confessions of an inanimate object

confessions of an inanimate object

“Confess! Confess? Why should I? To confess means to acknowledge I’ve done something wrong. But I mean, define your terms here. Tell me, precisely, what “wrong” means. does it mean “illegal?” Immoral? Against some petty bourgeois idea of how things are, or rather, ought to be? Does the same judgement apply in Des Moines? Darfur? Dresden? Tell me, huh? not sure? OK then, so how general is this judgement, eh? Wrong? Wrong? You got a lot of nerve telling me I’ve done something wrong. And if I haven’t, then why do you insist that I confess?

The world sustains a whole range of behavior. What I’ve done, or might have done, or allegedly did do, may be unexpected, may be not what you would consider natural - hey, that’s a good one, natural. You guys in the early 21st century really pride yourselves on being natural, don’t you? Whatever that means. Normal? Come on, you know, that word should have been discontinued along with Freud’s proclamations and orations. Acceptable? Healthy? Appropriate? By whose lights? in what playpen? Sez who?

Come on, people, come down off your soapboxes. Climb out from under the slime that forms the very underpinnings of your code of ethics. No killing, yeah, right! No sexual misbehavior, no stealing, no lying, no intoxicants - give me a break! The blatant hypocrisy! The arrogance! the hubris! You are bottom feeders. You are hypocrites! Are you without sin? Then what possibly entitles you to cast the first stone? You, you pathetic whimpering parasites. You naddering n’er do-wells. You sinister soulless sycophants.
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