Ode to The Grand Adjustment, and the way that it hikes up its skirt and wants to make baby upon baby in the suburbs down the street from the missile factory. The hot-dog plant that my father was a hot-dog at is not so hot anymore, and in fact there was a rave there last weekend proving that the janitors have all been fired, and that the rats have taken up new-age-disco, and hired themselves a DJ from Cincinnati with more piercings in his face than an ionized cave magnet, he is white, but has a degree in African American studies he is paving the way to a new tomorrow on jew-jew-bees and ecstasy laxatives. We are all so hip at the reality tv show Olympics... Everyone is there being SO realistic that the stripper from Pittsburgh ate my penis from a required distance, and the mimes are in agreement as the roach coach delivers, and the people all chitter on the curb outside the studios on Gower, the power is in The Grand Adjustment; As it takes place right before your eyes, and you let it, and super size while the boys with the backward baseball caps in the black BMW's show up, and tell me about how the gold cow is no longer gold, but in fact it's now stuffed full of saline, see through (but only if you can afford prime time glasses), and thoroughly ready to milk you back. I track the world and its villains with my Captain Crunch decoder kit to America, but it is too late, The Grand Adjustment does not wait, for you, it makes you wait on it in the haze of self improvement and magazine sales, commercials, and pails of diet pop that can be heard 'a fizz' all the way to Uranus Lazy well dressed lemmings, and their lemon girls, with the Angelina Jolie tattoos on their lower backs whip out cell-phones, and start to flash pictures, and dish out Barry Mannilow jingles -- make bad movies of what it's like to wait in line to be seen in line while dreaming in line after line of fine useless memorabilia and cultural genocide If I wasn't the Devil's son, I would warn you, but since I JUST can't wait for my turn to flame-cock your holes into a fine pilfered cinder powder, perhaps I'll just gently tap you on your backs with my raped-nun wand dipped in monkey spunk, and old curry, and say "hallelujah, welcome to The Grand Adjustment, you won't feel a thing... You're brains have long rusted". Oh lemming, oh lemming, look at you jump I bet you never thought in life you could get to be so plump -- Oh lemming, oh lemming enjoy your selfish trance we will soon see how well you do my underwater dance.