I already know what you’re doing there with the question. So, I guess, I could choose, right now, and maybe I already did, whether to tell you an Irishman-Walks-into-a-Bar-Joke, or was It story? Shucks, Jim. Let’s just answer the question to the best of our abilities.
Can I at least say that something seems weird as fuck if the President of these United States is saying this during the State of the Union? Or that it’s weird as fuck to be writing this or typing this or anything else for that matter. Sure can, why would we stop you now?
Does it matter if I haven’t always done whatever it is I’d say?
Why don’t I do to you what you’re doing to us, and just pinpoint what the fuck happened that time you and Lauren or whatever her name is got pulled over by the golf course, Jim?
Of all fucking places.
Sure, aren’t you the Lucky One?
The lucky one?
Can’t do that Jim, we’re talking, not transcribing.
At least can attempt to trace back from there.
Can you answer the question?
There’s an inherent problem with the question if it’s true that depending who I’m speaking with, I’d give a different answer.
But we’re talking about your own kids, what would you tell them.
There’s two inherent problems, one personal and one, I guess, also personal.
The first, we know, Jim, you haven’t always done as you’re told.
That’s personal too.
And also personal, is what you would legitimately tell your own children.
I’d hope to prepare them with an hierarchy before suggesting there is anything more important than survival.
One would expect that to me the first priority, unless you’re suggesting they lay down for the Queen?
I’m not suggesting a fucking thing, Jim Flannery, since you apparently never give any of us a voice.
Well, fuck me.
Sure, why do you think this is important, though?
It’s more a symptom that something is legitimately wrong in this country specifically if there is a need for the President of the United States to express these things publicly when they’re speaking to everyone at once.
You don’t think you can pull it off?
Like the man you saw, and you wondered if he knew in advance he was going to be put on camera like that? Sure, and his wife? One might assume.
One might assume, Jim, that it doesn’t necessarily matter, because none of us want to be them either, Jim? We don’t want to be on national television because our fucking child is dead. It doesn’t even matter, they still showed up, Jim. Unless you think they’re fucking idiots, that they didn’t consider just by showing up that this was a possibility, even if they didn’t know it was a certainty. Sure, Jim, anymore than you know certainly what would happen at the fucking Buttonwood, but you still showed up and puffed away like a fucking maniac if that word suffices you satisfactorily or whatever you want to call it, so give them some credit for showing up too, and don’t worry if you don’t feel compelled to share your private conversations with the Universe with real people since we’re at least willing to do this.
It’s still kinda shit not to answer the question. It’s also shit if people don’t have someone in their own life to look to for the answer to that question. And that we’re delaying the inevitable question: did anyone ever even tell me what the fuck to do when I got pulled over?
And, sure, scared as fuck, right? What did I possibly do wrong? And now I’m potentially a moment away from the worst fucking experience of my life, so, how horrible. How horrible. What a coincidence, eh? Must have been a fucking tail light, Jim, and maybe, they just thought you are so fucking incredible they kept watching your car after you passed them and that’s how they noticed your tail light from that angle when anyone else might also consider the possibility they started pulling your white ass over before they could possibly have even seen your tail light? And now, what the fuck, was the tail light even out? Who the fuck can remember when they’re more terrified than fuck? I’d like to think you can remember every fucking thing that ever fucking happened to you. I would too. I hope that you don’t ever worry that your history with our nation’s mental health system would in any way effect the way you interact with your own children, Jim, cause fuck-it-all-forbid if your heart didn’t go pitter patter hearing T.I. refer to his son as viewing him as his first hero and his daughter as her first love. Pretty adorable coming from a bad mother fucker like, T.I., no? Not bad, Jim, we know your just as soft as the rest of these poets, just don’t fuck with any of them, ok? Cause I don’t want to be a part of the fucking rap game any more than you do, “’cause this ain’t no motherfucking game, Jim”.