Claim OwnershipXtinction Agenda
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Description
Xtinction Agenda isn't for everyone. It's a book club and a movie club and a place for people to talk TV and comic books. But nothing too new. It's a rough place where tired old dads tackle pop culture artifacts of the 80s, 90s, and early 2000s (mostly). Not a lot of hand-holding as a consequence. These are not introductions to pop culture but discussions about it. As such, we expect the audience to have some degree of experience.
Basically then, if you're a hotdog and you're looking for a mustache ride, you came to the right place. Otherwise, enjoy your sock hops and your malt shakes. We wish you well.
Medicine delivered weekly.
Basically then, if you're a hotdog and you're looking for a mustache ride, you came to the right place. Otherwise, enjoy your sock hops and your malt shakes. We wish you well.
Medicine delivered weekly.
354 Episodes
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Ravenous thirst and fear to drink, rabies flecks the mouths of all these scum. I stand in judgement over them, standing alone in the rain. Genuflecting only to those monied interests I long to embrace. "That's right. Human bean juice. Ha Ha."
Soft hands that never did a day of work, insisting on the pollution of kindness, stamping freedom down with chips and fancy book learnin' words. A nightmare tower, ripe for atavistic ghouls to haunt and rule. Call the Demolition Man. He'll know what to do. "Brake! Brake! Brake now, you Mickey Mouse-piece of shit!"
Star bright towering rays, the ticking fingers, a clock counting days. Glimmering before cracks and crumbles and then collapse. And then worse. Second-rate workmen who brought calamity and vice. Money that froze time and fucked by the pool. Forever. "Thing like that... you felt you was up against the power of God."
Flames lick and pop warm, red and black, caressing the dual duelling dualities, the hidden wounds, the secret faces that tumble and twirl and whip or rumble through the streets alone. "Don't hurt us, lady. Our take-home's less than three-hundred."
Skeletal steel crushes skull, a powdered plume, marching forward, dreams of immortality swapped in a midnight rendezvous. World lost in fear. World lost until, rising from the ashes, a new warrior born. "All the armies of the world under one voice."
World turned toward dawn denied the sun, handed over instead to lightning and blitz. A forever war of sinew and splatter, bodies branching and melting in sick tribute of some dark storm. Senseless, deadly serious, and--sadly--unfinished. "Get a move on, girl. We haven't got all day."
In war, the thunder distant voice always asks a question: whom shall I send and who will go for us? Among the muddy bodies, who will harvest flesh? Stand tall upon horror divine? In the darkness without choice, there is an answer: here am I, send me. "Hey, you want to talk Mexican? Join another tank, a Mexican tank. This is an American tank, we talk American."
There's still blood in that old dog, red and thick, pumping black upon the earth. still faith beneath the warding snarl. still devotion. coal black in the sunken snow, soon to find rest in the soil. "No, the hotel I keep for Agatha. We were happy here, for a little while."
Left behind and much maligned, a tangled mess they wove, an action comedy tale too hastily told. Catch the excitement, catch the laughter, catch the lead into gold. "Looks like you won't be attending that hat convention in July."
In the sky, a groove twisted panic, bloody bloody panic; On land, love and bloody bloody panic; In mind, crooked timber panic, bloody bloody panic. "La Guerre. Strange that it should be feminine, do you not think?"
Overwatch eyes centre-mass; chest burst, strings cut, while green and white lightless soldiers hunch down in the dark. Dead or alive, the mission will be complete. "Zondi, send it."
Black-circle sunken red-webbed sclera, eyes of hang dog priest begging for a slim chance at peace. To walk away from bleeding streets, plastic-bagged men who reek the wretched stench of milk, the dying, and the dead. "What the hell kind of name is I.B. Bangin'?"
This one is for The Troops. "I grew up in Kansas, General. I'm about as American as it gets."
Coal crushed underverse condensation fragment glints among the F-35s, kept small to be kept safe and quiet before explosion, pale red and blue among beige and black. The sins of the father a playground of skulls, atomic fire like the sun. Happy ending workplace kink. "I wanted to hit that kid. I wanted to hit him so bad."
Green, shitty loose-fitting masks. Change task, lift metal, Maltese ISIS cult plan. We're off the map, man. Among the dads we are the daddest dad. Take aim and... blam. "It's fine. I'm in the CIA. Do we have anymore of that Crash."
Corrosive chatter follows the flightless grey temple strongman. He travels ghost-like, gathering exiles of violence and self-doubt, dragging them into the sun. Despite this, round table lamentations shadow liberalism's end. The only option left: quit the game and bring the thunder. "Maybe it was never going to work. Not on this planet. But I made a promise to poor, doomed Jack Kennedy."
"Daddy, please hear this song that I sing."
Five graveyard years, crystal black reborn, he listens. Up where gravity fades, zone of salvation, he listens and watches. For her. Through walls and ocean sprays, her warm flesh radiates across the world. He listens. And laments his choice. "He said: You can print money, manufacture diamonds, and people are a dime a dozen, but they'll always need land. It's the one thing they're not making any more of."
Razor point rat death. Diamond encrusted celebrity. Angry and alone. Wishing humanity lost. All while father watching, soothing mother-like. Dirty city needs beat down. Cowabunga. "It's not Donnie who's lost."
Sex sprinkled over death, jokes and push. Reach back, paste past wound. Two steps, take five. If you leave them behind, forever gone. "Somebody blew up our desalination plant?"
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