General Discussion

There once was a pundit so loud,
Who sold outrage in bulk to a crowd.
With a sneer and a shout,
He’d whip fear round about—
Till hate paid the bills he was proud.

For decades the dial spun with bile,
AM crackle, venomous style.
Day and night it would churn,
Teaching anger to earn—
Fifty years of a profitable trial.

They cried “shock!” when the mask slipped at last,
As if history hadn’t broadcast.
If you watched for a beat,
You’d seen hate on repeat—
This ending was baked in the past.

There once was a grifter in orange,
Who treated the cruel as a forage.
Mocked the weak for a laugh,
Played the crowd like a staff—
And called spite “patriotic courage.”

But louder than him, never doubt,
Were the suits who kept cutting the route.
They funded the flame,
Branded hatred as “game,”
Then claimed innocence, cashing it out.

Now racism, fascism, hate—
All thrive on a balance sheet’s weight.
They’ll vanish, you see,
Only when it costs fee—
When bigotry bleeds at the gate.

So spare us the faux-disbelief,
The pearl-clutching, corporate relief.
Nothing changes a thing
Till the money stops to spring,
From cruelty packaged as grief.

There once was a network called Faux,
Where truth went to die nice and slow.
They jacked fear for cash,
Turned bullshit to hash—
And called lies “just opinions,” you know.

For fifty long years on the dial,
AM radio slobbered its bile.
Every fuckstick on air
Sold rage, fear, and despair—
While cashing their checks with a smile.

Don’t act fucking shocked at the mess,
Like you missed all the warning signs, yes?
If you heard one damn show,
You knew how this’d go—
This wasn’t a shock, it was stress.

There once was a fascist buffoon,
Painted orange like a bloated baboon.
He mocked crippled folks,
Fanned hate like a joke—
And the crowd ate that shit with a spoon.

But worse than the loudmouth disgrace
Are the suits with the blood on their face.
They funded the hate,
Called it “market-driven debate,”
Then hid when it burned down the place.

They say, “Oh dear God, how extreme!”
As masked thugs drag folks off the street.
But they paid for the gear,
Bought the fear year by year—
Now they clutch pearls and cry, “Not me!”

Don’t tell me this shit came from nowhere,
Or sprang fully formed from thin air.
It was brewed, aged, and sold,
Strip-mined, packaged, and rolled—
By corporations who knew and didn’t care.

Racism, fascism, hate—
All thrive ‘cause they pay fucking great.
They’ll die, mark my word,
When they’re no longer worth
The profit these assholes create.

So fuck all the faux outrage cries,
And the “thoughts” and the “prayers” and the lies.
Nothing changes a damn
Till the money gets slammed—
And bigotry’s finally bad for those guys.