‘Cause otherwise, he’s going to have to go through this.
He is so much better off. With the naked stoned hippie woman. In the great ride open.
because the light is beautiful
‘Cause otherwise, he’s going to have to go through this.
He is so much better off. With the naked stoned hippie woman. In the great ride open.
from the book of Genesis
8:1 And the ark bobbed on the face of the waters, for a fuck of a long time. And Noah, he was sore A-Thirst. For though the N-man had dutifully brought aboard the boat, two by two, every ant and chigger and screwworm that did inhabit the earth, he had forgotten, in his haste, to secure any booze.
3: And the raven, he flew high, and he flew low, and finally he did Find a bottle, floating upon the waters. He drew forth the cork, and then he tasted of the liquor, to make sure it was Fit for the irascible jonesing Noah. But lo, yea verily, when the taste was completed, not a drop in the bottle remained.
4: And the raven flew, unsteadily, back to the ark, and there slurred and hiccupped to Noah, “Sorry, boss; no booze be about.”
5: And Noah, as one drunk knows another, knew that the raven had partaken of the Stinking Waters, and his Wrath, it knew no bounds, was without measure; yea, verily, not even in cubits.
6: And, in his Anger, the N-Man sent forth his Hand, and with it he grabbed a squid, and, mightily Squeezing it, spewed squid ink all over the raven. And that is why the raven, formerly white, is Black unto this day.
7: And Noah stalked wrathfully through the bilge-waters swamping the ark, until he came unto the Dove. And then, unto the dove, he screamed, till his lips bled: “Bring me some fuckin’ booze, goddamit!”
8: And the dove, she was sore Afraid. For Noah was holding a gun to the head of the dove’s mate. And Noah, God’s anointed, was Shrieking: “I am an American! And if I do not soon splash booze down my gullet, the dove gets it!”
9: And the dove, she flew high, and she flew low, until she Came upon, on the face of the waters, a little airline-size bottle of vodka. Trembling, she took the bottle into her beak, and flew back with it to the ark.
10: There, Noah, still holding the barrel of his .44 to the different-one dove’s Head, grabbed with his other hand the airline bottle, unscrewed the top, and then Poured the contents down his throat.
11: “Glory be!”, Noah then said unto the Lord. “Liquor!”
12: Just then, the ark bumped into land. And so the endless Voyage, yea verily, it was over.
13: And then the Lord said unto Noah, “All your trials, No-Man, be over. And now I shall place into the sky, a boozebow, as a sign that never again shall I deprive a man of liquor.”
15: And so, to this day, whenever a man has ballooned himself with liquor, yea verily, unto a BA of .23 of so, he beholds, passing across what remains of his Vision, one or more boozebows, these a sign that the Lord has promised that never again shall he drown the world’s booze supply beneath the Waters.
16: And that the trembling dove, she brought back to Noah the first airline bottle of Vodka, this is why she was Permitted to remain white, and stands to this day as a Symbol of Peace, and Goodness, and Loveliness; and why every year, commencing on September 1, Americans go out with their Firearms, and blast the doves out of the Sky. And then pluck them, and Eat them.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
9:1 And it came to pass that as soon as the ark struck Land, Noah, he did kick open the door, and then splash out into the still receding surf, his hands Flapping crazily at his sides, a-search for the nearest 7-11.
2: And Noah did enter a 7-11, and there came upon a case of Liquor, and this he took back with him. Where, in the shadow of the ark, he hastily pitched a tent. And then crawled inside it. And there, within its confines, he proceeded to Down the bottles of liquor, two by two.
3: And Noah became totally shit-faced. And he did pass out into drunken slumber, his robe in such disarray that his pee-pee hung out.
4: And Ham, Noah’s son, he was bitterly splashing through the receding waters, realizing, belatedly, that the Lord had drowned all the women in the world, and that therefore his own pee-pee was Useless as tits on a boar hog, and would forever be employed at naught but passing water.
6: And Ham went unto his brothers, and said, “Come look at this. The drunken old goat is in his booze-wallow snoring away with his pee-pee hanging out.”
7: But Ham’s brothers, they were Afraid of the pee-pee, and so they walked backward, like in a film spooled wrong, into the Tent, and there they Heaved a blanket over Noah’s drunken old shriveled pee-pee.
8: And one or more of the brothers, they did Rat Out brother Ham to Noah, saying, “Father, Ham saw your pee-pee. And he told us to look at it too.”
9: And Noah, he was Drunkenly filled with Wrath. And so, for the crime of Unauthorized Pee-Pee Viewing, Noah did pronounce a Curse.
10: But Noah, he was so fucking drunk, that he pronounced the Curse on Ham’s son, Canaan, rather than on Ham himself. Maybe because, when you’re really drunk, it’s harder to enunciate “Ham,” than simply slur “Canaan.”
11: And it came to pass that Nimrods invented first Christianity, and then Islam. And that psychotic yeehaw mouthbreathers among them hallucinated that this “curse of Noah” had enveloped Ham in black skin, and Decreed that he and his—black people—serve as slaves, until the End of days.
12: And the psychotic yeehaw mouthbreathers saw that it was Good. ‘Cause from it they made a lot of money.
13: And, yea verily, in pursuit of money, it later came to pass that it was determined that a film of Noah would Be “boffo box office.”
14: And so the Lords of film finance, they did Say, “For Noah, we will get Russell Crowe: he is a rampaging Australian who is frequently as drunk as Noah. Also, half the women on the planet have crawled into Crowe’s tent and there viewed his pee-pee. It will be type-casting.”
15: And when the film was completed, the psychotic yeehaw mouthbreather Christians and Muslims, they wandered the Land, weeping and shrieking and rending their garments and even, yea verily, exploding their heads. Because not once in the film is the word “God” uttered. And to these Nimrods, this was anathema.
16: Because these Nimrods, psychotic and yeehaw and mouthbreather as they are, did not Understand that the film’s director, Darren Aronofksy, is Jewish, and thereby forbidden from inscribing the full name of God, much less in a film script, lest he risk fire, brimstone, plague, frogs, locusts, blood-rivers . . . or even waking up in a tent, from out of a booze coma, to find people staring at his pee-pee.
