Archive for April, 2015

Sunday Services

trudeau is an ass



Grimlimb jeeb. HEAMBLOW HEAMBLOW HEAMBLOW. Not yepgur chim ghli. Fort clin to. Claba-clabba-clabb-glip.

Clim sheet ork nort clad grhrobtug.

Hork bit cleeb ghort. Shinkleep todaly ouir. Clibbq-clibaa nobk ship nort grebelik.

Fort nok fukaduckjl yourty klim rort ough; wjoff dyritu ghty yuooir drughtought-ghotuhg. Plab plab thiighht your-fhguty evehgyy youruts tyroiug, fnoirhwyt yours—envehg thjiout.

Eeek a beak ituioo gepootm goklom.

Port shclid gdy; ghotuhy truoour yupportyy.



I had a dream the other night. In it we were all just rainbowbumbling around as usual.

But all our cores had been opened.

And I had been cracked open as shaman.

That was what I had always been.

But, so what: after this revelation: I was, natch, thereafter, doing just my usual thing. Hiding. Craven. Nebby Meeko. In the shadows.

There then, in the dream, came a place, where I couldn’t do that anymore.

For all was in peril; dying.

Even unto me.

I was then, in the dream, reminded, strongly, serenely, that, as shaman, my job was to move the people to the next place. This was me to be.

I didn’t believe I could do that; I am and always have been no one; the shaman thing was all bollocks; but it was all so dire, in this dream, in this place; that, in this dream, I gave it a try.

And, the more I tried, the more I tried, shaman, the more I tried, the more crystal, clear, the world became; the more it shined; the more I can’t even describe to you now how jeweled it all was and I see see it still and I see it still; the more I could really move in magic; the more the people proceeded, the more they were no longer sluggish oxen who refused to move, the world no longer a cart to which they were yoked; the more I felt and knew I could See, and Move, the more they felt they could See, and Move; the more I, then the more we, we Saw, and Moved; the more I was Strong, the more all the people were Strong: the more we all ascended the mountaintop, the more we Saw, and Moved, and Looked Over.

And then we walked. All the way. To Tir Na Nog.

All of all of us: are me, in this dream. Seeing. Shaman. Looking Over. Seeing. Moving. Becoming great wide open. Caledonia Soul Music. What it is. All the way. To Tir Na Nog.

Christ Jesus Make It Stop

stop me please

The Little Brown Ones

Back in 1988 the Philip K. Dick simulacrum “Ronald Reagan” got off a plane, and, there on the tarmac, the simulacrum’s “vice-president,” George I, introduced the simulacrum to some of his alarming number of grandchildren, distinguishing this particular batch by identifying them as “the little brown ones.”

These grandchildren were brown because one of reagan and son George I’s sons, George III, had unaccountably run amok, and married a brown woman. Who proceeded to pump out children of a color heretofore considered Not Acceptable in Kennebunkport and the other blindingly white enclaves in which the George people had traditionally congregated and frolicked.

The Reagan simulacrum, he was so appalled that George I’s pure-white blood had mixed with that of the duskier races, that he, then and there, decreed that George I should succeed him for but one term. After which time a crazed wild Arkansas foam-head Clenis, that all its life had ceaselessly sprayed sperm all across the land, would serve in George II’s stead, wandering wildly about the White House, spurting semen all over all and every, except onto and into his wife, because, she, yea verily, was allergic to the stuff. All because. George I. One of his sons. Had gone brown.

How my sho nuff god almighty times they have since surely changed.

For George III, he pretty much kicked off this 2016 presidential campaign-season by admitting he had once upon a time identified hisself as Hispanic. Though all for decades believed his nickname was “Jeb,” actually, we learned, it was all along “Heb.” Though his skin is so friggin’ white that when sun reflects off it, it blinds those directly gazing into the glare, we were told that Heb was in truth brown as fresh dirt, and so everyone who be in any way a blood-Hispanic, should vote for him at once, and forever.

Immediately, all the other candidates for president in melting, melting2016, they trampled one another, to, too, declare their total and unassailable browness.

Because, apparently, in 2016, brown is the color to best be.

First, Ted Cruz, an insane man whose face is forever melting, like a bit player’s in The Devil’s Rain, announced he would be the next president, as he was brown, because his father was an embarrassing Cuban splat of chickenshit who ran off like a squealing coward when Real Brown People kicked the gringos’ asses off the island of Cuba in 1959. Said father then moved to Canada, where he dribbled into some woman some weak sperm that eventually became the mewling crawling creature known as Ted.

Then Marco Rubio—whose real name is Nebby Meeko—descendant of another strain of chickenshit bawlers who ran off like cowards from Cuba, said he was more browner than Cruz, and should therefore be better as president, because he would maybe allow a couple hundred thousand or so of the 12 or 15 million brown people currently in the country Hiding every day from the INS, to, Maybe, come Out from Underground, to work, so long as they worked as glorified Negroes, for save meRich People, for, oh, 600 years or so, at which time they will then get a citizenship Paper.

