City Hall

Friday, 03 January, Year 12 d.Tr. | Author: Mircea Popescu

Apparently I never honored this sad piece of pantsuit agitprop before. It's mentioned, but never specifically discussed. Well... let's, why the hell not, filth doesn't stain online.

City Halli is, in one word and as the only fair summarization available, the memorandum of the pantsuit deal.

This is what the sad cunts underwrote, back in the 90s : that a) they're going to take over and in spite of b) no skills, abilities, wealth or anything else c) they're nevertheless going to make the world function d) just as well if not better as it worked back when skillful, able, rich people spun it, the previous generation. Because they'll be "pure", you see, which fixated assonautism with a side of mental illnessii is by itself (as if through the workings of the grace of an unseen god who's "mandated" I suppose to behave appropriately -- as if but not) enough to resolve all problems. You've heard the story before. They'll fight corruption, you see, and they'll win, too. Nobody ever can but they will (for the obvious reason).

I suppose you could call this religious belief, but honestly no religion worth the name would accept these sad fucks as they stand. They find themselves mentally in the exact position of the deeply barbaric kid in Malena, listen to him go :

Voce di popolo, voce di Dio!

Io degli affari miei non posso parlare a nessuno. Sono cose troppo intime, cose che non si dicono. Tu però mi sei simpatico. Di te mi voglio fidare. Da oggi in poi vengo tutti i giorni ad accenderti un cero, e la domenica, se ti fa piacere, vengo pure a messa. Però tu mi devi tenere i castelcutesi lontani da Malèna Scordìa. Sì, la vedova. Almeno per qualche anno. Poi me la vedo io.

[...]

Lei la perdono, perché l'ha fatto per riconoscenza, per pagare un debito all'avvocato. Una volta sola e mai più. Ma tu non hai rispettato i patti!

[kid breaks the statue's arm]

Amici come prima.

Fancy that wonder, the "religious belief" in trade, he'll go through a gallery of supposed saints offering their wares, all ready to give him a taste, all screaming to overpower each other -- all for his attention. They're advertising, don't you know, so deeply they care about having the most momentary, fleeting gaze of the only true and only possible god -- some unwashed goatfucking teenager -- that they've turned church into brothel.

Kid thinks himself me, if not better, just like the inept viewer identifying himself with an imaginary Kevin Calhoun imagines himself better than whatever John Pappas is held in the mind to represent -- in any case better than skill, ability, wealth, relationships even. Why ? Why, because he's very tightly wound up! Inside, it's strung so tight it can't even breathe -- and if that ain't enough, guess what ? It'll belabour to string itself still tighter! Inside, also inside, always inside.

This rank nonsense didn't work out in practice, as it wasn't going to work out anywhere outside the feverish clod with nothing to recommend it. It's the direct equivalent of squinting to relieve myopia, of white knuckling in lieu of taking driver's ed, how the fuck is it supposed to work, even ? No... don't answer that. I know, I know, God downloads kung-fu into hero brains JIT on an as-needed, 0-cost basis. Badass! Hope for each and every reprehensible cuntlet out there! What's left behind is the careerwoman -- a creature so intrinsically vile, so utterly petty the very earth stinks in her wake, as well typified by Fonda's diminutive spawn as you'd expect of cows playing cows and goats playing goats. It's easy to "act" when that's what you are, you know ?

But whatever -- this was the deal they acquiesced. This is what was above the dotted line they signed upon, this and naught else. Let it stand as such, then, and hopefully this film plays at the permanent closing of the democratic national convention. God knows it'd be the only decent thing to do, in lieu of last rites, right before turning off the lights.

———
  1. 1996, by Harold Becker, with Al Pacino and John Cusack. []
  2. Not organic, merely the sort resulting from stress -- like the stress of supposedly turning sow's ear into silk purse on a daily basis as a trite activity so common it's hardly worth going into detail []
Category: Trilematograf
Comments feed : RSS 2.0. Leave your own comment below, or send a trackback.

2 Responses

  1. [...] no women in this film at all (not even a spurious pretense bolted-on with spitglue, like in say City Hall), it being entirely and throughout a story of men (and of how and wherefore they make their own [...]

  2. [...] even the most addled customs agents available (as quite accurately depicted by the lanky weirdo in City Hall) to notice that "hey... there's a buncha seventeen year old Latino females traveling '''on [...]

Add your cents! »
    If this is your first comment, it will wait to be approved. This usually takes a few hours. Subsequent comments are not delayed.