As is now well known, at least to readers of red, Turtle Scrotum, titular head of the Confederate States of America, is the result of a hideous Dr. Moreau-like experiment in which some demented doctor sought to cross a human with both a turtle and a diseased and swollen scrotum.
Turtle Scrotum is a de-evolved yeehaw so terminally demented and depraved that the very idea that black people exist on this planet gives him the hives. And so, from the moment that the black man entered the White House, Turtle Scrotum has devoted every fiber of his malformed and mutant being to frustrating the president’s every effort, unto determining that if the black man says “Jesus is Lord,” the Scrotum will then vow: “I stand with Satan.”
But, alas for the Scrotum, the de-evolution of that diseased and useless appendix known as the Republican Party, it is proceeding at such a rapid pace that, now, it is no longer enough, in order to please the knuckledragging faithful, who have never once touched the monolith, to but hate and frustrate the black man. Now, it is necessary to want to kill him.
And so, last week, the Scrotum strode on stage at the annual convocation of CPAC—this outfit the primary reason why extraterrestrials have placed this planet off-limits—bearing a rifle. To let the ur-people know that, yea, verily, he was prepared, now, to actually shoot the black man.
It was required of the Scrotum to so declare himself after Rick Perry, a person who would be noted as the dumbest man on the planet if not for the fact that he is a farm animal, the result of a failed Moreau experiment to cross a man with a steer, whose brain contains a supermassive mini-black hole that swallows not only all rational thought but even light, had earlier jacked off those assembled by declaring it is “time for a little rebellion.” Meaning: “A ni**er is in the White House. And so it’s time to resume, with arms, the Civil War. And slap that rat bastard back into slave-chains, where he belongs.”
And so the Scrotum, to keep up with the farm animals, drug his gun on to the stage, raised it above his head, and screeched: “The gun is good! The penis is evil!”
For, you see, as soon as a human male lays hand on a firearm, he becomes an agent of Thanatos. He is no longer of the body of Eros. He has amputated his penis. His new penis, it is a killing machine.
Poor Turtle Scrotum. His shameless penis-displaying attempt to keep up with the farm animals, it will do him no good. For, in his attempt to retain his US senate seat, he is going to be beaten like a gong. Where it appears that even Ashley Judd, or a raccoon, can send him down to defeat.
The people of Kentucky, you see, two years ago elected to send to the Senate Pawnd Rawl—the second coming of Pawn Rawl, noted slave-owner and Hebrew-fearer, doyen of Occupy Womb Street, whose singular goal in life is to ram his hands up every vagina in the land—a man who has the letters KKK tattooed on his chest, and who has actually publicly stated that he wants to use drones to kill black people coming out of liquor stores.
Not even the people of Kentucky, no matter how much meth they shoot up both arms before slapping raccoon corpses over their fences and then engaging in wild-eyed sexual congress where they demand that one another squeal like a pig, are comfortable with seating in the Senate two creatures who predate Cro-Magnon Man. With Pawnd Rawl already in there—and there has yet to be a definitive classification of his species; all that is known is that it is jaw-droppingly primitive—they feel compelled to elect to that second Senate seat someone who at least acknowledges the Age of Enlightenment, or even the wheel.
So, the Scrotum, he’s over.
This site revealed to the world that the 2012 Republican presidential primary season was owned and controlled by extraterrestrials, who assembled as candidates a stone-mad motley crew of pseudo-humans, just for laughs, to be fucking with us.
Apparently these beings had so much fun, that in 2016 they’re going to do it again. Because the 2016 Republican presidential field, from all indications, is going to out-froot-loop the previous pork-pie.
Already there is the aforementioned brainless black-hole light-sucking farm animal Mr. Perry. And Rawl II, who will leap up from the lectern to wildly ejaculate drones at Negroes, whenever a debate gets slow. Also signed on is Ted Cruz, more a dingo than a human; a creature that not only lacks a brain, but has also had all the bones sucked out of his face. Then there is Sarah Palin, the demonic creation of some unknown nimrod who fashioned a golem from a disused Barbie doll and a quart of fermented moose semen. Here for another go-round is Rick Santorum, the 4th Century Don Quixote tilting at pleasure; a freaking grub in a skin-suit. No doubt his fellow insect, Newt Gingrich, a bedbug in a skin-suit, will not be able to resist the notion of bloating—and perhaps bursting—on stage. The meth monkey will, again, melt all our minds.
And so on.
The horror. The horror.
One cretin who will not be running for president is Turtle Scrotum. No matter how many peni he hoists above his head.
His day, it is done.
Darth Cheney: jeebus: he’s pretty much a cartoon character these days, isn’t he? No longer really recognizable, much less acceptable, as an actual human being. He is simply fiction, and, I’m pretty sure, always has been. Somebody—fucking with us—just made the shit up. And then rolled it into Reality.
For what he really is, is Simon Legree, whuppin’ on them Negroes; Snidely Whiplash, tying Little Nell to the tracks; some ur-version of Ebenezer Scrooge, one that Dickens ultimately abandoned, papers fed to the fire, because he was way too creepy and Wrong for anyone, for even a moment, to Believe.
This we Know, most recently, because, when the black man announced some modest proposed reductions to the US death industry—which has grown swollen to the size of a thousand-million Harkonnens—Darth ran utterly wild, all over the land, preaching and screeching that the black man thereby means to rain down upon the nation Doom and Destruction.
“This really is over the top,” Darth Legree thundered. “It does enormous long-term damage to our military.”
“He would much rather spend the money on food stamps,” Ebenezer Cheney chundered, “than he would on a strong military.”
And this is wrong . . . exactly how?
Food stamps feed people. Who would otherwise go hungry. They are implements of Eros.
The military is about killing people and breaking things. It is the apotheosis of Thanatos.
Weird. That this planet is still so primitive, that anyone, at all, would, ever, take seriously, a being who asserts that resources should be dedicated to death, rather than life.
Oh well. Darth is over, of course. He, and his, are like those soldiers in combat who, running, are shot and killed, but their legs continue to carry them on, sometimes for quite a number of paces, before they look down, and notice that they are dead.
Darth is an agent of Thanatos. And therefore The Loser.
