Pugilism

In the blue corner, weighing in at one-hundred and sixty-three lbs (I.Q.) is the maiden with the mostest, the psychotropic priestess, the banjolouki queen ladies and gentlemen, let's hear it for ... the Rosetta Stoooooone! *huge round of applause* *cheers from all sides of the stadium*

In the red corner, weighing in at one-hundred and thirty-nine lbs (I.Q.) is the guitar-picker, the hobo, the tramp, the no-one and only, nothing-doing, magick Maxwell Laaaaatttthhhhhaaaaaammmm! *boos* *hiss*

Seconds out, round one! *ding ding*

Commentary: Stone there, sizing up his opponent, circling wide, watching. Max, telegraphing his moves, get's distracted as Stone calls him a 'fucking hippy' and boom! Lands a staggering right-cross to Max's Face(Book). He's tottering, he's teetering, and he's down!

One! Two! Three! Four! He's up! Max is up. How many fingers am I holding up? Two. Okay. (The match continues.)

Max swings for a wild haymaker. Stone dodges it with ease, and is working him on his head and body (email and wordpress) Max falters, a hook from Stone, and he's down again!

One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! Eight! and he's on his feet once more. Disorientated now, Max goes for the solar plexus, another miss, the crowd roars with appreciation as Stone goes for another cross (his YouTube channel). What's this?! Max refuses to go down, lands a staggering uppercut to Stone, who stays on his feet.

The bell rings. Both Capitalist and Communist go back to their respective corners. Max is bleeding badly. Stone seems unhurt.

This is what it is like, metaphorically speaking. Maxy has lost his voice. He can no longer sing. Bummer.

This is all reminiscent of what's been goin' down in groove town.

Luckily, Maxy lived in a tent for so long, that it is only other people that actually need a plug-socket. Sure, I like a banjo, a guitar, a banjuitar, or a book, but not a plug socket. I'm going to keep on keepin' on.

It doesn't affect me, nor should it do. Feed that electricity meter y'all. I am minimalist. The simple bare necessities of life. Pangloss would melt them down and transform them in to filigree flowers. I don't care about money.

This futile tit-for-tat struggle will bear no fruit. Just bad seeds. Hate begets hate, and I want it to stop.