The Shit Heaps of the Silver Tongued

The media bastards, all of them, they think they’re untouchable. Gods of the heap. Rulers of the goddamn pile. They sip their overpriced cocktails in their tight suits and designer dresses, patting themselves on the back for feeding the masses another pile of sanitized, pre-approved horseshit. They tell themselves they’re King of the Hill, but the truth is, the hill they’re on is propaganda bullshit. A heap of lies, half-truths, and ass-kissing so deep it’d choke a sewer rat.

And let me tell you something about the heap—they can’t even smell it anymore. All that money, all those lights and cameras, they’ve dulled their senses. They’re too busy stuffing their faces at awards banquets, laughing too hard at each other’s bad jokes, and clinking glasses to toast their bullshit. They’ve forgotten what the world smells like, that the truth doesn’t come from press rooms or cocktail parties. It doesn’t wear a tuxedo or smile for the camera.

The truth lives down here, below their shiny, stinking mountain. It lives in the mud and the muck, buried so deep in the shit of real life you have to crawl through it to find it. Sweat sticks to your skin, and your knuckles bleed from digging too hard. In this place, people are raw, ugly, and honest because they lack the time or energy to pretend.

And me? I’ve got no time for their heap. I’ve got my shovel: the pen, the pad, the notepad. That’s my holy trinity. That’s how I dig through the filth, turning over the rotten carcass of the world to find the wriggling truth underneath. It’s not glamorous. It doesn’t win awards. It doesn’t get you a standing ovation or a goddamn seat at the table.

I’ve spent most of my life knee-deep in the fight—battling the lies, the propaganda, the endless cycle of destruction these slick-talking bastards call “progress.” Not many noticed. Hell, most of them didn’t want to notice. They’d rather keep their blinders on, swallowing the bullshit whole because it’s easier that way. It’s easier to nod along and play their little games than to admit the whole thing’s a rigged carnival.

And the ones who did notice? Oh, they tried like hell to shut me up. They hate me for daring to crack open their glossy lies and shine a light on the maggots wriggling underneath. I didn’t fit their narrative. I didn’t play by their rules. And the truth? It scared the hell out of them. Because their version of honesty was as hollow as their goddamn promises.

I wasn’t out to make friends or win their approval. I clawed through the grime, desperate to unearth the truth, without giving a good goddamn what they wanted to hear. And they didn’t. They never do.

But it’s real. It’s hard, mean, and brutal, and that’s all that matters. They can keep their hill. They can keep their sweet-smelling lies and their silver tongues. I’ll take the dirt. I’ll take the blood, the sweat, the stink of life. Because down here, in the shit and the chaos, that’s where the truth is born. Not on their goddamn hill. Not on their heap of lies.

Down here, the truth is fucking ugly, just like them.