Bode: (v) to be an omen of a particular outcome.
If you talk long enough about farts, you’ll actually start smelling them.
Pardon my crude observation. I wanted to get your attention.
After all, in the United States, it is the way we get people’s heads to turn in our direction.
We shock, alarm, prophesy doom, threaten, warn and curse.
For after all, it is difficult to gather an audience around the idea of happiness. Matter of fact, sometimes I think we despise joy because it does not afford us enough opportunity to complain.
In this political season of furor, it seems that the only way to gain a second look is to express how things do not bode well.
I often wonder why–since our country is so screwed up, so perverted, so destitute and so absolutely bedraggled–individuals would want to become its presiding officer.
Could it be they are lying?
Is there the possibility of exaggeration?
Maybe we’re just geared toward a desire to see the world destroyed so we don’t have to deal with it anymore.
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PoHymn: A Rustling in the Stagnant