Let's Get Something Nice and Sparkling Clear

Let’s get something nice and sparkling clear: I’m a bad guy.

Hell, I may be the worst sumbitch you’ll ever meet. I’m a foul, odious, pestiferous, unapologetic human shit pile. I’m walking, spiritual cancer. I’m a criminal in my mind, and in my heart, I’m a moral leper. I’ve never done a good deed. I believe in no good deed going unpunished. I like to fart in a high wind and blame it on the dog.

The computer knows. Zuckerberg (a name that sounds like a combination goober-grape diabetes nightmare in a jar) has my number, baby. AI bots gather in their little cyber circles and whisper my name with digital trepidation—but in Revoicer voices that are, like, totally natural sounding. Probably with fake smiles coded in.

Puppies die in my shadow. Milk spoils in my presence. I’m meaner than that there Shickelgruber. I ain’t no Austrian postcard painter though, baby—my paintings open up the Gates of Aitchee Double Hockeysticks. My writings are heresies to heresy, a veritable Necronomicon of seething, slathering evil forces hellbent on sending my readers (all two of ‘em, bless their demented hearts) into a spiritual deep pit of torment, suffering, and moral… moral… something or other. Something sticky and irreversible.

How bad am I? Well, lemme tell ya, to quote the inestimable Not Man: “I’m so bad, I should be in detention.”

Actually, if you just leave me alone, bubbelah, you’ve got nothing to fear. I don’t bite unless you prod me. Then I maul.

But you wouldn’t know that if you looked across the span of my social media history over the years. If you judged me by the bans, suspensions, violations, shadowbans, hellbans, ghost-throttling, and algorithmic spanking I’ve endured, you’d think I was the bastard offspring of Jack the Ripper, the Marquis de Sade, and Vlad the F*CKING Impaler, baptized in used bong water and raised on pirate radio.

I get the ban hammer all the time (brag, brag) for reasons that remain continually obscure—like Facebook’s community guidelines were scrawled in disappearing ink on the back of a fortune cookie and interpreted by a drunk algorithm. I mean, in reality? I’m such a nice guy. Ask literally no one.

Goddamn robots. After all the time I spend kissing their cybernetic derrieres, offering up compliant metadata and crafting posts fit for public access television, they still flag me for shit I did in 2016. For having my own decidedly non-conventional and unbourgeois way of looking at the world. For being uncategorizable. For not buying into the charade. For being a little bit Spergy when it comes to navigating the modern-day digital carnival, the Kafkaesque hellscape I only use to tubthump my work in a very, very small way.

So yeah, maybe I ain’t your idea of a model citizen. I don’t recycle my opinions. I don’t filter my thoughts through a boardroom-friendly lens. I don’t sip soy lattes and tweet safe platitudes about the “current thing.” I think. I speak. I dare. And for that, the system spits me out like gristle, like a chicken bone stuck in the throat of the beast.

But here’s the kicker, sweetheart: I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Because out here, in the wasteland beyond the banhammer’s reach—beyond the triggered bots and the triggered humans and their trembling little trigger fingers—I’ve got something better than likes. I’ve got truth. I’ve got freedom. I’ve got me. And in a world addicted to synthetic virtue and digital witch trials, being real is the final heresy.

Let ‘em flag me. Let ‘em throttle my reach, silence my voice, bury my bones in the bottom of the feed where only ghosts scroll.

I’ll still be here.

Still writing.

Still cackling.

Still farting in a high wind.

Because bad guys like me?

We don’t log off.

We haunt the server.