Death to the Classics

I am here to pursue the destruction of your greatest standing classics.

Don't pull the goalie now, I take pride in every last one of my hat tricks.

Educators give you as a stick, then snidely tell you to jump rope.

They teach sickness into your self-image, then present themselves as your best hope.

Only a parochial fool styles himself as an esteemed taste maker.

Command a presence outside of his tutelage, and he will call you a faker.

His curated reality catches fire, and everything around him starts to burn.  

Consumed with status, he tries to put out the blaze with a wooden lectern.

A pampered class receives praise from a captive audience.

Once you figure them out, the barrier to entry is a shoddy fence.

I do as I wish without the burden of a contrived permission structure.

The learned council you seek is one good suit above a street corner huckster.

It's not that I don't find genuine value in their mores and traditions.

My vision pierces through fair speeches down to the heart of their secret missions.

The first whip was fashioned from leather, but the second will be an academic paper.

The latter is more gentle, but it does not change the nature of smoke and vapor.

Let no man look down on you, neither give him space to sneer.

Be wary of intellectuals, especially those whoring out themselves to the next available ear.

When your self-esteem is gutted, your mind stops working.

If you are bogged down with uncertainty, that means a con man is lurking.