It stands to reason, that as long as there’s some douche bag saying our reality isn’t real, on the weeks when the NFL isn’t interesting, the poetry slam will be, and vice versa. It’s all liquids in our brain, suggesting victoriousness unto the one when the other turns us off.
I can imagine the liberality, though, of trying to protect the multi-billion dollar NFL from the oppressive, tautologically preferable poetry slam, though, because it wouldn’t liberal to actually ADMIT that sometimes in life we’re aided by our own minds. You’re supposed to always keep your eyes on the needy, never to enjoy anything, least of all your own cognition, which is why the discourse of post-modernism survives on the sheer will of droves of lifeless dullards, having apparently emerged during the onset of MTV, Madonna and Michael Jackson, just when everyone was obviously dying to pick up a book.
I went to the poetry slam tonight to try to spend quality time away from my family. Am I allowed to enjoy it, or will the endorphin flow to my brain cause an oppressive, crippling wave of synapse to spread across the crowd, like Agent Orange, deleterious unto the better, liberal, humanitarian thoughts of the unwitting patrons, suspended in sterile virtue for Atlantic and Harper’s photographers, like words.