Tuesday, December 11, 2018

Screw Tim Cook


 
 
Chapter 46

          Yesterday, I woke up at 5:30 a.m. and drank a cup of instant coffee. Then I read the news on my smartphone while taking a nasty shit. Hundreds of Christians in Chengdu were arrested by the Chinese powers that be for practicing their faith in an unauthorized house church. All places of worship must have the blessing of the dictatorship. Why? The mainland absolutely hates privacy. Make no mistake. In China, Big Brother has his greasy little fingers up everybody’s asshole.

          I stepped into my spacious shower. The hot water felt great as it pounded against my blubber. I briefly thought about beating my meat, but suddenly the image of Tim Cook popped into my mind. Tim is the CEO of Apple, and he recently gave a speech about the importance of taking hate mongers off his internet platforms. A hate monger to Mr. Cook is anybody who doesn’t believe in the Obama agenda. I began to feel ill. This cocksucker has been doing business with the Chinese government for years and years. Yet he has the audacity to give us a lecture about morality. Talk about a lack of self-awareness.

          I dried off with one of my wife’s tiny towels, and then I walked to the kitchen. I had oatmeal for breakfast. It came with lots of granola. The food was delicious. It contained just the right amount of salt. I washed the vittles down with a cold plastic bottle of water.

          Rice-Boy Larry was upstairs drying his hair.

          I called out to him. “Let’s get a move on, boy. I have a meeting this morning.”

          The weather has been downright cold lately. But I don’t mind the frigid temperatures. My layers of fat keep me insulated from Jack Frost’s icy fingertips.

          I got to work with plenty of time to spare. My boss spoke for several minutes, and everybody clapped enthusiastically. But I can’t remember a fucking thing he said. Maybe I have Alzheimer’s.

          I walked to my classroom and called my mother using WeChat.

          She said, “How’s your crazy wife?”

          “Well, Mom, she’s still fucking crazy. How do you think she is?”

          “What’s wrong now?”

          “She’s still pissed about Thailand.”

          “Tell her to get a job, and then she can go wherever the fuck she wants.”

          “I wish it was that easy.”

          I’m certainly no bleeding-heart liberal, and I’m not going to let the Dragon Lady off the hook for her bad behavior. In fact, I often pray for her death. I shit you not. But I don’t think that the mentally ill can help themselves. For instance, Jeffrey Dahmer used to kill and eat his victims. He even drilled holes in their heads in order to fuck their skulls. Was he a scumbag? Sure. Could he control his actions? Probably not.

          The same holds true for my wife. She wakes up with a hateful scowl on her ugly face, and she spends her days and nights overcome with illogical rage. Nobody in their right mind would want to live that way. And what makes it worse is that she doesn’t want psychiatric help. She clings to her anger as if it were her best friend. Long story short? The woman’s a loon.

          My day went well. We are currently studying 1984. I’ve read it a million times, and it never gets old. I think it’s the most remarkable book ever written. And it remains prescient even though 1984 has come and gone. When I look at Antifa on the television screen, I see progressive Bolshevism at work. These pampered white kids dress in black and function as the shock troops for the far-left elite who wish to bring America to her knees.

          I got home and watched football. The Patriots lost on a last-second play to the Miami Dolphins. It was a wonderful game.

          I went to bed at 9: 30 p.m. I slept like the dead.

2 comments:

  1. First they came for Andrew Anglin, and I did not...
    Then they came for Alex Jones and I did not....
    Then they came for Gavin McInnes and I did not...
    Then they came for the Filthy Beast, and I was sad for a while, but whats a boy to do.

    ReplyDelete