As another Lame Cherry exclusive in matter anti matter.
I am an artist.
I am a major in the most perpetual of armies, which crosses all boarders, influences all leaders, to the most wonderful artistry, and I call it war.
My friends, I am an artist of war.
For most weak people, war is a nightmare, but for me at night I dream of war. I daydream of war when I am awake and I fantasize of war for my carnal pleasure. There is nothing that pleases me more than the creation of war.
I can name it krieg, voyna, guerre, zhànzheng, pólemos, but it is all war, beautiful war. It is all my Michaelangelo masterpiece, the Sistine Chapel, the Gothe prose, the 8th wonder of the world, for it is wonderful, for it is war.
From the symphony of Tomahawk missiles in Syria to the melody of HR McMaster's voice crooning softly in President Trump's ear bringing nuclear holocaust, it is all music, and I am moved by it as Wagner's Flight of the Valkyrie to Loverboy's Loving Every Minute of It, as I do love every minute of it of the flight of war.
I can picture nothing more beautiful than the fresco of the sands of the Middle East, painted in the blood of hundreds of thousands of American occupational forces. Oh what strokes George H. W. Bush dipped his brush in in Gulf War I, and then his artistic son in George W. Bush gave texture with tens of thousands of American gallons of blood, and Barack Obama that fine international product, adding to the crimson colors. Yes my favorite color in art is red, and now with Donald Trump, in the appreciation of his daughter Ivanka's lust for war, I now have a global canvas to make the White Cliffs of Dover red, the Volga blue into red, the Yellow River red in China and those amber waves of American grain, glistening with the dewy dew of replacing red, white and blue, with red, red and more red.
How can I deny that I have so many fellow artists on this planet earth, who rival the masters of DaVinci, Rembrandt and Warhol. For they painted with inks, but we strive to paint with the reds of blood, the yellows of urine, the blacks of scorched earth, to give us a battle flag of comfort, to entomb a willing world in appreciation of our arts.
The violin of rockets, the drums of explosions, the tapestry of blood and excrement splatter, the gross theater of the great play, in which the chorus is filled with the whimpering of children better than any kubuki, for it has been said that the American loves the smell of napalm in the morning, my friends, I love the smell of holocaust ovens in the nuclear fires of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
It is all such a pleasant thing for a maestro of the arts.
My friends, I know you are all patrons of war, for else you would not so willingly engage in it. You worship it, for you offer your taxes to it, you feed it glorious bombs instead of feeding your children, and you silently await the curtain to lift as your narrators in the Kushners have Sean Hannity, prepare you for this drama, as Rachel Maddow gives that sodomite feel to it that all in the enemy really wants you do is to kill them in genocide, because that is their greatest desire in the world to be part of this production.
My friends, we are all friends, arm in arm, marching along, to our destruction, as we wish for the ultimate sacrifice of others for our pleasure in war. The crimes we do are just while the crimes of our enemies are unjust. Their music is off key while our tune is pure. Their canvas is whitewash while our's is beauty. We are the patrons of war and we applaud every death and obliterated country on the same scale, as all we want is, more, more, more.
My friends, we are all one and the same. I simply am honest in my enjoyment in the arts of war which I relish, while you are sanitized in your lying to yourselves that this is no more than some reality television, awaiting your commercial snack break and expecting "You're Fired" means you get to appear in the next episode, but great art is one production, as once the Mona Lisa is finished, you can not keep repainting it.
So my friends, I love war. I embrace war and I relish war. You instead are afraid to give into your lusts for war. You are afraid of the intimate contact of war, and you want your wars to be cell phone Facebook distanced and Twitter fast, as you are no longer capable of love as your emotions have seared.
Let us then raise our glasses and toast to our love for war. You love war, but are incapable of allowing war to love you. I love war though and war loves me. That is enough for this mistress of the arts adores me as I adore her. She loves you too my friends, but you no longer can feel her love.
My friends. I am an artist who loves the war of your hearts.
I love your hearts my friends as they are the theater of war.