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People of my generation who vault into the House of Broken Dreams and suddenly forget their past, and the various punters  they shared them with, are like the joints that Jesus told us were bound to fall down the minute some hypocrite huffed and puffed and blew hot air in place of the other stuff that they once upon a time exhaled from their now sanctimonious mouths.

Those halfwitted hypocrits wwho live in these houses maade of paper thin walls and revolving doors that are built upon shifting sands instead of rock are the same six figure salary earners that once dropped E’s and trips and snorted marching powder and blew joints with blokes they believed shared their narcissistic desire for power and their craven craving for lorry-loads of filthy lucre.

F*ck me they read things wrong.

It’s not their fault though, for how could they have known that the comrade that they were snorting and smoking and swallowing and shooting up with wasn’t really one of their own, but rather just a fake who was pretending to be just like them  so that he could cover up the fact that he’d been f*cked and fiddled with as a kid and wanted to be liked by every bastard that he met, even if deep down inside he hated them and every goddamn thing they stood for?

Child-sex abuse victims generally hate to make waves. We’re ashamed and embarrassed about what was done to us when we are young, and like Leonard Zelig we tend to adopt personas that allow us to become what we believe other people want us to be, even though somewhere just below the surface of the illusion we publicly present we are actually a totally different person altogether.

So we sit back and listen and let narcissists rave and tell us far more than they should as they pass around the pills or the pick or the pot or the powder and we all have a whale of a time hearing all about the magnificence of the moron whose single-minded ambition in life is to become an MP so that they can change the world, or perhaps just earn a quarter of a million dollars each year and be chauffeured around their Shaman or Shawoman’s kingdom, whichever the case may be.

And when they arrive at the their destination in the House with the long history of breaking women and men’s dreams, they plant their arses on padded leather seats and lounge luxuriously, safe in the knowledge that the dukes and duchesses that they shared their drugs with will keep their lips sealed because their six-figure incomes and their holidays in Disneyland and the ‘Dam are dependent on fealty to the fakir who f*cking put them in the job and are gonna f*ck ’em if they put a single foot out of place.

But some of these f*ckers are actually Captain Walter E. Kurtz, and don’t share the delusions of the blind egotists who have become so used to being surrounded by people that share their shallow souls and their bedeviled beliefs that they fail to see the danger present right before their very eyes, and cannot comprehend that some comrades that fall by the wayside haven’t gone rogue, but in fact have been rogues all along.

It is only when these hollow-hearted hypocrites decide to deny their past and recreate themselves in the image of saints that their problems begin, particularly when our elected (ha ha ha ) representatives decide that a toke on a tad of leafy green material is akin to whacking a tin cap of refined poppy up your torniqued arm.

Not that there is a lot of difference between either of course, for they are both painkillers which are either ingested orally or shot into the veins for the same simple reason.

To dull the pain.

And these motherf*ckers who share our hurt but hide it want to turn the poor bastards who seek solace in the dreams of the dead into damned criminals, just for a smidgen of selfish political gain and a few ill-informed votes.

Well f*ck you Mr, Ms and Mrs Dozen or more denizens of the House of Broken Dreams with who I once did a drug or too back in the wanton days of our youth.

We’ll see about that won’t we you reborn bloody saints.