Boston Wrong

As I sat in traffic that made me an hour late for work because of the Boston Marathon Massacre festivities, I felt that the terrorists had won.

Boston Strong. Boston Strong. Boston Strong Boston STRONG or fucking ELSE. Now are you WITH us?? Do you FEEL for those who were hurt? DO YOU?!

It’s been a year since that welfare leech and his pouty little brother allegedly blew up a bit of Boston in the name of their medieval religion. As usual with tragedies that receive national attention, the only logical response to this nightmarish event is to spend the next week not being able to shut the fuck up about it. Let’s have a parade! Sell T-shirts! Wear bracelets! Jeez, this massacre sure turned out to be quite the financial windfall for local vendors!

I’m from the Boston area, but shared grief makes me nauseous. This constant “Boston Strong” incantation needs to stop. I had family members that came very close to being shred to bits by those big-nosed semi-Slavic fucks, and of course I hate them and jumped for joy when the younger swarthy misfit ran over his brother trying to escape. I’m just tired of being inundated with assholes desperately trying to co-opt the event for their own disingenuous comfort. It’s sickening.

Citizens are anxious to tell each other where they were when it happened—which was most likely in front of the TV. This public weeping is little more than a game of moral one-upmanship.

Speaking of attention, some attention-seeking performance-art queer proved what the rest of us already know—art fags ruin everything.

You may be asking yourself why this pisses me off. You’ll probably accuse me of “trolling” or producing click bait. That’s fine. But since I’m feeling a bit charitable, I’ll tell you that it isn’t because I hate joy. It’s because you’ve done what you have with every other emotion on the planet—you’ve cheapened sadness.