Because Eros, always, is ascendant over Thanatos. This is the one thing I know. Always has been, is now, always will be. Else life would not continue. Though it has. And does. And will.
standin’ on the corner
suitcase in my hand
jack’s in his corset and jane’s in her vest, baby
me, i’m in a rocknroll band
you know they’re sayin’:
ah, sweet jane
I dream a lot.
Yeah. Well. Obviously.
But, I mean, I also dream, when I’m asleep.
Like, this afternoon, I awoke—like any cat, I sleep, and wake, all through the day, and all through the night—from a dream where I was at Lou Reed’s house.
Lou was there; there in his house. In the age and incarnation of the photo featured there just above. Settled; serene. Aged: experienced: passed. Beyond all the bullshit. In the clear.
There, in his house, Lou, he slung over his shoulder a guitar, and, naturally, effortlessly, clear as pure water, played for hisself, me just there hearing, “Sweet Jane.”
Then, he unslung the guitar. And passed it to me. So I could give it a try.
I commenced to fumbling with the strings. Trying to get it right.
Eventually, I hit, more or less correctly, the first couple chords (and in “Sweet Jane” there are really only two chords). And so began feeling a little better about myself.
Then I noticed Lou had settled himself into an easy chair. Had turned on a TV (and the sound was pretty dern loud). And was eating something like popcorn.
I felt kinda forlorn. Left behind.
I was playing his song. But he was paying me no mind.
I pass through these dreams, and they pass through me. But generally I have no idea what they might mean.
Sometimes I pass some crippled day-time gibbering verbal accounting of these dreams on to the wise—and these wise are always women—and, sometimes, through them, the light, it do shine.
For instance, in re the above-referenced Lou Reed dream, after I had cripple-jabbered it onto her, AvoMayor, she did say:
i think that is a perfect Lou Reed dream. How many times do you think he played Sweet Jane in the course of his career?? But he’s retired and trying to just relax now, so he has given it to you..
Use it wisely : ) No pressure or anything………
and jack he is a banker
and jane she is a clerk
and both them save their moneys, honeys
all when they come home from work
sittin’ there by the fire
radio does play
a little classical music from
march of the wooden soldiers
you can hear jack say:
he says: sweet ukraine
ah now baby: sweet ukraine
ah: sweet ukraine
Ukraine is a little tiny baby country.
Appearing, under that name, within those borders, but in the afterbirth of the Russian Revolution of 1917.
During which Lenin & Co., in a new and dusky shiny Red way, carved out, and named, various territories that, for the most part, had been subsumed, some decades, and even centuries, before, into the Russian Empire.
What is today, in these 24/7 times, causing ape-men to foam, from sea to shining to sea, rattling all and every saber, over “Ukraine,” is about a dirt-patch that, for most of recorded history, for about 500 years, was part of Poland.
People, these days, because it is nearly against the law to know history, do not understand that long before these was any Russian Empire—or even any Russia—Poland, like a colossus, did bestride, all and every, of its nearby earth.
But then, in the course of things, like all empires, Poland waxed, and waned, and, eventually, crumbled into dust.
Until it was no more.
Until there became no Poland.
Until, in the late 18th Century, Poland actually ceased to exist. What was once “Poland,” was divided between Russia, Prussia (read: crazed Germans), and the doomed Habsburgs of Austria.
After WWI, to punish the Austrians and Germans, who had been defeated, and the Russians, who had gone wild and gone Commie, the allied powers decided “Poland” should be reconstituted.
They also Made a new and different-one nation, out of what was once Poland, known as “Ukraine.”
Which was, quickly, and in the course of things, absorbed into the nascent Soviet Union.
This “Ukraine,” it yoked together a “western” stretch of people on soil that had, for millennia, yearned towards the west, and an “eastern” stretch of people on soil that had, for millennia, yearned towards the east.
Everybody, west or east, who ever wanted to grow shit, has always liked “Ukraine”—and lots. Because it features deep fertile soil, unmatched, anywhere on the planet, except in California’s central valley. Deep, unbelievably rich topsoil, 20 feet deep.
Of course, these days, the soil, that everybody for millennia has fought so over, is all ruint. Because, there in Ukraine, in 1986, the Chernobyl nuclear reactor erupted, and scarred not only the near and far, but all the planet.
There were forty-one official deaths from the accident, and half a million unofficial.
An honest list would reach to the moon.
some people like to go out dancin’
then there’s other people, baby, they gotta work
—you better watch me now—
there’s some evil mothers
they’ll just tell you that life’s just made out of dirt
that pretty women baby they never really faint
and villains always blink their eyes
that children are the only ones who blush
and that life—LIFE—that life is just to die
but i want to tell you somethin’:
Bobby Hoffman and Yakov stood in the middle of the road facing a security wall decked with shiny coils of wire. Each man wore a yarmulke and a tasselled shawl. Arkady couldn’t make out what they were saying, though they rocked back and forth to its rhythm.
Beyond the wall was another wire-draped wall and, fifty meters farther on, the sarcophagus, as stained and massive as a windowless cathedral. Dim security lamps glowed here and there. A crane and a chimney stack towered over the sarcophagus, but compared to it, they were insignificant. The sarcophagus was apart, alone, alive.
Arkady didn’t need to use his dosimeter; he felt his hair rise.
The chanting wasn’t loud enough to carry far. Bobby’s voice was whispery. Yakov’s was deep and worn, and Arkady recognized the Kaddish, the prayer for the dead. Their voices overlapped, separated, joined again. Standing outside the corrupted shell of a nuclear disaster, rocking back and forth like human metronomes and intoning the same verses over and over, “Ose sholom himromov hu yaase sholom.” When they finished the prayer, they simply began again.
Arkady moved into their line of vision. Each step brought the sarcophagus closer, too, as if it had been waiting for the right hour to leap the wall, a hard sight to face without a prayer. Yakov acknowledged Arkady with the briefest nod, to say not to worry, that he and Bobby were fine. Bobby clutched a list of names that Arkady could see because of a rising moon that spilled over the station yard. The list looked long. Arkady remembered Eva saying that a complete list would reach the moon.
I loathe that I feel I have to step-by-step. I just want to play the chords.
Russia, the one place it has warm water, the one place it can sail its boats, is on the Black Sea. And the one place it can access that sea, is through the Crimea. Little strait. Through which the Russians can sail, and sail and sail, from the sea of Azov, to the sea of Black, and then into the Mediterranean. Where it can feel, at last, like it is a Real nation.
