Spitting Caves

I was at first confused by its author’s opening attack on the Heroes of 9/11. Why someone with anything more than a junior college degree in Applied Being An Asshole would even consider besmirching the suit covered saints who transformed our national sense of self on the greatest shitty day in American history is well beyond my feeble reckoning. But this 'comedic' new post on Terry Schiavo and her struggle to remain among her millions of loving compatriots placed everything in the proper context. Spttiing Caves? Let me put this in the only language the Caveman might be able to understand, that of your “totally awesome” rock music: Just met the new nihilism, same as the old nihilism! I'd hoped that irony had died a long-overdue death when those proud towers fell but apparently not, at least not in the Cave of the Spitting Cynic. While those beyond his shadowy confines sit huddled before their television sets awaiting Judy Woodruff’s latest dispatch from the frontlines of this, America’s newest national nightmare, our spelunking sad sack stares blandly into the abyss of his empty soul with nothing to shield him from the black light of tired apathy than the irony shades that cover up his moral astigmatism. While the greatest half of the greatest nation in the world turns to its Bibles on Tape and copies of The Purpose Driven Life, Mr. Spit need look no further than the South Park DVDs he proudly ”copped” from the local Blockbuster years ago. For Captain Caves is one of those teaming refugees of “Generation X” who can only see the world through Cracked lens of the pop culture detritus he’s been slathering over his underdeveloped “bad self” since that first screening of Star Wars "changed his life" back in the ha-ha halcyon '70s. Shakespeare? Which hip hop band does he rap in? Balzac? Merely the prompting for a gross pun in the lurid lexicon of the Cave Cretin. I don't know how old Mr. Caves is (in his auto-infantilized state is age even a factor?), but I'm assuming he's one of these comic book reading, "indie-rock" loving, slovenly loners still trying to “work out” the broken relationship with his distant dad through the solipsistic wailings of Pearl Jam or the arrested alienation of the X-Men.
Or maybe I have the King of the Cave all wrong. Maybe he’s in an even sadder denial, lacking the unknowing veil of distended adolescent ignorance. Maybe he’s “grown up” to become one of those lapsed ironists, leaping back over the towering pile of unfinished grad school apploications and overdue rent checks for one last hayride through the gum-snapping cheapjack iconoclasm of those glorious "slacker" 90s. Maybe his South Park indulgence is a but mere mask – or paste-on goatee -- for an even sadder Spitster, one whose self-satisfaction has morphed into a more august “demo”. Those old Snoop Dog E Dog cassettes have been traded in for Los Lonely Boys CDs, that tattered NADER ’96 T-shirt for an unbecoming tweed affect your friends around the Scotch bar you frequent since they closed down PJ McApathies can’t bother to tell wears about as well as a Red Sox cap on Osama bin Laden. Bye bye Dave Eggers. Hello David Sadaris. Out goes Eightball. In comes Harpers. Tell me once again about how all those “stupid” “rubes” who didn’t “get” the probing insights of Fahrenheit 9/11. Please, we’re all ears.
No no no. It isn’t the churlish hilarity of Cartmen and the rest of the South Park gang that tickles your Alexander Payne-addled sentimental bone but the kvetching liberal romanticism of The West Wing or the smug ‘what does it all mean’ existential futility of Curb Your Enthusiasm. Whatever your pop-cult poison I'm sure you knock it back with a stiff chaser of top-shelf snark.

Well, here in the gosh darn United States of legally-purchased-song-in-your-heart, twice-daily-floss-on-your-gums, undeniably-hetero-spring-in-your-step America we don’t curb our enthusiasms. No sirree. We embrace the holy living S-H-I-T out of ‘em. Be they mom’s apple pie, Curt Schilling’s curve ball, or hour upon hour of streamed Internet ass-fucking – oh, I mean, pictures of eight year-olds fisting -- no, wait, I mean, uh…Oh, you wouldn’t understand anyway, jerk. And I’ve had enough of you anyway. It’s almost time for Hardball and I’ve got to go pick up the kids from fisting – I mean soccer -- practice. But as a parting gift I've got a little bile of my own cooked up for the Spitting snarkster. And it's mixed with a big fat happy-hour double shot of faith in god, country, and the undaunted power of good old American pluck. It's what beat the British and got us through WW II. It’s what keep my SUV a truckin’ and my Cialis-pumped shlongola a fuckin’. It's what showed those ‘Namese a thing or two and it’s sure as shootin' gonna liberate the holy hell out of those poor clueless devil-worshipping towel-headed Iraqi shitbags. And, with the help of the president, both houses of congress, the fulsome power of the nation’s electronic and print media, and about five hundred adorable little kiddies with big pieces of duct tape over their mouths crowding the streets of Florida -- dear, sweet heavenly Florida -- it's going to see Ms. Schiavo through to the undying purgatory of eternally vegetative holy victory. As for you, Senor Cavito. Asta Lavista. Baby!
 

isn't it time for caveman to once again add to the discourse?