junky's desire ― a BBW in leopard-skin lingerie ― rolled a joint atop a bed listing heavily to one side, and shrink-wrapped in cum-splattered sheets.

Upon entry, a thoroughly-used glass pipe was offered tfj. "Alright, homey. Let's see the goods."

The fuck junky sidled up beside the only occupant of the room whose pussy didn't purr.

"Let's see it, bro. C'mon! She wants to see it," the corpulent caballero decreed, between hits off some synthetic substance.

Tfj abandoned his pants, exposing a sausage still semi-soft, and 8 1/2 inches long.

"Holy Jesus!" the woman squealed, dropping the jay to the mattress. Covering her eyes, she reached out and grabbed slick skin. "This thing's fuckin' huge!"

The strange señor atop the other bed rounded the mattress. "That's a lethal weapon! I wanna see you fuck her with it!"

"Uh uh. This ain't goin' in my va jay jay―!" the bouncy beauty asserted, as she stroked the fuck junky's salience.

"C'mon, baby. Please," the original hombre chimed in.

"Too much porn," tfj silently concluded, reclining in a wobbly chair at the foot of the bed, and stroking himself hard. "These twin titans of testosterone have watched a decade of XXX between 'em. Now they wanna see a porn-sized penis penetrate their pretty podna'. Talk about proof we're products of our environment."

"Papi, look at the size of that thing," the woman motioned to the straining cock ― which pointed toward the heavens.

"You can do it, baby! I know you can," the daring dude ― obviously the boyfriend, in this scenario ― pleaded.

"She ain't some fearless fuckhead preparing to go over Niagra Falls in a barrel," the fuck junky furtively ruminated.

"If you love me...?"

"Okay, but I ain't gonna ride it. There's no way I'm gonna ride it!"

"That's it, baby!"

For whatever reason, bed sheets ― dirtier than the Pope's mind in a preschool ― were spread evenly over the mattress. It was like a wedding,...complete with mismatched, plastic rings from a Cracker Jack box.

Macho Man ― sporting what tfj surmised were gang tattoos ― "adoringly" positioned his woman on all-fours, offering her backside to our protagonist.

"Doggy provides access to the deepest penetration possible," the fuck junky glanced around, hesitating.

Nobody else understood, as the incensed beau smiled, drool draining from between gold-capped teeth. He was a man on a mission, and it didn't matter how concerned his girl was with the situation.

A condom was affixed, lube lathered, and penetration attained.

Tfj gazed down, as the head disappeared, and the protests began.

"It's too big, Papi!"

The fuck junky paused, before continuing further inside. Every inch appeared painful. Roughly halfway immersed, el novio gave tfj the "thumbs up" to push things to their limit.

Our wielder of wanton wang went for the gold, and stuffed the remainder of his "service revolver" into its ad hoc holster.

Standing astride, both other men in attendance eagerly watched.

"No way! Too big!" The woman leapt from the bed, running to the bathroom.

"Bro, you're two seconds from getting your ass kicked," the now-chivalrous dirt bag suddenly came to his goddesses' aid.

In less time than it takes a $9.95, full vehicle paint job to begin peeling, the fuck junky dressed. "My apologies," tfj quietly offered, as he washed away lube in a basin that appeared to have been a toilet, recently.

"It's not your fault. It's him," the woman motioned to her boyfriend. "He's obsessed."

"Got it. Well, it was very nice meeting you." A handshake as awkward as George Bush, Jr. finding himself alone ― with no bodyguards ― in downtown Baghdad. The fuck junky jettisoned himself from the room faster than shit from a lactose intolerant on a milk drinking binge.

All this, while you slumbered, unaware compelling quotes ― the likes of the following ― were being uttered:

"If you really believe death leads to eternal bliss, then why are you wearing a seat belt?"

― Doug Stanhope

You're lying to yourself, when you claim somebody goes to a "better place," after they "die." How the fuck do you know? Have you "died" in the past, and determined what ― if anything ― happens afterward?

If we actually believed we go to a better place, upon our demise, why the fuck isn't everybody linin' up to take a bullet in the head, or poppin' sleepin' pills like M&Ms?

Religion brainwashes you to believe the most ludicrous shit. Shit ― should you actually ponder ― that's insane! It's up to you whether or not you choose to accept this lunacy. If you weren't so afraid of death, you'd be askin': "You want me to believe what?!?"

"If voting made any difference, they wouldn't let us do it."

― Mark Twain

Which begs the obvious query: "Why are 'they' ― bureaucracy ― controlling what we do, in the first place, if this is a democracy; i.e. government by the people?" If we're the people, in a democracy, we govern ourselves. We don't leave that up to others, especially douche bags we've never met before, who are obviously monetarily rich, while we struggle to survive.

"What if I don't want a leader? Where does that vote go? I do good on my own. I don't want to be led."

― Doug Stanhope

If we really have a choice when we vote, why can't we all vote to have no "leaders"?

The obvious answer is: "Because then there'd be no government, and those running this pyramid scheme desire that less than they do the severed head of a rhinoceros shoved up their assholes.

"Now you're climbin' to the top of the company ladder

Hope it doesn't take too long

Can't ya' see there'll come a day when it won't matter?

Come a day when you'll be gone"

― Boston

You hear this song all the time. Akin to so many other tunes we've listened to perpetually, do you ever stop and critically cogitate over its lyrics?

In reality, that "day" when "it" won't matter is every day, and always has been. Again, money has zero value to any of us. It's pieces of paper, or ― even worse ― numbers on a fuckin' computer screen! You can't eat it, drink it, nor inhale it. It's useless to us all, and has been long before its inception.

"The most dangerous man to any government is the man who is able to think things out for himself, without regard to the prevailing superstitions and taboos. Almost inevitably he comes to the conclusion that the government he lives under is dishonest, insane, and intolerable [...]."

― H.L. Mencken

If you hunger to control things, you're a control freak. Those who are, follow this path due to fear. They're afraid others will come along with better ideas, and dissuade the masses.

What's wrong with that?! Better ideas mean a better society for us all.

Hence, if somebody's impetus is control, they're not concerned with the best possible solution. They just wanna dominate, and isn't that missing the entire target, let alone the bullseye? When dealing in a framework of control, the chances of you implementing what's best for the masses is slim to none.

Yet, the government is solely about control: Do this, don't do that; if you oppose us, you'll be imprisoned; follow our rules, or perish.

Hence, we're drowning in a society that has little, or no, chance at perpetuity. This is a system that was either designed by morons, who didn't know what was best for the population, or insidious fuckers who knew exactly how to enslave us.

If you thirst to control things, what's the last type of person you want to encounter?

Somebody who speaks the truth. Since you're hellbent on domination, someone who exposes your ruse is a splinter in your toe. A sizable minority of these individuals equates to a few bee stings. Nearly half the population becomes an open wound; and a majority is your death knell.

"Hence, let's keep those speaking the truth from doing so."

"Politics is the art of looking for trouble, finding it everywhere, diagnosing it incorrectly and applying the wrong remedies."

― Groucho Marx

Then why have politics in the first place?

"America takes credit for giving you freedom that you had anyway. It's like going to a wedding and putting your tag on somebody else's box."

― Doug Stanhope

Without government, we're innately free. We can eat whatever food we want, and drink whatever water we desire. We can live, and shelter ourselves, wherever we please.

Bureaucracy comes along, and pretends to provide us the freedom we've always had. Government "freedom," however ― in true doublespeak ― isn't freedom, at all. It's enslavement.

― authored by Hugh Mungus; a.k.a. the fuck junky