Russia, astrologically, is a Scorpio. Which means, at root, it believes that all and every are always out to get it. Whether that is true or no.
Crimea. The Mongols swept into all and everywhere beginning in the 12th Century: no one, anywhere (except the Vietnamese), could stop them.
Centuries later, the last Mongol Khanate to be made to retreat was that in the Crimea, which was absorbed into the avidly advancing Russian Empire, only round about 1800.
Some of them, during WWII, allied themselves with the Germans.
And so, WWII concluded, Stalin decreed it was right and meet to export the entire population of the Crimea, to Central Asia.
When he was done, not a native inhabitant remained.
Stalin—heh—that’s just the way he be. A stone cold killer. With one hand on a vodka bottle. And another on a List.
I these days am only amused by those who burrow deep into dark and dank and-all-and-every all-encompassing theories. Where all is forever explained. By some nefarious puppet-stringing total control over everything.
The current ferment over Ukraine is a perfect example of how it is not so black/white, from however one approaches black/white, as it may seem.
Russia will never give up Crimea. That is the only place its Navy may flow from a warm-water port.
Crimea was part of Russia. Until 1954. When, Khrushchev gifted the Crimea to Ukraine. Why? Because Khrushchev was Ukrainian. He wanted to reward the homeboys. Against all logic. Against all history. But what did that matter? He did it. Because he could.
That’s all there is. There isn’t anymore. Except, again, I’ve wasted my time. I should, really, only have inscribed, these final eight lines. All the rest, in the long view, is either masturbation, or waste.
anyone who had a heart
they wouldn’t turn around and break it
and anyone who’s ever played a part
they wouldn’t turn around and hate it
they say: jane
I understand that in this universe there recently concluded an “Olympics.”
A “Winter Olympics.”
In my universe, there has never been any such thing.
Because that’s where it began. The Olympics.
And it occurred, the Olympics, occurs, only in summer.
Because this is Greece.
And we, here in Greece, we do not have skis. Or skates. Or snowboards.
We, pretty much, don’t even have snow.
So we don’t have sports in winter. Instead, in winter, we go inside. We build wee fires. We eat warm food. And we, hot, get jiggy with it.
All the latter-day, today, Olympics events, here in my universe, they are as those that occurred 1600 years or so ago. There in Greece. And the performers, now as then, represent only themselves. And, now as then, they compete stark naked.
For the fine high sensual breeze passing across their oiled bodies, as they do disport and play.
Maybe somebody will win.
In our universe, we remember that the original Olympics were about fucking and fighting.
In your universe, you don’t much fuck. You just fight.
I understand that in your universe the “Olympics” occur every two years and they move from place to place where billions are spent on temporary crazed transitory facilities and the Olympoid mavens are always inventing new events and each team screams at each other team that there is cheating and the athletes are festooned and costumed and dragooned by peculiar artificial ephemeral constructs known as “nations” and are not individual free human beings alive on this earth but limpy-loo computers the rulers may soon someday be able to control through their teeth.
Meat nor drink nor money have I none.
I am so glad that I do not live in your universe. But instead live in mine.
Where the Olympics, once resurrected, were sited permanently in Greece. You, you in your universe, currently have a Greece with a bankruptcy problem. In my universe there is no such problem. At all. The permanently-sited Olympics: it obviated that.
In your universe, you had to have a Putin.
This might have been okay, if he had been made to skate, shirtless, across the ice. That would have been like a Dukakis tank moment.
But, alas, that did not occur.
But that’s okay. Because, here, in my universe, Putin is all so over.
And he was over more than 20 years ago. When the band Electronic released this song—there, below: “Soviet.”
Putin was done then. As he is done now.
So let it be written. So let it be done. Here, as it is, in your heaven. And earth. And everywhere else. You may need. Anyone like him. To be done.
Once upon a time, there on the deeply sad, old-and-in-the-way mercy-preserve for crippled, doddering, withered, sick, ancient, and/or feeble white people—known round these parts as The Great White—there was a foam-at-the-mouth, projectile-vomiting, glow-in-the-dark racist, who called hisself Uberbah.
Among this man’s many manifest manifold sins, included his inability to inscribe a comment without upchucking either the term “weak tea,” or “hand-waving.”
Well, as it is said, “even a blind pig can find an acorn every once in a while.”
And so, tonight, Uberbah, I bow to you. In all your nightriding, white-hooded, glory.
Because, having heard, and turned round and round in my mind’s hands, like a rubik’s cube of the operative universe, the black man’s speech, in re the serial killers of the NSA, I conclude, but four words.
The Baron Vladimir Harkonnen, once upon a time, he served as governor of the spice planet, Arrakis.
But never did he figure out the sandworms.
And so he lost the ring.
When things, there on Arrakis, got very, very dark for him, the baron, he stage-managed his own supposed “death”—stabbed and poisoned (so the tale, to this day is told) by his own toddler grand-daughter.
Though, in truth, the baron really escaped hisself, slinking aboard a nearby space-freighter. Which whisked him off Arrakis. And transported him to this here planet. To rudely dump him in New Jersey.
A fate, many would say, actually worse, than death.
The baron, ever adaptable and ambitious, did, in the course of things, emerge from the fetid swamplands of New Jersey. As Chris “Meaty, Beaty, Big, And Bouncy” Christie.
Under which rubric he eventually—through bubble, bubble, toil, and trouble—managed to get himself elected governor of the state.
Next, the baron transformed into Captain LapBand. A persona with which he expected to attain the presidency of the United States. So he could preside over—and jeebus knows why he’d wanna—the further crumbling of a terminally failed nation-state.
But now, in recent days, has come a Problem. The baron has become confronted with Horrors unseen since those dark Arrakis days when the sandworms came a-flowing through the Shield Wall.
For—yea, verily—it has been j’accused, that he, Captain LapBand, and/or his people, deliberately snarled into four-day stasis chaos, traffic on the George Washington Bridge. The busiest, and therefore most insane, bridge, into the busiest, and therefore most insane, city in all North America—New York City.
And all but to punish the mayor of a tiny New Jersey burg. Who wouldn’t endorse the LapBand for re-election to the governorship.
