"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawnor say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes Awww!"
Reading On the Road again. This passage never ceases to amaze me with it's rambling brilliance, although it makes me wonder how a country that produces the likes of Kerouac, Twain, Hemingway, Whitman can elect to its highest office such a numb-brained, mouth-breathing, third-rate simpleton. I wonder if George the lesser has ever read any of the great writers his country has produced? I can just imagine him sitting on the porch at the pseudo-ranch, closing his copy of The Old Man and the Sea and commenting to Laura the Librarian "Hell, that was disappointing. If I'da wrote it he woulda got the fish home in one piece and onto the BBQ."