On this special day, let us commemorate the proletariat, the vanguard on the edge of us and them, always, the boots and the silly hats, these proles, this "backbone", these "small dollar" Bernie Sanders supporters.
Its a world where the deal with the Saudis scarcely matters, where so much bugaboo and fiddle-dee-dee doesn't permeate, but we go buy gas prices, milk and eggs, our utilities. Usually, when the liberal candidates put the squeeze on the bosses, the bosses in turn put the squeeze on....
you guessed it...
the proles.
Butthole at the rear, nipples at the front: the mind, a bridgework lattice of cobwebs and so forth, being fed from a fountain of junk, the cobwebs at once, holding the thinkmeats from falling without onto dismal ground, while also keeping the thinkgood in the air and colloidal, Reese's Pieces in the air, at the ready for the prole: keep them near his couch, his bed, his stay-at-home, but none to the child, none such that the young mindless feed the need until they earn the right of passage into the dull care of adulthood.
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