The Bathrobe Prophet vs. International Super-villainy

 

I hope my parents thanked their lucky stars that I was a slacker.  I hope when they carved the Bird (or ham or roast)  they thanked God I was a geek but not a full blown nerd.  I hope they sang praises to the ale, the acid, and the reefer.  I maybe stoned on the dole; but at least I’m not fighting with Kiefer.  Had I followed their advice, hadn’t chosen vice; if I hadn’t been a slacker; I’d be a super-hacker.  It’s Assange and not me; that should give them some glee, that our name will not be known for super-villainy.  Because I am a slacker not a data jacker.  My perversions are in my mind, and a little online, but not out and out crime; internationally known and warranting prosecution while half the world calls for clandestine execution.  My life maybe bad but it could be worse.  This genius is mad but keeps it fictional, with his curse.  I maybe roaming but not on the run; I maybe wanted but not under the gun.  No master plans, or even plots, that hatch outside of pages, despite my aggressively dire rages.  I’m just a terminally unemployed political humorist; if I’d chosen tech over lit I’d be a digital terrorist. Genius wasted is never desired; better I be wasted then wickedly inspired to dabble in the dark arts of data bring down the wrath of the Secretary of Hater.  I just play my games with words and time; my greatest atrocity is probably this rhyme.