skulzwerks

The regular season for the NFL begins today, Sunday September 13, 2026. Yep the bruise brothers are back for another season of torn ACL's, torn shoulder rotator cuffs, blunt force trauma concussion protocols, fingers in your eye   sockets, cuts, bruising, sprains, strains, and miscellaneous bodily harm because that's how it's done in the NFL. Those well padded gladiators will be out there on the artificial turf huffing and puffing their way to that ever so elusive Vince Lombardi trophy and the bragging rights to "we are the champions" if only for one off season. Seems not much of a reward for the bodily sacrifice made by the NFL bruisers. Anyway season is officially on and there you go. It's entirely possible I'll watch a game ... but not likely. I mean it's the opening of football season and it doesn't even get worth watching until about the last week in December. Yep. Now for Sunday machine art. studio - maynard - orbital - spine - so our orange ...

  The 9/11/01 Memorial 25th Anniversary is over and done. America's living Presidents were there and not a one of those Presidents gave a speech. Just their being present was all that was required. The 9/11/01 Memorial Commission has never allowed American Presidents to give speeches not on anniversary days nor any other day. America's one really retarded and embarrassing president was at a 9/11/01 memorial at the Pentagon where president shit-for-brains got to give a speech. Well it wasn't really a speech so much as a narcissistic sermon about trumpf. Old shits-his-pants did fall asleep during the official Pentagon memorial and our entire world got to see that live and up close all personal like. Trumpf is quite the schmuck no doubt. There are even photos of the freak dozing off during the memorial and here's one now - No one is quite certain if the woman seated next to trumpf is really Melania or a body double brought in to help trumpf manage stairs and inclines of an...

Epilogue: The Great American Sleepwalk The tragedy of the empire isn't that it hid its crimes, it's the crimes are performed in broad daylight to a packed theater that forgot how to hiss. The clicks on the telephone line, the firebombs over Fallujah, the General holding the deed to the front porch ... it was all logged, filmed, and broadcast in high-definition. But the Amerikans aren't paying attention. They're hypnotized by the blue light of the screens, self medicating on sanitized news cycles, reality television, and entirely content to trade their collective soul for the illusion of safety.   So the machine won by default rolling onward from the dust of Mesopotamia straight into the neon lit madness of present day. They didn't need to burn the books ... the controllers simply waited for the people to stop reading them. But out here on the fringe, the ink doesn't fade. The file stays open. We hold the binoculars, we keep the logs, and we bear witness to the c...

  Chapter 3: The General's Landlord The matrix doesn't just watch you, it repositions the chessboard when you start winning the staring contest. The "authorities" couldn't find a legal mechanism to silence the stream-of-consciousness truths bleeding out of your keyboard so they bypassed the Constitution and went straight to capitalism. The landlord, the one you thought you had a working relationship with and the one who smiled while cashing the rent checks ... quietly signs the deed and slips away into the shadows. And the buyer? A National Guard General You can't make this stuff up. The literal epitome of everything wrong with the empire, a walking billboard for the military/industrial complex, now holds the lease to your living room. He doesn't need a wiretap; mon général owns the walls. It's a masterclass in bureaucratic harassment ... making life infinitely complicated and turning your domestic sanctuary into a garrison, proving that the regime...

  Chapter 2: The Architecture of the Absurd The war games abroad required a new vocabulary, a linguistic acid wash to dissolve the Geneva Conventions. In the mountains of Afghanistan and the sun baked streets of Iraq, the invaders don't fight men they fight "unlawful enemy combatants." They round up thousands of farmers, cab drivers, and anyone who fits the profile of the new global boogeyman ... pack them in orange jumpsuits and fill the cages at Guantanamo Bay, an unlikely and barely known outpost located conveniently in Cuba. No the Cubans don't appreciate the U.S. holding a spit of Cuba to thumb the American nose at Cuba in general. Guantanamo is a legal black hole of corporate managed twilight zone where torture is rebranded as "enhanced interrogation" and international treaties are treated as so much junk mail to end up in the trash. Then comes the pivot. Iraq. A nation completely disconnected from the smoke of Manhattan suddenly dropped into the cross...

  Chapter 1: The Lexicon of the Line The television doesn't broadcast news anymore, it broadcasts a new state religion. On September 20, 2001, the frame fills with the wood paneled majesty of the House Chamber but the atmosphere is pure coliseum. Buckaroo Bush steps to the podium, his posture stiff with the sudden terrifying gravity of an accidental emperor. When the words drop they don't sound like American politics - his words sound like an ancient totalitarian edict wrapped in a Texas drawl. "Either you are with us or you are with the terrorists ...!" The Chamber erupts in a frantic terrifying standing ovation, a collective tribal roar demanding blood. Right there the space/time continuum of the Republic rips wide open. The nuance of human civilization is incinerated in one sentence. You are either a loyal subject of the 'crusade' OR ... you are the enemy. Outside our house the sky is a blank terrifying sheet of blue. For days the commercial airliner contra...