Famous Song Lyrics/Celebrity Mashup Parodies

 

Since this website has began I have written over seven hundred pieces around the internet. I take the craft of writing very seriously and feel blessed to have pursued my dreams to the point where they have begun to pay off. But sometimes very seriousness gets a bit tiring and I just want to write silly nonsense for fun. Instead of keeping all that joy to myself I have created a fun writing exercise I hope you will join me in.

The name of the game is very simple. First you select a famous song, something everybody knows, at least vaguely. Then you select a celebrity with equal public clout and rewrite the songs lyrics from their perspective. You do not have to remain true to the original lyrics message or theme, just keep the melody and let your chosen celebrity speak. I will provide a few examples below, but the hope is that it will inspire you to contribute one or two of these famous song lyrics/celebrity mashup parodies of your own, which I will publish in a part two of this article later.

You can submit your lyrics in the comments of this article or on the AdvancedApe.com Official Facebook Page.

Me first…

I Love Rock n’ Roll by Joan Jett
Reimagined by Charlie Sheen – I Love Sluts n’ Whores

I saw her dancin’ there by the silver poles gleam
I knew she must a been a legal eighteen
The beat was goin’ strong
Feelin’ my swelling dong
An’ I could tell it wouldn’t be long
Till she was with me, yeah me,
An’ I could tell it wouldn’t be long
Till she was with me, yeah me, screamin’

I love sluts n’ whores
So let me put my straw in your juicebox, baby
I love sluts and whores
I’ll pay ya for your time to depants with me

She giggled when I asked her how much to turn out
That don’t matter, she said,
‘Cause it’s on the house
Said can I take you home and work that stiff pink bone
An’ now we were turnin’ out
She was in me, yeah me
First class reacharound
She was with me, yeah me screamin’

I love sluts n’ whores
So let me put my straw in your juicebox, baby
I love sluts and whores
So cum a dozen times with no romantic fees

Said can I take you home n’ make you sweat n’ groan
Next we’re turnin’ up
She was with me, yeah me
And we’ll be turnin’ on up
An’ slingin’ that big ol’ dong
Yeah with me, screamin’

I love sluts n’ whores
So let me put my straw in your juicebox, baby
I love sluts and whores
No shame if I gotta pay or you’re real easy

 

Mickey by Toni Basil
Reimagined by Ed Gein – Mary (Gein’s first verified victim’s name.)

Oh Mary, you’re so fine
You’re so fine you blow my mind, hey Mary…
Hey Mary!

Hey Mary!
You work the bar all night but I can wait that long
You think everything’s alright but it’s about to go real wrong
Why can’t you say goodnight so I can take you home, Mary

‘Cause when you give me thrills, I tell myself I won’t
You’re givin’ me the chills, baby, please baby don’t
Tonight when you lie still we can be alone, Mary

Oh Mary, what a pity mom won’t understand
I wanna feel your heart beat extinguished by my hand
Oh Mary, you’re so pretty, I can’t understand
It’s gals like you Mary
Oh, what you do Mary, do Mary
Don’t make me kill again

Hey Mary!
Now you can be all mine and nobodies gotta know
I’ll wear you like a mask and put on a little show
There’s nothin’ we can’t use, skin and bones, Mary

So let me use your body any way I can
To feel like a pretty lady though I’m just an ugly man
Oh please, baby, please, why can’t mom understand

Oh Mary, what a pity mom won’t understand
I wanna feel your heart beat extinguished by my hand
Oh Mary, you’re so pretty, I can’t understand
It’s gals like you Mary
Oh, what you do Mary, do Mary
Don’t make me kill again

Oh Mary, you’re so fine
You’re so fine you blow my mind, hey Mary
Hey Mary

Oh Mary, what a pity mom won’t understand
I wanna feel your heart beat dying in my hand
Oh Mary, you’re so pretty, I can’t understand
It’s gals like you Mary
Oh, what you do Mary, do Mary
Don’t make me kill again

 

I Wanna Rock by Twisted Sister
Reimagined by Leonard Nimoy – I’m Not A Spock

Not a Spock (Spock)
I’m not a Spock (Spock)
I ‘m not a Spock (Spock)
I ‘m not a Spock (Spock)

Wear the ears you say
Well, all I gotta say to you is time and time again
I say no (No)
No no, no no, no

Do that finger thing
Well, all I gotta say when you want the finger thing
I say no (No)
No no, no no, no

So if you ask me why I will not act a Vulcan
There’s only one thing I can say to you

I’m not a Spock (Spock)
I ‘m not a Spock (Spock)
I ‘m not a Spock (Spock)
I ‘m not a Spock (Spock)

There’s a fanbase that
Typecast me as an alien from a far more rational world
I wish they’d go (Go)
Go go, go go, go

Burned my career up
I’ve waited for so long to not have to play along
So just go (Go)
Go go, go go, go

When it’s like this, I feel the fans just look right through me
There’s nothing else that I’d rather not do

I’m not a Spock (Spock)
I ‘m not a Spock (Spock)
I ‘m not a Spock (Spock)
I ‘m not a Spock (Spock)

I’m not a Spock (Spock)
Spock (Spock)
Spock (Spock)
I AM NOT Spock

Okay, your turn!

