Jamiemccarthytv

Tag: uncivilized

  • Dr. Falls Freud

    “Doctor, we need more pills for our patience

    so we can get more patients.”

    Get me an Rx, stat—

    hit the deep web,

    or whatever corner the interns score their morals from.

    And bring me a nurse we can bang over—

    well-versed, sober,

    but tell her to hold her applause

    because if this hangover wins,

    I’m clocking out in a hearse.

    And while we’re at it,

    the whole world needs a makeover.

    Fraud in plain sight,

    unconscious piss on the fallen—

    what a trip.

    That’s not a Freudian slip,

    that’s Freud falling down the stairs

    and blaming your mother for it.

    It all goes back to Uncle Trouble’s past.

    Self-made man.

    Self-made until he dropped the big E,

    now he’s just self-mad.

    So let me pause before this final sentence—

    use common sense,

    add an extra comma before but, and, or,

    to add drama or suspense.

    And that comma?

    Instant karma—

    you’ll get what you got coming

    and going.

    Everybody wants their shot,

    but the dharma bums don’t talk about guns;

    they just swing for the fences—

    ostensibly offensive to some,

    but you can’t fix what sticks in your head and makes you want to fight.

    And that being said, here’s my plight:

    the insanity sits in my vanity.

    Maybe I should find God.

    “Doctor, I think you’re losing your patience.”

    What do you mean?

    Love is patient, love is kind—

    they said if I loved myself too much

    I’d go blind.

    Bullshit.

    I can see for miles.

    Maybe I’ll fight the resistance,

    write their riddance,

    rewrite their wrongful existence.

    Be the pause

    before my final sentence.

    And get that nurse an ashtray.

    The patient spent his life working,

    now his heart is hardly working—

    he’ll be living in an urn.

    Too soon?

    Alright, call it.

    Time of death:

    whenever the last punchline landed.

    Cause of death?

    Freud slipped again.

    I’m losing my patience.

    There’s no cadence to this curse.

    I want to go back in time—

    you know, when men were men.

    And goddammit—

    where’s my nurse?

    FATHER SICARIO

  • The Gospel According to Dr. Jolly


    the day after Ruby attempted suicide by banging his head on the walls of his jail cell.

    Gather close, children of the static.

    Tonight’s sermon is brought to you by the Un-United States Government,

    that eternal pharmacy of the damned,

    and by one Dr. Louis Jolyon West —

    Jolly, for short.

    A nickname that tells you everything and nothing, which is exactly how the good doctor liked his patients.

    Now… I’m not here to tell you whether Charles Manson was a monster or a kid who wrote bad folk songs until the nation decided to turn him into an exorcism ritual for everything it feared about itself.

    That’s not my job.

    My job is to peel the wallpaper off history and show you the termite tunnels beneath.

    Follow me.

    Picture Jolly West in his tweed jacket —

    a man who looked like he’d apologize

    before cutting your consciousness into strips.

    A man who weaponized curiosity

    and called it compassion.

    He’d inject you with questions

    before the syringe even touched your skin.

    They say he treated broken minds.

    I say he manufactured them wholesale.

    He was the kind of doctor

    who could hand you a glass of water

    and three days later

    you’d be confessing crimes you didn’t commit

    in languages you didn’t speak.

    Some say Manson spent time in his orbit.

    Some say coincidence is just God hiding the blueprints.

    Some say neither Jolly nor Charlie ever met.

    And some—

    some of us just ask the one question

    you’re not supposed to ask in America:

    Who benefits when a nation goes mad?

    Look around.

    Chaos is an industry.

    Fear is a commodity.

    And the human mind—

    well, that’s just clay for the sculptors

    who sit in the windowless rooms

    three floors below the truth.

    But tonight…

    tonight we honor Charles.

    Not the killer,

    but the songwriter he might have been

    before someone decided

    his chords needed more dissonance.

    I imagine him strumming in some halfway house,

    dreaming of fame

    while a doctor in a lab coat

    scribbled notes about “suggestibility thresholds”

    and “malleability of identity.”

    It doesn’t matter what’s true.

    It matters what’s plausible.

    And America…

    America has a way of making the plausible feel like prophecy.

    So let’s raise a glass to Jolly West —

    patron saint of pliable minds,

    architect of the quiet apocalypse,

    the smiling executioner of certainty.

    And let’s raise another

    to the kids who never asked to be born

    into a country that treats the psyche

    like a used car part

    to be swapped, tested, or discarded.

    In the end, children, remember this:

    When the devil wears tweed,

    we call him “Doctor.”

    When the angel grows wild hair

    and sings off-key,

    we call him “Manson.”

    And somewhere between the two

    is the truth.

    And the truth?

    Well…

    she’s still missing.

  • The Murder of Charlie Kirk

    The murder of Charlie Kirk is not merely an assassination — it is an x-ray of our species at its worst. We are confronted again with the spectacle of a coward mistaking a bullet for an argument. It does not take a man to kill. It takes only the cold blood and weak little veins of someone incapable of reason.

    A real man — a real woman — meets an opponent with intellect, with wit, with fire in the mind. Not with a rifle on a rooftop. Those who exalt this act reveal themselves not as revolutionaries, but as bottom-feeders: parasites gnawing at the body of civilization, dragging us down to a point where debate itself is murdered alongside its victims.

    This is not about politics or that our outrage wasn’t there when Melissa and Mark Hortman were killed in cold blood. It is about humanity itself, and whether we still deserve the word. If our instinct is to meet cowardice with more cowardice, to answer bullets with bullets, then perhaps we will have proven the assassin’s point — that the species is already finished.

    The real turning point is not that Charlie Kirk is dead, but whether we are capable of refusing the abyss that his murderer has opened.

  • JUST NOD

    They sell us hope in paper cups.
    We buy it, tip the priest in the apron.

    A man curses at a parking meter.
    Another shoots drywall into his veins.

    The rats read stock tickers.
    They know more than the professors.

    God skipped town.
    Left his Bible in the Motel trash.

    Politicians grin with teeth like knives.
    We clap while they steal our shoes.

    The absurd thing is—
    we nod.
    Every damn time.