The batshit insane “When Can I Start The Nuclear War?” harridan Clinton II meanwhile rolled into the presidential plaza at the head of a column of tanks, bellowing that she was brown as god and that her name had always been “Hidalgo” Clinton, and all those who said otherwise would immediately be taken into custody by uberfuhrer David Brock, who would rip out their spines and throw them into a Hole.

At the same time, Ayn Rand Paul flapped in, foaming that Proof he had always been Totally Brown was contained in the legendary video of his father (seen below), in which the crazed crackpot mouths “the hardest part is to shoot Ramon,” which Ayn Rand Paul asserted meant that, when dad would set about genociding all those Not LIke Him, he would leave the Brown People for last.

The sudden Browness of the 2016 campaign caused both Mike Huckabee, and Carly Fiorina, who had previously planned to announce their presidential disabilities about now, to shove said announcements off till early May, so that both and each could enter those clinics where Keith Richards used to get his blood transplants, when he was a junkie; Fiorina and Huckabee, determined to have brown blood run into their veins, so that they can emerge as “Miguel” and “Carlota,” respectively, and claim they have always been brown as the day is long, and Forever.

All of these people are Wrong, and should go into a Home. None of them will be president. We should pay no attention to them. They are not Real. They have a Problem in their Brains. They need to be in a Clinic. We can safely and comfortably go about our lives. For, they won’t get us. None of them. Somebody, else, they may Try. To Get Us. But, of those who might Get Us, it won’t be any of these current, fake, brown people. All of them, they are Over. Buried. Beneath the good brown earth.

All the white people are over. It’s a good thing. No blood will be shed. All of all of us. We will just go. Into the great wide open.

The Bowel Explodes

So the new C-Thru-Peephole extravaganza, I hear, is called The Force Awakens.

But since an essential plot-point of this film apparently concerns someone finding Luke Skywalker’s hand, I think hurtsit should be called instead The Hand Awakens.

Presumably, in this new one, people, rather than saying, as once they were wont, “Luke, it is your destiny,” will instead say, “Luke, it is your hand.”

I think maybe I am going to manufacture and sell “Luke, it is your hand” t-shirts and hoodies and such. And make millions. I will then buy all the water, and dredge many ponds, where ducks will swim all day. I will also secure several elephants, who shall suck up water in their trunks, and pour it all over their bodies, without even using shut-off valves or micro-sprinklers. I will call my domain the “Luke, It Is Your Hand Water Park.” Luke, I think, was raised on a dusty desert dirt-blow planet, so this is all, it seems to me, all appropriate.

Apparently there is a new Enemy in the new film who is sort of the opposite of Luke. His name is Analhead Earthcrawler. He has a special fearsome Power: if he Looks at you, you turn into Jar-Jar Binks, or one of those munchkin fur-balls in the forest. Your name becomes Hutt Fett, and you are Doomed to Drool in a Hole for a thousand years.

Harrison Ford is meanwhile in many Dangers: while making the film, he had a leg-hurt accident in the Falcon; in real life, somewhat later, he crashed in a plane. Clearly he needs to stay out of the air, both in film and in real. He should take instead to driving trains. While he runs the choo-choo, that orange bigfoot, Chewtobacco, can grunt, loudly, famous train songs, as he stokes the boiler.

Finally, I hear that, in honor of Yoda, the entire film will run backwards.

BREAKING: I have just been informed that episode VIII shall be called The Foot Awakens. This references Luke, an old man, reunited with his hand, who falls asleep in a chair, and, when he wakes up, his foot has gone to sleep, and so he has to wait a while for the feeling to come back.

In the meantime, 19 new Death Stars are constructed and deployed throughout the galaxy. But no one can stop them, because Luke’s foot is asleep, and Han and Chewtobacco are driving trains.

Fortunately the heads of Yoda and Obi Ben-Wa Balls Kenobi, mounted on spinning discs, come roaring up to mouth mounds of gibberish, that inspire the truthCommon People to get some Force, and so stop the Badness.

I also now Know that the the third film of the trilogy shall be called The Bowel Awakens. In this, the Sith, renamed the Shit, construct hideous massive Death Stars that are giant sphincters which spray odious strings of diarrhea across the galaxy. All are doomed to drown in poop. Except a new heretfore unheradled Common People named David succeeds in rocketing from star to star, within seconds fastening new toilet seats to the sphincters, succeeding in driving the jettisoning poop back down into the bowels of the sphincter stars, thereby suffocating all the Bad. And thus all ends in happiness, and true gosh-darn wonderment.

In early 1977, two films were in post-production at a film studio in England.

The first was Cross of Iron. Which Orson Welles later pronounced, correctly, the finest anti-war film ever made. But when it was released, no one wanted to see it—except in Germany, where it was perceived, wrongly, as a vindication of the WWII German army.

A taste of Iron:

Down the hall from the Cross of Iron editing crew, there in England, labored the unknowing Mordorites who inflicted upon the world Star Wars. A film that ebulliently spread mass sunny slaughter into outer space. That offered a final sequence which, as German director Wim Wenders noted, with no little outrage, aped, frame-for-frame, a celebrated portion of the Nazi propaganda film Triumph of the Will.