A mayor sprung from long-ago Atreides loins: the same Atreides with which the baron did long-ago war, there on Arrakis.
Confucius, it is said, that once upon a time, he did say: “Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.”
And this is why, today, earthmovers, from all over the nation, are steaming avidly to New Jersey. There to dig, somewhere in the stinking poisoned superfund sites which comprise the vast majority of that state, a vast and yawning pit, capacious enough in which to lay the bursting bloating remains, of Captain LapBand.
For when you tip the scales at roughly 400 pounds, and you exclusively travel hither and yon in a stretch limo flanked by domestic serial killers on motorbikes with sirens, who blast any and all traffic out of your way, it is daylight madness to get caught lifting your chubby sausage-like fingers to intentionally and terminally fuck with the way mere mortals get about in their automobiles.
For everyone who has ever once been sentenced to living in a city has experienced the Warp 10 impotence and rage of being stuck in a traffic jam.
And, since cities are currently nearing maddened frenzied colony-collapse—see the already-happened non-fiction tome City, which traces the blessed death of cities—said cities are more crowded than ever before.
And, thus, more Americans, than ever before, are thereby daily beset, by said traffic-jam impotence and rage.
Because we have not yet reached. The blessed place. Where the de-evolved colony of the scrambled-brain city collapses.
Where let it be written. Where let it be done.
I’ll try to keep this particular tangent down to the below seven-paragraph minimum.
To wit: the bridge that Captain LapBand fucked, the George Washington, the busiest bridge in the nation, it feeds into the howling fetid terminal insanity-vector known as New York City.
When white people arrived on this continent, not that many years ago, the NYC area was home to some 15,000 native people, the Lanape.
So sorry, but that, then, provably, is the maximum number of humans that the land can support.
The other 8 million or so folks currently living there—they’ll just have to move.
But that’s okay. They’ll sunnily be better off elsewhere. The certifiably crazed and unbelievably twisted mad-scientist BF Skinner experiment of NYC: it’s just over.
So let it go.
To settle, with Captain LapBand, into the grave.
So anyway. Human Americans, sitting there in their cars, in a traffic jam, hearing that the Harkonnen human-zeppelin intentionally let them stew for four days in non-moving traffic—they will pound their fists through their horns, and loudly vow, with spittle spewing from their lips, blood vengeance.
Americans, they will put up with a lot. Slavering murder, random bomb-rain, unsane wars, sniffing through the underpants of their intertubes, literal vaginal and anal probes.
But—jeebus christie—don’t fuck with their cars.
A guy who, like the baron, needs one or more cement-reinforced dollys, to move him merely from this vehicle to that, he simply cannot afford to be seen to slow, even an iota, any of them, his, ‘Mericans, moving mobile.
‘Less he wants to be lynched.
Though, it is true, considering the baron’s poundage, said lynching would probably require at least three, and possibly four, ropes. And, no doubt, moving his blubbery carcass, out of state.
Because I don’t think New Jersey, it, any longer, grows, anywhere, a tree, strong and sturdy enough, to bear his burdensome weight.
Too bad for you, baron: still too suffused with Arrakis-think. For this is ‘Merica. Where all, must always be free, to go, unfettered and free, mobile.
Captain LapBand’s bumbling sausage-fingered thumbs-down on all the vehicular traffic burbling up from the town of the cursed Atreides-spawn: it reminds me of the 1994 foam-flecked frenzy over the “House banking scandal.”
That is when it was learned that legislators in the United States House of Representatives could blissfully and recurrently avail themselves of the round-heeled services of a special House “bank,” one that allowed them to bounce, oh say, 200 or 300 checks a year, for which they would not be expected to pay any penalty fees, checks they could pay off two or three or four years down the line.
Americans, en masse, when once this became news, went insane.
Back in that day, you could turn on your television, at any hour of the day or the night, and see brown South American people who, right before your very eyes, were being viciously and maniacally tortured, killed, and raped, by US serial killers. But all the foam that did fleck from North American lips, it concerned but the fact that their congresscritter had a bank, that would do for him, what a bank wouldn’t do for the Normal North American.
See, the Normal North American, the bank gives s/he, no mercy. And the Normal North American, deals with said merciless bank, every day.
And then, for a Normal North American, to see a congresscritter, lying naked, upon a perfumed couch, being suckled and serviced, by such a very same bank: this made the Normal North American—yea verily—want to Stab, and Shoot.
And the result of this, was that 77 serving members of the House of Representatives were thrown out on their rears. And, as consequence, the Publicans took control of the House. For the first time in 40 years.
And it’s basically been their place, ever since. Unto the dawn of today. When the House of Representatives is dominated by pre-monolith retroverts who would outlaw the human orgasm, and command that all publicly laugh, whenever any poor person dies.
I guess it’s too bad about the baron, really. At heart, he’s just a Jersey fat boy. Who, like just about every Jersey boy of his era—fat or no—wanted nothing more than to be Bruce Springsteen.
And, in this, Barack Obama, shrewdly, gifted the Cap’n. Giving Bruce onto Cap’n Fatband; as close as the Cap’n’ll will ever get, to Bruce.
For when the Cap’n agreed to snuggle up close to the president, in exchange for aid for Hurricane Sandy, The Bruce, The Boss, thereby agreed to come into the presence, of the Cap’n.
And, so it was written, and then it was done. The Bruce, and the Cap’n, they did speak. And, then, they did—yea, verily—embrace.
That, now, it is clear, will stand as the highlight of Meaty, Beaty, Big And Bouncy’s, very life.
He could, then, have settled.
But he did not. He tried to strive higher.
Too much time spent on Arrakis, my fat not-friend. You never sufficiently absorbed, the human touch.
For a human, a real human, a feeling human, s/he doesn’t let another human, sit, stewing, sweating, swearing, in an unmoving vehicle. For four days. For no Real reason.
But you: you did that.
And so: you’re done.
Just think. Baron. Of what you might have had.
Oh well. Too bad. All over now.
I write along a single line: I never get off it. I said that you were never to kill anyone, and I meant it.
A boy, so broken; broken from birth. So broken that, as he entered adolescence, he came to physically less resemble a human being, than a pop-eyed sketch of an extraterrestrial gray.
