The Hell Hounds of Literature
There are gate keepers of the publishing industry, hell hounds who guard the doors to the publishing houses as portals to an underworld of banality. Those agents, who have not been born by a living human being, those agents and publishers of banality make sure nothing of worth will touch their printing presses.
Those agents and publishers of deformed mind, their eyes staring, wide open into the emptiness like searchlights trying to shine through their own brain fog. Not human enough, those creatures inhabit an underworld pictured by H. R. Giger, individuals once but now captured by a biomechanics entity of their social engineering corporations, their desiccated brains caught in a vacuum of thought, their souls, if they ever had one extracted successfully, leaving only decaying flesh.
They tear into everything that is not flat and loudly screaming with the catch phrases of their anti-human ideology. They praise the empty space within them where they should have harbored a soul, constantly talking about their own goodness which they always claim unsuccessfully. They take revenge on our civilization by pushing off-set printed flatulence onto the devastated newly published book tables in the few and soulless chain book stores that remain. All a reader wants from a book, a story, a convincing character, a leading theme, emotion is absent in the drizzle of dribble that smolders in those never opened pages.
The only emotion those hell hounds of desecration of human culture can ejaculate - and this word is chosen with intent as their dreary minds are pornographic - is disgust, the disgust they have for themselves and which they project on mankind, attack mankind and take revenge for what they are. They are not good at anything but at being acid that dissolves.
They destroy what they can’t understand, they ruin literature and replace it with sludge and slop version of literature as thin as a discarded snake skin and as pointlessly snarky as the comments on the plaster of Paris around a broken leg.
Those word throwers they publish write in the present tense, awkwardly describing scenes as if from a pixellated, digital image or the blurry still of a movie frame of an equally empty movie. They all sound alike just as all publishers and agents seem to have been created with the same prompt by an AI that was tasked to create a cultural stereotype, a desolation landscape of human civilization drowning in self-hating depression.
Passionate stuff!