A film that opened with the obliteration of an entire world, and all the creatures on it. An event which the filmmakers asked the audience to accept with less emotion than the later Perils-of-Pauline tribulations of a pair of bumbling robots.

Threaten an R2, and the heartstrings are tugged. Exterminate a planet, and the billions of people upon it, and blithely chew the bitchin'snack-bar cud. So you’ll be ready, the day that they come for you, to tell you that it’s time to drag or be dragged, out on the killing floor.

A very different film, if we had heard the cries of the billions of souls extinguished.

As Willi Heinrich, a combat infantryman in the German army during WWII, who tramped over 8000 miles of Russian territory—to the suburbs of Moscow, and back again—and who watched everyone he knew die around him, as he himself was severely wounded on five separate occasions, wrote:

When we sing the national anthem in a military cemetery it is, of course, a very moving event, but it distorts the true nature of the matter. We should rig up giant loudspeakers and relay recordings of the screams of the wounded and dying and then no one would ever forget that cemetery[.] We ought not to play anthems over their graves or make solemn speeches in remembrance of them. A people which is proud of its war dead has learned nothing from the war. This is only my personal opinion, but as long as we have no stronger feelings than a bad conscience about our dead when we talk of them, then there will always be other wars. It all began with falsehood and it will one day finish with falsehood: that is what I mean by inevitability. Lies breed death, death breeds lies and so it goes on. By distorting the meaning of our existence we have legitimized mass murder.

Mr. Lucas, he let us hear the screams of no one. We simply moved right on.

Lucas destroyed the reality of space, established by Stanley Kubrick some years before in 2001: A Space Odyssey, wherein, as it is in truth, there is no sound in space, and replaced it with an bigscreen whiz-bang video game, in which bitchin’ sound Alderaan goes dead deadeffects accompany the Good Guys, blasting away The Bad.

But not a sound did we hear, there at the dawn of the film, when an entire world, Alderaan, and all the beings upon it, was obliterated, by his, and Peter Cushing’s, hand.

And here we will move right on to Mr. Wim Wenders, from his 1984 “American Dream”:


The American State philosophy
Entertainment: advertisement for America.
The German word for that is hardly comparable.
“Unterhaltung” is something nice.
“Entertainment” is a totalitarian thing.
The entertainment industry is probably already
the next biggest sector of the American economy
after armaments, so it’s only logical
to suppose that one day
it will become the biggest economic factor bar none.

The more impossible and unthinkable wars become,
world-wide ones in particular,
the more evident world-wide entertainment will appear
as the “continuation of politics by other means.”

A film like Star Wars, truly “entertaining,”
makes that perfectly clear, not only
because it’s about war, not only
because it supplies new images of war
and a new mythology of war
to a whole generation of children “world-wide,”
but also
because in the end it reveals, in all innocence,
where those images come from and where they belong:
the final sequence is a faithful copy
of a sequence from Hitler’s greatest propaganda film
Triumph of the Will.

Let us behold, the Triumph Of The Hope:

Everybody loves Star Wars. I know that. It is cute and cuddly. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. PG. Benign. Everybody says so. Sure.

Used here, only as example, that when we think we’re not hurting a fly, we’re actually blithely blowing right past the deaths of billions of beings.

Humans were built poorly. They have a lot of wrong impulses. One is the impulse to kill one another. And nothing whatsoever will get anywhere at all, until that impulse is stifled.

Kenneth Patchen, marooned on this crazy stone, saw this:

It’s simple. There’s nothing at all complicated about it.
War—There won’t be war when you decide you won’t murder other human beings.

You cannot hate without hating all; and you cannot kill some without killing all—because the welfare of any man is the welfare of all men. Through violence men are made to enslave and murder one another; through violence the world has been turned into this unimaginable hell; through violence the rulers of this hell are enabled to maintain their positions.

Have you ever looked at a man?
There is something helpless and majestic about a man.
If you believed in anything, you could not kill a man.

A man has two legs. He’ll build a house—from cellar to rooftop, with his own hands. He’ll put seeds in the ground. He’ll watch the sun and the rain at work. He’ll take a woman to bed. He’ll find enough tenderness and love to get him through the day. You’d think that man deserved a little something. You’d think that man was worthy of a jot or two of sympathy and consideration. You’d think that maybe someone would say, Let’s just let him alone for a while, and see what he can do.

They try to fix it so nobody’ll care what happens to a man anymore.
I don’t mean millions—I mean any one man anywhere.
If anything is worth anything it’s because one man is worth something.
If any one man isn’t worth something, then nothing whatever is worth anything.
It’s all got to come back to any one man anywhere or it isn’t going anywhere.
Don’t tell me how interested in Confucius or Jesus Christ you are.
Tell me how interested in any one man anywhere you are.
You don’t get it.
You’d cry.
You’d cry if you could feel that.
It’s all got to come back to one man or it isn’t going anywhere at all.

This house. Do you see this house?
It is a house where human beings live.
There is a strange dignity about them.
They are looking at you as I talk.
I want you to leave them alone.

When I Worked

April 2015
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