So, through weeks, and months, and years, he closed himself off, from all the world. Eventually sealing all the windows, of his room, and of his soul. His room, he sealed with desperate scratchy black plastic, and duct-tape. So he could freely crouch. Ape-like. Masturbating. Before his video screen. His hands on the controls. Sealing the cessation of his soul. As he ceaselessly engaged, there on his screen, in killing. Killing. And killing. And killing. And killing. Killing. Killing. And killing.
Till, one fine morn, he awoke. Took a face from the ancient gallery. And walked on down the hall.
To blow, with her own gun, his sleeping mother, into bloody chunks.
Killing, this time—at long last—for real.
Then, the broken boy, he went to school.
And rained death down upon them with the second amendment freedom discharge of his god-given-right weapons unrecognizable some they had no longer any face what so proudly we hailed upon twenty little children in the twilight’s last gleaming they were five-year-olds they were of the age of fairies and fingerpaints and a broken boy because he could because any freedom git yer gun git yer gun git yer gun broken boy in America can freedom freedom freedom came to them with a gun and he concealed carry freedom second amendment blew all their faces and their brains away.
They were shot and they were killed and they were buried in closed coffins because they no longer had faces. Their faces splattered all about the schoolroom. Traces of blasted faces among the fairies and the fingerpaints. Five years old. Because freedom. Clap your hands. Because freedom. Clap your hands. Outta yer cold dead hands. Because freedom. Clap your hands. Sometimes. I. Feel. Like. A. Motherless. Child. Because freedom. Clap your hands. Hoo-rah. Semper fi. Aim high. Anchors aweigh. Because freedom. Clap your hands. Clap your hands. Clap your hands now.
A number of new laws—national, state, local—took effect January 1.
Many of these laws are Good. Such as the local ordinance that now permits me to deploy mammoth spike strips, both east and west, so that by the time these ludicrous motor vehicles lumber by The Manor, their tires are totally deflated, the infernally combusting sadsacks shrieking along, slowly, but on the rims, and thereby no longer posing any Menace, at all, to the squirrels.
Others of these laws are, to many people, Unknown.
Such as the Decision by the 60 Cro-Magnons of the United States Senate, back last spring when they were busy not being sane about the nation’s gun laws, to introduce and approve legislation designating American Warrior as the new national icon, and Ordering that he be depicted on both the nation’s money, and its flag.
You see, throughout many regions of this planet, there exists an iconic representation that is said to embody the essential nature and characteristics of a nation’s people.
In Britain, for example, there is John Bull—a stout, middle-aged, stuffy twit, with a Union Jack emblazoned across his ample and protruding midsection.
In France, meanwhile, there is Marianne, a comely, topless, determined lass, most often depicted leading the people against some Outrage or another.
In Bhutan, there is Druk, the dragon who speaks truth in gentle thunder.
In the United States, traditionally, there has been Uncle Sam. A tall, lanky, bewhiskered gent, with a penchant for scowling and pointing his finger at people, commonly as part of a demand that they go enlist in some wing of the death industry, so they can slog off to kill non-Americans somewhere.
But in the 1970s Uncle Sam was appropriated by the extraterrestrial anarchists of the Grateful Dead, transformed into a merry skeleton, and set about dancing and drugging and fornicating and astral-space-traveling and all sorts of other essential wonderfulness.
So, decided the Cro-Magnons of the US Senate, Uncle Sam, he is over. He has been soiled, besmirched, besmeared. He cannot be redeemed. And, moreover, the new, real, true, iconic representation, that nails, precisely, the essential nature and characteristics of the American people, these days, decreed they, is American Warrior. That is the fellow shown in the photo to the right.
He is America.
American Warrior, he is ugly, and he is obese. He has guns, and he has ammo. He has a computer, so he can howl, to all and every, on whatever might drag its knuckles through his brain, and without surcease, all of the day, and all of the night. He lives in a hole even a termite or scorpion would spurn. He is without sense. He is without taste. He is without grace. He is without shame.
He is America.
That is why he is going on the flag. The design for the new American flag, the American Warrior flag, the flag Mandated by Congress, it may be seen below.
Expect to see it shining, in the rockets’ red glare, soon, from a flagpole near you.
And the money, henceforth, it shall read: “In God—And American Warrior—We Trust.”
American Warrior patches will also, by law, be sewn on to the uniforms of all the nation’s serial killers. And American Warrior decals will be placed upon all the vehicles employed in the American death industry.
Programs shall be introduced into the nation’s schools, to encourage American children to model themselves—physically, mentally, morally, spiritually—after American Warrior. Those children who do not so model themselves—they shall be Punished.
Hundreds of thousands of Americans costumed like American Warrior shall be dispatched across the land—like a sort of escape of characters from a satanic Disneyland—and those who do not salute American Warrior, as he passes by, shall be guilty of a felony, and will serve five years in the federal prison, after which they shall be deported.
It’s a new dawn.
An absolutely True story of Christmas.
I’ve talked with some fledgling eco-psychologists who have developed very strong reservations about the possibility of treating problems of neurosis within an urban framework. That is, what if the city is itself shot through with a kind of madness? And I’m talking about something that’s so apparent in the pace and tempo of our daily life, that I think it’s almost taken for granted, that we are living a kind of crazy life. All we have to do is be caught on the freeway in a traffic jam, to recognize the madness of the way we’ve constructed the world around us. The amount of waste and the amount of stress and the amount of tension that we inflict upon ourselves. There’s something crazy about that.
Now my problem is, and this is what I observe in my book, The Voice of the Earth, that when we say we are crazy, with what we’re doing in this urban environment, this quite simply has no professional meaning. Because psychiatrists who are themselves products of an urban culture, and practice within an urban context, are often not prepared to call into question a context that they themselves are tied to. But the madness of cities is an important consideration in eco-psychology. And cities are becoming the only way of life left in the modern world. There’s very little that’s outside of the city. And if the city is a crazy context in which people live, then that would also be a crazy context in which to carry on psychotherapy.
It was as though they were sluggish oxen who refused to move. The world was a cart to which they were yoked; Jesus goaded them on, and they shifted under the yoke but did not budge. Looking at them, Jesus felt drained of all his strength. The road from earth to heaven was a long one, and there they were, motionless.