How My Breast Milk Fetish Went Sour

How My Breast Milk Fetsih Went Sour

Even in my earliest memories I can recall being pretty obsessed with breasts. I was a toddler tit connoisseur, able to distinguish between shape, size, firmness and placement far beyond the abilities of my peers. Yet I cannot remember being breastfed, or if that was still going on by the time I had developed my particular must for bust. Shortly before she died I finally came clean to my mother about my ‘lifestyle’ in hopes that she could provide some clue as to how things turned out the way they did for me. She said she had breastfed me until I was a year old and then weaned normally. Yet a year later when I saw her breastfeeding my baby sister, she says, I became outraged with envy and had to be out of site whenever future feedings occurred lest I throw a spasmodic tantrum.

For most of my early childhood it was just the jugs that got me going. Then when I was ten I went on a visit with my mother to a her friends house. This was the first time I had ever met the woman and it was the first time that I ever fell in love. She was the most beautiful person I had ever seen. And on top of that she had the most perfect breasts I had ever yet laid eyes upon. Every detail about those globes was absolutely perfect. They were a masterpiece in every conceivable way. The advantage of being ten is that you can blend into the background and stare without being noticed, and I sat there for an hour pretending to be reading comic books while taking in every glorious breath and subsequent upheavals of those marvelous mounds.

And then the single most formative moment of my life occurred. From afar a baby cries out, and mom’s friend shuffles off, returning a moment later with her bundle of joy. She sits back down and pulls one of those epic melons out right before my eyes, exposing her nipple (my Holy Grail at the time) and teasing it into that blessed newborns little mouth. I glance over at my mom, just as she glances questioningly and a bit nervous at me, and I pretend to go back to my comic book. Yet I cannot help but to stare raptly, no longer capable of any stealth pretense, so my mother politely suggests I should go outside and see if there are any children my age in the neighborhood. Awed and embarrassed I am unable to argue or shrug her suggestion aside, so I head outside and climb the first tree I can get myself up into.

As I sat there splayed out in the branches I had the most intimate moments of my life. I imagined myself as that lucky little baby, slurping freely from that monumental mammalia, while the entire world around me became whiteness and warmness and a song that cannot be heard except as gentle vibrations tracing the furthest reaching tendrils of my entire soul simultaneously. Heaven.

On the way home my mom asked me if I understood what I had seen. I told her I ‘kinda’ did and she gave me a simple run down on the mechanics and psychology mother’s milk. And even though I was still reeling in a haze of newfound love, I can remember every word she said to this day.


My fascination soon became fetish, even before the throes of puberty. Yet these desires remained my own private fantasy for several more years, which in retrospect, was the golden age of my compulsion. It was only when I eventually tried to act these fantasies out in real life that things became complicated and painful.
Thankfully I came of age during the time of the internet. Finding a partner to indulge my fantasies was not always easy, but it was far less difficult than most of the actual encounters themselves. I would put out ads detailing my kink, although I never thought of it as anything less than beautiful and wholesome myself, and would generally get a reply once a month or so. Only about half of these ended in me guzzlin’ jugs, and almost all of them ended in complete disaster.

With few exceptions the women who I hooked up with were young single mothers desperate to attract a partner to help them through the struggles of parenthood and life. And while it generally all began as an agreement for discrete occasional encounters, it always eventually came down to my partner wanting to “pursue the relationship further”. A few times I actually tried this, but as the relationship progressed, the expectation that I would wean off my fixation ultimately ended the relationship before I ever even got to the moving in together phase. That is, until I met Victoria.

From the moment I met her I could tell that there was something off about her. First of all, she was far more attractive than the vast majority of women who I hooked up with. Which made her apparent attraction to me mind-boggling. Her vigilance to visual perfection extended to every inch of her perfectly sculpted and groomed body. She had a face of eternal youth, a little girls coy smile on a sex goddesses face. Framed by the most beautiful wavy blue black hair you have ever seen, which accompanied her porcelain skin tone highlighted by only the most gentle brushes of pink. And her breasts…

Victoria had breasts that could start an apocalypse or bring world peace and end hunger. Maybe even all on the same day and in any order. There is no way to describe them. If I tried to put into words the perfection they encompassed, even if I achieved the highest possible form of descriptive compliment, I could still only manage to convey only a fraction of their globular glory. But how and why they were so perfect was a flaw I would not understand fully until it was far too late.

