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August 13, 2015 | movie reviews

The End of the Tour

Sean Kilpatrick

The End of the Tour photo

To recover from the grand wizard of empathy’s commencement speech, I have since camped at grocery stores, when I can afford them, awaiting the flotation device of my college degree’s supposed intellectual extenuation of the human gridlock. From the sedate epitome of our self-consciously nitpicked feedbag, rowed by fluorescents, buried by architectures I can only traverse with obscure literary simulacra, I found a space where my imagination (and word count) may finally be put to rest in favor of assisting others. Here’s who I need to rob by meaning well, so I can feel okay inside, because my skin is apparently yogurt: the aged and widowed not just struggling with gravity’s noose, scooting ahead of their own bovine and long accepted traumas, personal traumas, by the way, I’ll plow with my sweetest gesture, but at war with their bodies simply to enter a vehicle. I snatch the weight of their arthritis from them in every blink. They shall reach their trunks alongside (somewhat) able bodied me and there I plan to ruin them further with my patronage. I will stuff the remainder of their struggle down my help. Unless they literally are falling over, which really gets me stiff, then I’m doubly their toothsome bellhop, Midwestern geeze. So, from Wallace Supermarket Inc., all ten million transparent aisles whitewashing articulation with profitable human heart, let me assure you, hanging himself was the first personal accomplishment the man fucking won. But I’m a fan. Because he didn’t just write on the level of that Tuesdays with Morrie (of course the appropriate star is mister zzz bro How I Plucked Your Mother’s Rhizomes, but not bad performance anyway, wink) Benjamins-inspired condescending cuntsuck of a speech. He figured out how to perish that big brain enough to leave us lines. He wasn’t just moving copies with added weight. There’s shit constructed in there on par with the writers he insisted he insult in hope of paying homage to the preferred and humbled masses crying in his arms, leading him to his fate, a fate not even, then, suffered for the most interesting reason, meaning any other reason than the expectation of a downhome remedy, especially one from a fucking book. I’m sure he was a hell of a teacher. Writers today think of themselves as teachers first (if you’re combed and hirable) because that’s where capitalism unbuckled us. (So what about capitalism. Is it the umbrella under which some cluster ekes out? Then it holds hands with evil. And so what about a fucking populace.) Writers ain’t here to help. We’re here to help you into noticing you need and will likely not receive (arbitrary at best) anything ever and there is no cure and if there is its fucking price will rend who you are into the merest smile and let it be that “no redemption!” is the only possibly inspired cookie crumb applying dopamine as our touchstone.

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