Cultural Imperialist

"Scathing Spats on Shallow Subjects"


Sun Aug 20




Death May Be Forever, But At Least It’s Consistent


Okay Death. It's time you get your due. You've taken a lot of shi-stuff from a lot of people over the years. Not many people want to meet you. A few seem ballsy enough to put shotguns to their faces in the hopes of escaping a world ruled, well, by you. You've got Africa sewn up like a hungry little ball of malnourished Ethiopian stomach lining, and Bono's not happy about it. Basically, you've made a LOT of people angry over the years.

On the other hand, Alan Ball seems to have a little gay-boy crush on you, based on his HBO and Cinemax shows. And dictators apparently worship you like an old Mexican diety, based on how many countrymen they send to you to keep their measly thrones for a few more wretched years. And hell, even the King of Peace himself, President Obama sends you a gift wrapped Yemeni every once in a while from his Golden radar-defying drone Eagles. So it seems you do have some fans after all.

But let's face it, most of the world hates you.

You know why, though. It's because you're damn good at your job. You've taken everyone from Methuselah, the oldest dude known, to infants who have yet to breathe the smoggy air of our planet (nice going with "climate change" BT DUBS, you are a LONG-TERM PLANNER) to the Son of God Himself, albeit the last for only three days or so, after which He was like "Later fools." Though he wouldn't say fools, b/c then He'd be in danger of the fires of hell.

People hate a winner. They love a winner every once in a while, but a winner who NEVER loses? That's not something people can take. It's like, roll over, give someone else a chance.

Let's not forget how creative you are. As of our unofficial tally, there are 19,177,839,361,873,290,100,274 ways in which you have performed your grisly duties, and while some of your works are marvelous and others are pedantic, all are truly final, and indeed, no artist has yet to truly emulate you, much less capture your essence. And in the end, you swallow even them into your ever-crowded maw.

Yes, people despise your presence in the home and on the battlefield, and they decry you and hold useless ceremonies to mourn your horrible work, but each of us knows in his and her heart that you do meet us, in the end, and there is something amazing about that punctual consistency. It's so rare to have someone so dedicated to their craft.

So we here at Cultural Imperialist say, it's your turn. Death, you've inspired so much invention, been the engine behind countless tortures and ailments before reaping all living things like some amazing Ultimate John Deere Harvester of Existence. You have waited patiently as old men expired with labored breath. You've been there when Serbs and Croatians mercilessly slaughter each other because who the Frak knows why anymore. You've clipped your fingernails while watching Rome burn, along with its inhabitants who came screaming to you at the end of barbarian lances. You, sir, are a force of nature, and for that, we cannot deny you Cultural Imperialist of the Week.

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