There have been a great deal of emotional energies and complicit psychic delusions recently causing great tumultuousness in the Palaces of the Corporetum Exceptionalis around the world. The causes of this tumult are often unseen and simultaneously assumed to be clearly distinguished by the overwhelming numbers of the courtiers. The single most assumed cause and focus of distress is the degree to which the latest application of a deceitful beauty mark meets with the traditional standards of dissolute predation on the most prominent face in the chambers of glittering toxic debauchery.
On the face of the bipartisan schizophrenians, they have themselves applied a beauty mark which looks too much like a pustule and in their schizoid haughtiness and devout paranoia they cannot allow themselves to take responsibility for this manifestation of their reality. It seems that the speculative beauty mark must be blamed for its own existence. Part of the mouth grumbles that the beauty mark is a real pustule and the other side of the mouth is grumbling that it is merely a superficial manifestation and it is the result of negligible change in fashionable tastes. The face cannot realize that both sides of its mouth’s conflicting assessments are valid. It cannot realize this because its perceptions are (and must be) determined by the depth of its own reflections in a highly gilded mirror crafted through the use of corporatized decomposition and militarized lust.
“Some russians bumped my hand when I was applying my beauty mark!” slurs one side of the mouth. “Shut up and just pop the pimple. We can cover it over again!” comes the responding slurred grumble of the other side of the mouth. The face looks distressed and seeks a better, more twisted contortion of its capitalist inebriation to try to quiet down the gaseous grumbling from the bloated digestive tract.
There is a slight suspicion that perhaps the pustulous-ness of the beauty mark had arisen from a reaction to some of the previously used synthetic additives and colorants which were blended into the face’s makeup. The various brands produced from the Reaganoid navel of manufacturers which were designed to follow such latest trends as rude cowboy, third way bumpkin, brutal feminist, and blackface had each followed a similar formula and consisted of a privately copyrighted, rich base as the main active ingredient.
At the same time, the servile nature of the clinging social networks is also distressed by their sensing (despite their carbon-ically inebriated state) that the palaces of the Corporetum are showing more signs of structural decay and indications that they have no control over the temperature swings which are beginning to cause steam to cloud their opera-glasses and to cause their pasty, obfuscating, masking makeup to seep increased amounts of blood.
“We must have more weapons!” rises the overwhelming uniting chorus in the most prominent vocalization of the rampant insecurities of the delusional and vain coterie of the mouth. “The foundations of our palaces are too leaky. That leakiness caused the crudeness of our beauty mark. We must replace the foundations with the abundance of corpses from our exceptional indifference!” shouts the artificially inflated mouth.
As lines of drool descend from both corners of the mouth and its associated spittle flies through the palaces, the mouth of the Corporetum Exceptionalis begins to mumble and slur its suspicions that somehow the poor and the natural environment are the cause of the possibly pustulinous beauty mark. “They don’t deserve our graciousness” seeps out of one side of the mouth while the other side licks up some of its own drooling while uttering, “Our lifestyle is too precious to waste on those slackers,” Thus, the mouth – with a duality of sonorous inflections and shared disdain – ceremoniously engenders pointing fingers at itself..
The vagrantcy of fashionable dictates has regularly struggled to allowed a period of four years between its ennui-ridden escapades of corporatized deception and toxic fecundity, but sometimes things are too burning hot to allow to them to fully fester on the face. One side of the mouth is consumed and consuming with its supposed (and impatient) righteousness while the other side sags in their shared pride of crushing boredom and bloodlust.
The face has grown old before its time and it is widely, delusionally assumed that its debilitated synapses can cure themselves if the various privatizing palaces of toxic privatizing corporatism can find the strength to sadistically use more weapons against the ever-increasing numbers of their victims.
Versailles was a mere cottage when compared with this cathedral of capital.