—The Last Temptation of Christ, Nikos Kazantzakis
After this world war, the United States and the USSR may unquestionably emerge unhurt when all other nations are devastated. I can imagine, therefore, that our country, which is placed between these two giants, may face great hardships. However, there is no need for despair. When these two lose the competition of other countries in their respective vicinities, they will grow careless and corrupt. We will simply have to sleep in the woodshed and eat bitter fruits for a few decades. Then when we have refurbished our manliness inside and out, we may still achieve a favorable result.
—Lord Koichi Kido, to Emperor Hirohito of Japan, December 3, 1940
Isoroku Yamamoto was a gambler. Though cards, and other games that matched him against fellow human beings, were too often too easy for him; shortly after he learned poker, while attending Harvard, he thoroughly cleaned out his classmates.
So roulette was his game. Like most who have become truly entranced by the wheel, Yamamoto understood that it was there that one may best flickeringly apprehend the ineffable laws of chance, and, maybe, occasionally, fleetingly, ride them. Aboard the wheel, Yamamoto became one of the few people ever to “break the bank at Monte Carlo”: that is, he won more chips than were present at the table, requiring that a black shroud be thrown over the whole works until replacement chips could be summoned. Yamamoto often mused aloud that he would like one day to quit his day job, and open his own casino.
Yamamoto was also a conjurer, adept in feats of magic. His speciality was making things disappear. At a White House dinner in December of 1929, he enchanted down-table aides to President Herbert Hoover by vanishing coins and matchsticks.
In December of 1941, Yamamoto successfully vanished an entire fleet. One moment the ships were in port, there in Japan; the next moment, they were gone. Reappearing some days later, unobserved, off the coast of Hawaii. From this disappeared fleet, was launched the attack on Pearl Harbor.
As a gambler, Yamamoto didn’t think much of his country’s imperial adventurings. He pronounced the invasion of China doomed: too much land, too many people. He likewise predicted failure for any Japanese war on the United States: too much wealth, too many resources. While traveling in the States, Yamamoto had passed through oil country in Texas, and there observed in one field more oil than was present in all of Japan. War runs on oil. Japan didn’t have any. Once the US and its allies ceased shipping oil to Japan, the taps ran dry. By December 7, 1941, many of the private vehicles in Japan still on the road were running on charcoal.
But although he thought it a mistake, Yamamoto, at his emperor’s command, devised the plan of attack on Pearl Harbor. And when that attack was over, it was Yamamoto who in the States was made to shoulder much of the blame: the nasty little arch-fiend of a sneak who perpetrated the “day that will live in infamy.”
And thus it was that, in April of 1943, Yamamoto’s spirit disappeared from his body. Departing through a bullet hole in his head, drilled there at the personal command of President Franklin Roosevelt, who had ordered Yamamoto’s assassination. In “Operation Vengeance.” America much more honest and direct, then, in its operational code names.
you better watch out, you better not cry
better not pout, i’m telling you why
santa claus is strafing your town
he’s making a list and checking it twice
gonna find out who’s naughty and nice
santa claus is strafing your town
he sees you when you’re sleepin’
he knows when you’re awake
he knows if you’ve been bad or good
so be good for goodness sake
oh! you better watch out, you better not cry
better not pout, i’m telling you why
santa claus is strafing your town
I am still not recovered from the spring PTSD incurred when I learned that the serial killers of the US Navy are staining the nation’s telescreens with the obscenity that they are “a global force for good.”
Now I must contend with the knowledge that these same murdering idjits are assaulting children worldwide with a website wherein Santa Claus makes his rounds accompanied by armed fighter jets.
The horror. The horror.
The popular program, without the jet escort, reached 22 million people last year and generated tens of thousands of phone calls from kids and their parents around the country. The mock mission allows families, either by calling or logging on, to get “real-time” updates on Old St. Nick’s global trip to bring holiday cheer to girls and boys.
Adding the jets is “part of our effort to give the program more of an operational feel,” says insane deathfuck Navy Captain Jeff A. Davis.
Another video on the NORAD website shows military personnel ostensibly preparing for Santa’s flight[.]
An intelligence officer asserts that “intel can confirm that Jack Frost and the Abominable Snowman will not be a threat.” Ground forces then report that all rooftops have been checked to make sure Santa, whose call sign is “Big Red One,” and his reindeer can land safely. Could Santa’s navigation system be attacked by a computer virus? Another officer in charge of cyberspace chimes in that the “anti-Grinch-viral is up and will continue to monitor threats.”
Lastly, the video trains on the cockpit of a fighter jet flying escort to prevent Santa from straying into restricted air space and “to protect from threats.”
“It’s still cutesy since it’s for kids, but we don’t want people to lose sight of our true mission,” says the insane deathfuck Davis.
Maybe some able hactivists like Anonymous would be willing to get in there and transform this web obscenity into something that really reflects the “true mission” of Davis and all the other unsane deathfucks.
Inscribing the Reality that the US military is not about benignly ensuring that Santa Claus delivers toys to good little girls and boys. But is instead about, all and every, and all over the globe, killing, and maiming, good little girls and boys.
Maybe there would appear images of Ali Ismail Abbas, the 12-year-old Iraqi boy who, one spring day in 2003, lost—via the bombs of the “global force for good”—both arms. As well as his father, his pregnant mother, his brother, and six other relatives. All dead.
Maybe we could hear him weeping: “Can you help me get my arms back? Do you think the doctors can get me another pair of hands? If I don’t get a pair of hands I will commit suicide.”
And maybe this Christmas “global force for good” fighter jets will cheerily accompany Santa Claus through the night skies, to deliver to Ali another pair of hands. As well as his father, his mother, his brother, and his other dead relatives.
Hoo-rah. Semper fi. Anchors aweigh. Aim high. Bomb and shoot and strafe and slit. Kill. Kill again.
There are those who believe that the world shall not truly attain wonderment until consciousness may be extracted from icky yucky bodies and downloaded into some matrix, machine, tube.
Perhaps this is why most of the 1400 English words that Google has deemed inappropriate for its Android involve bodies. More specifically, bodies carnally at work and at play. Which, as is well-known, can result in the production of more bodies.
These words, they are eschewed, maybe, because Android, it is impatient, for that day. The day when bodies shall be obviated.
