strong traditions hold

​Sticking firmly to habits developed over many years of haphazardly studying the human condition, local know-nothing Amanda E. Brycewith made sure to negate any statement made by another person - regardless of propriety or pretense. “You can’t say that,” would leap from her lips as soon as a counterpart would finish a sentence (with her forgetting, of course, that the word ‘can’ references a person’s ability to do something, not whether they have the permission or the right to do so). “I don’t think that’s correct,” would be her immediate response to pretty much anything anyone else said - even personal or professional opinions on topics she’d never really heard of, let alone studied. Sometimes, she’d say this in response to someone complaining about not being able to charge a mobile device due to faulty wiring: “All of the USB charging ports of my various phones have worked just fine, and I treat them like shit.”

Experts studying the aforementioned trend of instantly trying to negate the opinions of others blame it on not only bad habits picked up watching reality television but also the incessant and purposeful erosion of (human) self-worth by marketers and advertisers in their drive to sell bullshit to the self-loathing masses.

[ americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan ]

sweet-tooth actually diabetes

Contrary to popular belief, the delight with which local resident Horace J. Winston consumes sweets is not due to a sweet-tooth of yore. In fact, his endocrinological system - having been subjected to decades of frequent alcohol consumption combined with a sedentary lifestyle - is now struggling to adequately regulate Winston’s blood-glucose levels. Unless he makes drastic changes in his daily patterns and habits within the next couple of years, his condition will be exacerbated, and worsen.

On an average day, Horace consumes at least five beers in one sitting, two meals of primarily meats and cheeses; he drives nearly everywhere he must go, walking only a few miles cumulatively. (In secret, Winston knows something is amiss inside but chooses to blame it on the common cold or changes in the weather.)

No one in his circle of friends or relatives appears concerned about the Winston’s fate, however, since they are clueless to the signs of onsetting diabetes and themselves engaged heavily in both sloth and overindulgence. With health insurance priced out of his reach, Horace will also not be seeing a doctor, anytime soon.

[ americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan ] ​

my sentiments exactly

‘This is the life,’ the drug dealer thought, pulling back on a hinged brass handle screwed into a row of others like it. A brownish, fermented, sugary fluid ran out of the nozzle attached to the handle, flowing into a freshly washed glass. Setting the now-full glass down on the copper counter erected for the purpose of giving the users of that particular drug somewhere upon which to rest their arms while using it, the drug dealer took cash in exchange for the addictive, mind-altering substance he’d just dealt.

The appearance of cleanliness was important to the drug dealer, wherefore he carefully wiped down a few meters of bar dirtied by customers who’d become slightly sloppy after using the habit-forming drug he peddled. The drunk people had left earlier - not because he’d kicked them out for shouting crassly or the other drug users had told them to leave for making racist comments but because they’d decided to keep taking drugs elsewhere. Such things happened often, and the dealer was used to it. He knew they’d be back. He sold them the junk they liked in an environment they enjoyed, and he pretended to listen to their problems, which made them repeat customers.

“This is the life,” slurred a middle-aged patron, holding up his glass of beer to admire its color under the tepid house lights, his back stooped and bent under the weight of decades of sadness and addiction, his skin fallow and eyes yellowish from early-onset liver failure. On the bar in front of the middle-to-end-phase addict was a packet of cheap, pre-rolled cigarettes and a cheap lighter, things he needed on his sprint to an early grave. The drug dealer, who was in the process of mixing a drink using a more refined and potent form of the life-shattering substance he got paid to sling, nodded encouragingly, saying, “My sentiments exactly.”

americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan

parent speaks of something other than own child

In a shocking, late-Sunday-night twist, Grigogi Chevlovskiev, 39, father of a four year old girl, spoke for more than three whole minutes on a topic unrelated to and having virtually nothing to do with Alloninya, his daughter, raven-haired spawn of his loins. Whereas Mr. Chevlovskiev has since the birth of his first child not been able to go for very long without pointing out just how cool, funny, witty, or cute he considers his kid to be, he shocked the small crowd of fellow coffee-shop patrons by speaking on a matter of national importance instead of explaining his daughter's supposedly special or apparently hilarious ticks, habits, preferences, pet-peeves, routines, hijinks, likes, or dislikes. The spell of non-child-related activity ended, however, when the man glanced at his smart-phone, which as a background image features a picture of his daughter with her face covered in bright-red cherry pie filling, whereupon he launched into a detailed, long-winded explanation – for the fucking millionth time that day, it seemed like – of what exactly she would be doing at her preschool's special Summer session.

場黑麥 menterefecterem fecit