You know what? I've just got to get this out there.
I don't like Montana.
It's the kind of place that would be nice for a week.
But to live here makes no sense. Everything has to be shipped in at extraordinary cost, because the soil is dead, nothing can grow here, it doesn't rain, it doesn't storm, the people are uneducated, uncultured, xenophobic gun-hungry vagrants who think they're entitled to "god's land" or some such malarkey. The only thing Montana has to offer is shit that dies, like coal, lumber, the aging population, hunting licenses for out of state heathens who want to kill "a real animal." You know what a real animal is? Something that will fight back. Like a New Yorker. You think you're tough, asshole? Go buy a bottle of liquor on Bedford Ave. without shaking in your little spurs and tell me you're still a legitimate shred of testosterone. Thing is, I actually respect those fuckers on Bedford, because they're real people. These pudgy unilingual marshmallows I see around here are such a sad, sorry crime to human potential. The same goes for the land. The same goes for its weather. Or lack thereof.
Montana, you've got some pretty bits. But you're infested with fleas that bite and suck at your tired skin, while selling the remains to China. This is a culture with no future. That's actually what it deserves though, when you look at the sins these marshmallows committed to secure their promised land.
Disclaimer: If you're one of my friends in Montana, I'm obviously not talking about you. This is very evidently an exaggeration, meant to provoke and also relieve the anger I have about the abysmal fact that I'm still living here.
No comments:
Post a Comment