I have often been quizzed concerning my political and cultural identity and continue to find very little to identify with beyond the remarkable folks who wash up like messages in a meat bottle on this virtual desert island.

When I was a child I knew myself to be the prisoner of a cruel and uncaring adult world.

When I grew up I realized that all of that grownup bullshit was just them—now me among them—pushing government bullshit downhill upon those less helpless than we.

Master beats slave, slave beats wife, wife beats child and child kicks puppy, the ancient rhythm of agrarian slave life had morphed through the industrial funnel into a bizarrely rarified ballet of invalidation and disinformation which comprised the world of delusion I found myself trapped in so that I have variously described myself as a prisoner, inmate an enemy of civilization, tucked away in its most noxious node, the land of the plea and the home of the knave.

But today I’m feeling much better—what after my disappointment with the discovery that Toxic Masculinity cologne is already being marketed by Savage Gentleman dot com and my money making scheme has as much chance as an unwanted fetus in New York—because my accountant called. Well, he’s the accountant I can afford, meaning he’s no CPA. However, Mortimer Shekelgeld has informed me that I owe Uncle Sam some taxes; that the big creep is copping a feel as my tiny slice of the American Scheme trickles by.

I actually managed to make $3,400 and some change writing last year, for which Uncle Sam is taxing me $78 and the People’s Republic of Maryland, who have twice tried to give me food stamps, have inexplicably decided that they owe me $54 dollars for having the privilege of me displaying their social justice trademark on my picture card in every shanty and palace I visit. The net result, I figure, is that for $24 dollars I am part [defrauded] owner of the greatest killing machine every devised by man. The way I figure it, I’ve provided a clip of 5.56 mm rounds of full metal jacket sent down range in some Dollar Forsaken nation.

Shoot, if I were a medieval peasant I would have had to pony up $1,140 odd bucks to the gangster who raped my daughter and sold my son. But as an inmate of these histrionic states I’ve contributed a micro-drop to the capitalist spunk Uncle Sam spits in the eye of the world!

Huzzah!