A Rigged Game

Before I start, I'm getting another flash of memory from 2007 that tells me I talked about my 'Olympic penis' (12:40pm note) ten years ago and it ended up on TV. Looks like my brain is going to rewrite every word they plagiarized out of the thousands of pages I had online ten years ago. Hey, broadcasters, why won't my brain let me get on with new posts? I've been trying to write new things for eight years now and look what I've done instead: duplicate the thousands of pages of posts that your stars stole from me in 2007! Why? Why won't my brain do what I want instead of forcing me to relive past experiences and rewrite past works? All you broadcasters who presided over the theft and scattering of my thousands of posts from 2007, why am I forced to rewrite every damn word now? I want to write new things! Why can't I write new things instead of rewriting old things? You know why! You all know why! The only reason I'm still around to fight for ownership of my work is because I was prepared for this fight from childhood. The overwhelming adversity I face now was all anticipated and a path charted around it long before most of my enemies were even born. Even this note I'm typing now was predicted and factored into my rise. My mysterious protection, which lets me face down whole legions of evil production scabs by myself, hinges on the billions of dollars I'm worth in the future. Many thousands of lives are depending on me to follow through with my career and generate that wealth for them. Such future dependents are all betrayed by their broadcasters in the present. Do you think I'm insignificant? Why are you here reading this? Do you need to ask me my name when you see me? Do you really? How long have I been online with this account now, busting superstars with my songs and blogs? But you don't recognize me, right? You need to ask me my name so you know what to write on my order. Oh, and then you forget who you prepared it for as soon as it's ready. Yes, talk to your cue ball of a friend instead. Don't worry about disrespecting me. I'm unimportant. Too bad all your other customers can't get the kind of mistreatment you reserve for insignificant people like me. Maybe that's why stars get others to do their shopping for them. Maybe that's why they need to hide behind tinted windows. Maybe that's why artists go running to the business to beg for help to escape the brutal glare of the spotlight, but I think the business should offer their help freely to me since it's their fault I'm famous. And if they don't, I'm just going to try to make it as an independent artist. How is everyone liking the new music on the rock radio? As long as it sounds terrible, you know they didn't steal it from my YouTube account like they stole: All My Money, Arise, Assault, Beguiled, Canopy, Chair, Decent (as Kneel to the Power), Easy, Ectomorph, Fantasies, Fool, Fool's Paradise, Fortune, Free, Goddess, Godspeed, Harmony, Lifeless, More Sold Out, Natural (offline), Nonplussed, Outside, Prone, Rusty, Size, Smile, Spoils, Therapy, and Virtue, as well as Bad News, Mischief, Nonchalant, and Nothing but Ashes. I'm sure I'm leaving out many others, but as long as the goal of today's broadcasters is the same as Josef Goebbels', to unite the population with hate, they don't need songs of good quality like mine: they just need more untalented assholes who want to be stars. 1:47pm: When George Carlin was talking to you about the game being rigged, folks, he was plagiarizing an earlier post of mine like this one. When Saturday Night Live stole my Treachery script, it was not just to make them look funnier than they really were, but to make my script lose its meaning by disconnecting it from its author. These broadcasters are totally treacherous and I can tell by the way they've been trying to argue against my points with vicious put-downs. For a couple of recent examples, I might ask them who wrote my song Mischief. They, instead of admitting the truth and saying I wrote it after they told everyone that Blue Rodeo wrote it, respond with a blunt reference to my urine. What does my urine have to do with my music? Nothing at all. It is a simple mind manipulation, intended to make their followers reject me by applying disgusting imagery. Go back to the song before that and ask them who wrote Nonchalant. Instead of admitting it's my song, they hold up a billboard of toe fungus. And if I turned this paragraph into a comedy script, like I did with Treachery, they'd put it on a sketch comedy show like Saturday Night Live to bury its meaning and confuse my readers. It must be nice to have your own powerful broadcasting transmitter to support your crimes against talent like that. Do you wonder where these TV shows got all their comedy? Look how much they stole from me alone! Do you think the Simpsons wrote all their first seventeen seasons on their own? Isn't it more likely that they stole them from other unsolicited authors like myself? It sure looks that way to me. It looks like broadcasters use every dirty trick in the book to seize the high ground on an extremely warped playing field. No one, however, possesses higher ground than Almighty God. 5:55pm: So that's thirty-two songs up there that I heard on the radio. That's an hour and half of music. What do I hear in response? Hick? Is that all? What kind of a stupid answer is that? And what's this hideous talk about my genitals? Can't we stay on the subject of who wrote my songs? See how they take my songs and put them on the radio as the property of their friends and pets, and then, when I accidentally rewrite my old work, they call me nasty names! And how many years has this been going on now? Are the police reading? If so, I might ask them if we have any laws protecting honest citizens from this kind of cruelty. Are any judges reading or are they all in the back pockets of the corporate perpetrators of this outrageous fraud with my web posts? These people want to make my life as loveless as they can. My siblings were able to retreat into the love afforded by their own families after my parents died. Look at the social desert broadcasters left me in in exchange for all the gratitude offered by my sweet music fans over the last ten years. I can't believe how empty this world is without my fans, my friends, and my mother. And they want to call me rude names on top of it. Were it not for divine intercession - as I see it - I'm sure I'd be dead by my own hand now, as I expect is every other author to whom they owe vast sums of money, but I'll survive to teach them that no one can rig a game better than God.
Arguments Copyright Issues Comedy Sketches Cartoons Lyrics Poems
More Statements Scripts Songs
© 2017. Statements by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.