Behold the ass of Mickey, rode without consensus, flap-handle ears knotted pigtail, caught by sweat, full plague nibbling veins between fur, the fur tickling our brink any commercial reenacts, fangs sunk motherfucking howdy, seizing a failed backwash, high on flu-level diarrheas. This movie is as close as we’ll get to all the Che Guevara bullshit, comrade. My generation’s Cuban revolution. Some genius shook America from its worst dad and snuck his crew into the nuclear family’s hidey hole. Mickey’s in there, palms down, condom strangling everyone’s fun. Starting with where you’re from, it’s detrimentally easier not to like the world. What’s the complaint? That we’re owned? Our masters feed us grains and plastic? We turn clutchy about our rights. There are no fucking rights. We forget birth revokes them. Well, deeply no matter. Sneak your art under the pig and say what for. Because the only other option is how fun slaughter sounds to install the same eventual setup versus piss poor sociological optimism beaming from team pout. Nothing makes a difference outside our heads. We don’t make a difference. But this is the best bullet put between two (iconic) ears.
