Will Poulin: Hippies

So fuck hippies. Fuck em hard. I’d end it there, but I have a minimum word count to fill. You know what helps put me to sleep? Drums. Not just any old drums, but drum circle drums, played with no thought to rhythm or structure. And since when was incoherent screaming a fixture of drum circles? What is so fucking important about communing with the fucking earth spirit of fucking Gaia that you have to scream your ass off at one o’clock in the GODDAMN MORNING? And the worst part about those shits is their attitude toward everyone else who happens to not have a ball hash the size of their fist rammed so far up their colon they can taste it. All I’m trying to do is get some sleep, but if I ask them politely to stop making that arythmic noise and die in a well, they get all righteous and preachy and start telling me that I can’t impose my authority on them because drumming is just a state of mind and maybe we’re all part of the same energy field man, and TOUGH SHIT BECAUSE I DIDN’T SAY YOU COULD IMPOSE YOUR SHITTY FUCKING DRUMMING ON ME YOU PIECE OF SHIT MEAT SACK WASTES OF SPACE AND AIR. You white, rich-parented, unintellectual, narro- minded, ineffective leeches. What you are doing is not helping anything or anybody. Dancing around and howling at the moon like a bunch of dipshits is only going to make things worse while making you feel better about yourselves.. You want to be the change you seek in the world? Burn a cop car, or a bank, or an Army barracks. Refuse to pay taxes, go to prison. BURN DOWN A PRISON. Take a big, fat dump on Mark Yudof’s lawn. Fuck you.