The American stillborn sense of justice has worn its grave so truthfully all things pious count no more and didn’t then. We want poignant documentaries, exposes of humanitarian needlework to rally by, because the country propaganda, not just a general monied police state we yawn under, begins the alimentary canal, where the sole scope of maturity churns an explication, talking lies about what’s best to keep us strung at jobs, and fine by me, I’m Irish enough; people were lost before fish escaped the ocean, but don’t paddle art anywhere parental or let’s get on the fucking news together. Of course a sublime aspect afforded humanity falls by its greatest neglect. Good. If we were halfway decent, we’d be extinct already. People wake up with taste in their mouth and writers will have their first real work. Until then, keep the nibble queenly. Puritan succotash always was, will be evermore, and let us continue tickling its flag for boilerplate rewards, because something happened that allowed human beings, for the length of a movie, to move beyond the exploitation of their feelings of social adequacy and precious abstract identity – a documentary so bathshit into slaughter as to implicate the handshake itself. The massive cooties still there from birth greenlit a backwash too subconscious to register wrong. Even the filmmaker’s tries at indignation become supple by dancing. Thank Mula Jadi poems came back to rape the document. I don’t care what happened. I got Herzog in my ticker. I’ve been choking on this movie for three weeks and wasn’t even blessed with the pleasurable task of its heroes.