Confessions of a Justified Sinner

The fact is that Californians are quite possibly the most rude fuckers on the planet. While I am at work only 1 person in 20 or thirty says hello to me, and even less than that say please or thank you. Not only this true believer (even though that should be enough for any right thinking person to take up arms against a sea of troubles) many of the children who are there with their parents answers questions such as "would you like whip cream on that?" with a ,"yeah," and they won't even meet your eyes.
When I was a child, if I had shown such contempt for my fellow man and the Queen's English, I would have been whupped within an inch of my tiny little life. But the parents in Los Angeles seem to foster this sort of treatment of the working class by being not much better themselves and even rewarding their children by giving them diabetes, or as it is called at Starbucks' a "Venti mocha-caramel frap with extra whip cream and caramel on top double blended and a shot of espresso."
I fucking hate these people and it is no wonder to me that the rest of the world hates the United States. There may be, in the Mid-west, a group of normal, polite and respectful people who simply want to live and let live and not ruffle feathers, but in California, which is what the world sees via TV and the Movies and those goddamned gossip magazines, we are a race of heathens that care not one whit for our fellow man, only that we are served with everything that we want, no matter how trivial such a desire my be.
And yes ladies and gentlemen, that was a run on sentence with ample comma splices to boot.

Thank You Les, You are an inspiration.

The Earth it did crack open
on the day that I was born
and a thousand merry pranksters
came dancin' through the storm.

I lay cradle bound
a howlin' out my mind
not knowin' years to come
I'd be shoutin' over din

I sucked information through the holes in my skull
as my belly gurgles hungry my mouth is always full.

I am Antipop; I'll run against the grain till the day I drop.
I am the Antipop; the man you cannot stop.

As a young man,
I plug into the tube,
but the stench of all that pretense
I cannot muddle through.

I lay on my back
and scan the radio
all that comes out my speakers
is a steady syrup flow.

I suck information through the holes in my skull
as my belly gurgles hungry my mouth is always full.

I stood by watching
and I seen 'em come and go.
I seen 'em make that million
then vanish in the snow.

They come upon you
like a pack of rabid hounds
as they slobber in your ears
and purge you with their sounds.

Pushing misinformation through the holes in my skull
my belly gurgles nauseous and still my mouth is full.

I am Antipop; I'll run against the grain till the day I drop.
I am the Antipop; the man you cannot stop.