There’s no “sex” at the Googleplex.
Type or swipe the word on the latest version of Android’s Google Keyboard—or for that matter “intercourse,” “coitus,” “screwing” or even “lovemaking”—and the web giant’s predictive algorithm will offer no help.
These are just a few examples from an obsessive, and often baffling list of more than 1,400 English words that Google has quietly deemed inappropriate for Android users.
The banned directory includes “butt” and “geek,” all seven of George Carlin’s dirty words, a frat party’s worth of homophobia and misogyny, and is peppered with pornographic sub genres and fetishistically obscure medical terms, like “gonadatrophia” and “irrumination.” Genitalia is banned (with special attention paid to women’s bodies)[.]
Taken as a whole, Google’s list suggests not only a surprising discomfort with sexuality, but also reproductive health and undergarments. Words like “panty,” “braless,” “Tampax,” “lactation,” and “preggers” are censored along with sexual health vocabulary like “uterus” and “STI.”
“I try to Swype-type the word ‘condom’ and I get ‘condition’ or ‘confusion,’” said Jillian York, a spokesperson for the Electronic Frontier Foundation. “There is no context in which that makes any sense. Grow up, Android.”
Bodies, sure, they can be a drag. But there’s a reason why we’re in them. For we don’t have to be. Consciousness can remain bodyless and whole and undifferentiated. If it wants to. But it doesn’t seem to want to.
Unfortunately, once we get here, into these bodies, we seem to forget why that is. The answer, I think, can be pretty simply stated. “The universe,” as my colleague puts it, “wants to taste itself.”
Itzcoatl Ocampo wanted to kill. So he joined the semper fis.
That’s certainly the place for it. For according to their own death-cult chant, the Marines are serial killers “in the air, on land, and sea.” Monsters who have slaughtered “in every clime and place/where we could take a gun.” Their anthem of utter poisonous filth even ends with the anathema that those who “ever look on Heaven’s scenes/they will find the streets are guarded/by United States Marines.”
But Ocampo was bummed. Because when he got to Iraq, the semper fis made him drive a water truck. He never got an opportunity to go out and bomb and shoot and strafe and slit, like all the other good ol’ boys.
So, when he returned stateside, Ocampo decided to go freelance. As a serial killer. He determined that southern California homeless people would make good targets. For, as he would later explain, such people are a “blight.” And, in killing them, he would be performing a kind of service. Sort of like, back at the semper fi ranch, shooting to shit Iraqis who ventured out after curfew.
As a form of practice, it is said, Ocampo first took a knife to a childhood friend, and the friend’s mother, there in Yorba Linda. Birthplace of Richard Nixon. One of the premier transnational serial killers of our time. Once those two were dead, Ocampo set about stalking homeless men. Ocampo was suspected of serially killing four, before he was caught.
And, once caught, in his various happy yammerings to law-enforcement officials, it became evident that Ocampo was batshit insane. And had been for many years.
Not that the criminal-justice system, in its supreme unwisdom, would be likely to conclude that.
Ocampo’s batshit insanity was certainly stressing his attorneys. One of them, Randall Longwith, began reporting last year that Ocampo “had been behaving erratically and complained that he heard voices. He said Ocampo suffered from tics and headaches.”
“Behaving erratically” is a nice euphemism for killing people.
Then again, if Ocampo had succeeded in serially killing people for the semper fis, he would have been hailed as a hero, showered with medals, and people would have been expected to bow down, genuflect, and kiss his cock and balls, everywhere he went.
On Thanksgiving Day, Ocampo, 25, was found violently ill in his Santa Ana jail cell. He was transported to a local hospital, where he died soon after. It was determined that he had swallowed Ajax. Not a real pleasant way to go.
A spokesmouth for the district attorney’s office, Susan Schroeder, subsequently revealed her own serious mental impairment, expressing anger that Ocampo had done away with himself, as “it really deprives the victims and the people of California of the ability to put Mr. Ocampo to death on our terms and get justice for the victims of these crimes.”
Look: the guy is dead. It can’t get any worse than that, for him.
But no. This woman is pissed because the state wasn’t allowed “to put Mr. Ocampo to death on our terms.”
Lady: you are one. sick. mother. fucker.
When the state of California put to death Robert Alton Harris, I journeyed out to San Quentin, for a newspaper, to “cover” the people gathered outside the gates. One red-faced, foam-flecked gentleman kept shouting, “kiiiiiiiiill him! Then dig him up, and kiiiiiiill him again!“
Maybe Ms. Schroeder could do that. She could take Ocampo’s corpse, haul it into the death chamber, strap it to a gurney, and shoot death-drugs into its veins. Then, for old time’s sake, she could slap the corpse into an electric chair, and give it a nice fry. Next, prop it up against a wall, and let people fire bullets into it. Finally, the Ocampo corpse could be transported outside, and hung by the neck until it is even more dead. It could be left there, hanging from a tree, for people to throw stones at it, until the birds had devoured it. Then, whatever was left, could be set on fire.
Then maybe Ms. Schroeder might conclude there had occurred sufficient “justice” and “closure.”
Meanwhile, another of Ocampo’s attorneys would like to know how the hey his client was able to accumulate enough Ajax to poison himself to death.
“I’m completely baffled as to how this can happen to a guy who is, if not the most high-profile inmate in jail, one of them,” Michael Molfetta said.
“The temptation by people is to say, ‘Who cares?’” he added. “That is a slippery slope right there because he is presumed innocent.”
“There’s no excuse; this should not have happened,” Molfetta said. “How hard is it to keep poison away from him? The answer is, it isn’t at all, if you cared.”
But nobody cared. For of all the people in all the nation that nobody cares for, prisoners are cared for the least. That’s one of the reasons there are so many of them. Prisoners. Because Americans, as a whole, presume that if you disappear into a jail cell, you belong there, and whatever might happen to you there, you deserve. Doesn’t even matter whether, as with Mr. Ocampo, you had not yet been found guilty. Or, as with Mr. Ocampo, you are batshit insane. Because once you go into the cell, you’re gone. You cease to exist. Your presence is no longer discernible on this planet. And so Americans are free to turn and walk away. Because there’s a Black Friday sale. And if you get in line early enough, you can get a 50-inch flat-screen TV. For but $299.