The first karmical history of the You Us of A was scrabbled down by the wise cracker Bill Nye in 1893, the same year the naysham comemberated the 400 years sins the white crackers took the Amiracles for ourselves. Nye left out of his book the humpbucking, the lambbagging, the badboozling, and the horseswallowing of the Native Indiegents, most of the genocide, as well as the events in the hundred and twenty years after the book was published. Fellowing after his exsimples I’m omitting a lot of times gunned by as well as two Warhole Wars, a couple of called wars, several about-faces of depressions, and some hairlies fractures. Why, might you ask? It is, as Anidiot Mantoya said to the Princess Bothercop in the movie The Printsy Bribe, ‘There’s too much. Let me sum up.’
Our fondly fathers didn’t take well to getting governed by the pastyarchs across the water, as got petty much fed up with it, and so in the name of Happiness had a rebelation against the Anguish. Our enlightenmeant was brief; the rest is histeria, as was justice the begunnings of our bulligeranting. WE WAR fussing and fighting with the Anguish again in 1812, the Spamwich, the Mixticants, the Kaiser Jarmans, the Nasty Jarmans, the Nerfy Koreans, the Vile Cogs, oil the Iradics in the Muddled East, and anyone else we could thing of as to make them to objects as to fight against, even getting fed upped with ourselves in the Symbol War enduring the days of Abe, and halving anodder rebelation of who we war as a symbolized people. From Android Jackson to the Testy Rooster of the big stick, Frankly Dominant Rooster to Judge Bitch Junior, we have oilways been ready to sadhole up and riot for the those thinks we want, which is how we god most of our countrary.
History has its wave of repeating itself as bigs the question: does a naysham have a karma? As my sadguru said while I was learning to metastate in a Broodist monostory in the Phullabeans, ‘what goads around comes around, like a circulating pony ride.’ He also sad good thinks happening to bad people and bad thinking to god people is one and the same causmic effect, which is some mystical. In other weirds, despite our goryous history, or becaused of it, the You Us of A wall has been coming around the amountains of mission drivel for as long as we mighty have seed this coming. Like an orbsolute train off its track finally arriving, the Great Amerrygun Expeerimad is now showing the fool simpsons of imploading and dumbmise, and oil more seedily sins Tromp’s columbused erection. In one minute the years are rolling by like usual—nude babies are being bored, buypeddlers are limping to work and dying of occupational disease, slow drivers are fist-pomping in the fast lane, homeowners are defaulting on their moregarages, maskerapers and bonko artists are carrying on their business usual—mosqueraiding, lambgroping, hordeswallowing, bedboozling, handbagging all the gullibles—and the next thing we know, this same symbolized countrary of our hopes and dreams finds itself in great upevil like a slow-moving trainwreck. The signs of appocalapstick donfall are oil too familiar: epicdemic whitespread corobshamming, a globerment as a three rigged circus, and Tromp more a whores traitor, corps salesman and implord of Russians than the male shovingest precident we thought of him. The Balognians and the Messypotatoes too had their sacral cows and plenty of reasons to breed utterwise until they had their own calmdown to dust, as did the Roaming Umpires who got waist laid by bardbearing whores, and left to saying, ‘it happened so sudden we don’t know what happened.’
So what’s our marble flaw, or the railed reason for the Tromp’s prophilarity? Have we been hoodwanked and who wanked us and what did the Rusekeys have to do with it? Why are promiseskewing sexy Reclublicants playing party polertricks underminding the instanttooshams that protect the we peoples so as to achief this new brand of brainswish of the Big Bother washing over us? What makes us quick to belief in a corpulous two hundred and thirty-nine pound bigut anyway? The Massed Marble was already lying under oaf before he took the Ogre Orifice, as on premobius occasions was nosed to be breaching a female whorewhale and perfarming gropesy acts of lecherdemands, wily maintainting they were fake nudes and that he was only waxing statues. Is the Chubster but an achehead and a blimp in the anals of histeria, or subthink of a yesmad of the Russian oilygarchs, a Dirty Warbanks, or wars yet, a mannedefistation of our own disfunksham as mighty wall be this naysham’s last hurry in take us to war if it is god for bidness? Even as we speed it’s quiet pausible our naysham is ending as we newsed it, not with a Jarjar banks but a whopper, a flip flab man we’ve bend over-tolerating too much. You have to wonder about a humping dumpy who’s never happier until win we are at war. The olddummy question is which truth is more revelant: it’s oilways darthest before the Donald; a spatial Preproperdunce looks over fuel, drugads and the United States of America; or that afterism of karmick code: oil wells that ends orwells.