# playing twenty justifications with your parents in which they humbly hobble around too often with unwanted gifts of faded innocent village oldie-fogie smiles ir warped and well practiced parental concern in which they happen to speak up on some minor point yet when they do one feels as though suddenly entering a bad 70's style 'channel zero' garmeshow against one's will called twenty justifications your holy host the father figurine who in ir infinite scientific wisdom and infinitely roundabout ways repeatedly hints at asking you 'why do you even live' - what right under our endlessly great and good society do you have for existing what gives you right to express any opinions when you've obviously not earned them soft parental search lights shine directly in your face what initially seems like polite questions to obtain useful or socially necessary information turn out to be direct questionings of personal motives aggressive accusatory tones moral probes deep into one's compositional fibre how exactly you positively contribute to some imagined wider inherent societal greatness or goodness in short show us your existential papers you filthy little student slacker yeah because father dear made it right through the unquestioning and elf-sanctifying sweat of ir mighty parental brow they struggled through righteous meritocracy to get wherever the heck it is they imagine they are today so if they quote 'made it' why haven't you cyber punk you're obviously not pulling your weight or making right lifestyle choices choices that were laid on as a lavish buffet for dear undead father obvious and friendly choices they had no choice except to make - and why wouldn't they right ir right choices invented by fellow researchers in the private members club with all the necessary ticks and letters after ir names you however the likes of you were never good enough for ir offspring this bad lab pseudocode you patiently and uselessly type out each lonely night pay no bills cut no mustard or provide better control futures for all so why even express art and science unless you can successfully justify one's role as a happy cog in father's wondrous machine of global fiscal dreaming or else end up more useless flat to trim andor downsize in which your first and last reply is leave now hop back on the high protestant work horse ethic you rode in on not every object in sentient living polyverses has to display a label or price tag for we give no justifications provide no officially sanctioned credentials serve up no answers to such blatantly ideological investigations basically shove it sideways up your wrinkly cosmically obsolete authoritarian hole grandad you sneering old fnart watch as unjustifiable poetry forms tightly into renegade fists raised at speed under sneering dismissive up turned parental noses basically go mind your own undead neoliberal brain-worm infected business you nosy old munt update on l8est visit they invited themselves around again this weekend and shortly after proceed to give us the biggest raft of oblique bs for something they perceived as cosmically useless and unjustifiable in this case the digital art we was working on which they happened to see on screen more fool us for not hiding everything ten minutes later and we're borderline shouting over them repeatedly trying and failing in ir blind eyes to justify the existence of the art we were working on / with / against / through why this why that why is that like that soon we could feel our cheeks on fire they're not remotely interested and flat out won't admit what they're doing is directly indirectly accusing us of not making the grade gotta love way this shriveled old wiener hasn't got nerve to insult us to our face and call us a looser a useless lazy bum or whatever no instead we just get a stinking parental stream of barely disguised passive aggressive moral interrogation and motive analysis from some arrogant manor lord like we've committed some terrible rhyme luckily the desiccated old munt is two hundred and eighty this year and so hopefully we'll get to dump those professionally miserable ashes in nearest kung fu crocodile-infested swamp the second the old toad croaks it and about time too; we can't fathom how much personal dung this horrible smug jerkass must of casually tossed about during ir horribly elongated lifetime hundreds of whole drawn out years of finger pointing bs we wonder if anyone ever told them to go shaolin-peanut punt themselves off the nearest burning cliff into a screaming sentient black hole eye feeling so angry with oneself for never answering back for not being the one the universe charged with providing amazingly rude and pathologically elf-involved little water digits with the direct physical feedback they need to reset ir own warped internal compass of moral superiority is it us or is endland stuffed to overflowing with these horrible undead skeleton warriors swivel-eyed tory loons whose every so-called 'argument' is in bad faith crumbling ancients; a semi fermented mush of batshed empire-era culture war grievances congealed around a feeble frame of dust and basic daily telegraphic prejudice brain rotted lunatic tally-ho rhodes quail and port poisoned horse wizz spewing from slack mouths look please just permanently unlife already // republic of bob