Banksy’s Clock

I was rejected. I applied to be at an event this week with the kids from Parkland. But I was denied. It’s okay.

I’m going to Washington DC to join the March For Our Lives.

I thought it’d be nice to meet the kids from Parkland in a smaller setting before I make the pilgrimage to Washington. Truth is, I’m not surprised I was rejected by Harvard, since it’s run by adults.

I’m done with adults. I’m throwing my hat in with the kids. Adults suck. There’s an agenda at Harvard. They want their students to keep paying tuition. They want the parents to believe having access to The Ivy League is worth risking the lives of their kids.

It’s not. The math is bad. Shame on Harvard. Shame on any teacher or principal or so-called administrator who’d pretend to punish students for walking out. That’s all it is, by the way, pretend punishment. We give adults authority. We can take it away. Don’t cut the check, it’s as simple as that, which is what this is about, in the end: money.

Let’s bankrupt Harvard. Let’s bankrupt the NRA. Let’s bankrupt Congress. They’re all phonies, putting money ahead of lives. If we all stopped paying tuition, if we all stopped paying dues, if we all stopped paying taxes, the 2nd Amendment would be amended.

Time is running out. No it’s not. That’s a lie. There’s plenty of time. But it is running out on the next cast of characters in the next school shooting, in the next mass shooting. We don’t know where it’s going to happen. But it is going to happen. And the clock is ticking.

Banksy was back in New York this week with a rat race clock. You can debate what it means. But it’s subjective. There is no meaning until you assign meaning. To me, it’s the clock of intention. What’s your intention? To get ahead at the expense of others. To look the other way as children are shot at. To spend spring break chasing fun instead of justice. To shop. To tweak your short game on the back nine while a Mexican shines your shoes in the clubhouse at Twin Orchard Country Club. To cheat on your wife with a porn star. To steal your husband’s virility by playing the stay-at-home-mom card. To pretend you didn’t vote for Trump. Twice.

Tic. Toc. Suck my cock. I’m Gregor from the block. I used to have a little. Now I have glock. The twitter shitstorm passed now there’s blood on my smock. But what doesn’t kill me makes me bigger than The Rock. My ship has sailed and I left you on the dock. I’d take you with me but I’m not carrying-on schlock. If you step toward my door you best knock. The key to my heart doesn’t come with a lock. Tic. Toc. Suck my cock. I’m Gregor from the block. I used to have a little. Now I have glock.

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