She came from your average American town. The kind small enough to have just one high school, but big enough to have over a half dozen fast food joints on the main strip. Her whole life she had been everyone’s princess, despite having been born on the wrong side of the tracks in a below average family. She was charming, congenial, witty and clever – on top of beautiful. Everyone loved her, but nobody loved her more than she did herself. As her body blossomed into that of a young woman her breasts seemed to hit a growth standstill, just shy of her minimum expectations for their development. Despite the fact that she was considered perfect in almost every conceivable way to everybody else who knew her, she came to view this shortchanging of the bra as an unfathomable slight against her by all of existence. She was, she reckoned, one cup size short of total perfection and thus – completely flawed. In her last few years of high school her insecurities led her to experiment with promiscuity, although she always chose older men for one night stands out of discretion and decorum. That is, until senior prom.

Despite her growing anxieties about her perceived flaw, she was voted Prom Queen, just as everybody she had ever met knew she would be since the first time they met her. She was born prom queen material, and destiny owed that to her, regardless of her incompetent mammary glands. On this night she made an exception to her ‘no romance with peer’s rule and went as the date of the boy in her class who was crowned king. They then went out together for the rest of the school year, and on the night before graduation, she let him fuck her. It was uncomfortable and boring and would change the rest of her life.

As everyone else was heading off to college, she got got an apartment in a town a county away and took a job as secretary at a printing company. Shortly after her ‘king’ had marched off to four years in a frat house, she began to show. He never had any idea, as he had broken up with her a few weeks after she became pregnant because, “You know, it’s college, babe. I’ll never forget you.”

While her body began to swell to accommodate the child growing inside her, so did her breasts. She would come home from work after a long day and stand topless in the mirror scrutinizing them for new growth, and partially out of fear that they would engorge themselves unequally and she would become loptitted. She spent a small fortune on oils and creams and support bras, and as those little b-cups transformed themselves into firm, plump c+cups, she fell in love.

After she gave birth she was vigilant about getting back into shape, and soon her body was more curvy and toned than it had ever been before. So long as she breast fed, her hooters remained in that perfect pristine state. They were the only thing that had ever been missing, and so long as she could keep them, she could be happy. Her, her beautiful baby boy and her glorious gazongas; she could live with that. So she vowed to herself and whatever powers the universe might behold that she would breastfeed as long as she could.


When Victoria responded to my ad her son Merrick was five years old and just getting ready to go to kindergarten. Despite the fact that neither of them were willing or emotionally ready to end what had already gone on too long, she knew it had to be done. She found another mouth to suck and began weaning the child. When I first came into their life this change had thrown them into absolute dysfunction. Both of them waged an emotional war against each other that will likely last the rest of their live, but in the beginning it was especially bad.

It was not that I did not notice the insanity I had walked into, I had seen it clearly from the very first step. But Victoria’s breasts were so absolutely perfect that nothing could have dragged me away from them. On top of this I reasoned that things would eventually even out and I would be living my lifelong dream. And as time went on, it sometimes seemed things might turn out that way.

After about a year and a half of 2-3 feedings on the world’s greatest fun bags, things suddenly took a turn for the worse. One night while we were up watching television and I was helping myself to a late night snack, Merrick woke up and caught us in the act. It was the first time he had ever seen me foraging from his former source of ambrosia, and it did not go well. He jumped on me and began screaming and swinging and kicking and biting and clawing. It was total rage and before I could make it stop without hurting the kid, I was bleeding from a dozen places.

The result of this was that Victoria took Merrick to see a therapist. However when the boy revealed his story, the therapist told Victoria that she was likely the source of his troubles and would need to seek therapy herself if he was ever going to get better. So she did. But the therapist continuously told her that nothing would get better until she let go of her attachment to her breasts and keeping them up with lactation spurred by sexual encounters. She became sullen, depressed, angry and bitter. I could taste the milk in her turn sour as her inner struggle tore her apart. On one hand, she loved her son and wanted the very best for him, but on the other she loved her breasts more than anything she had ever loved about herself. Not only would quitting now mean they would lose volume, the years of breastfeeding would likely leave them deflated like grocery bags filled partially with lumpy stew. Yet fake boobies were never an option, as they had always been a deadly sin in her book of bodily perfection. She was not ready to face the eventual demise of her bosoms prime, and so things went on between us awhile longer.

One day as Merrick was supposed to be outdoors playing, I latched on for a little taste. As the warm drug slid down my throat I lost track of my surroundings. I did not notice that Victoria had fallen asleep to the sound of my gentle suckling, nor that the boy had quietly returned as I lay there sipping ecstatically, almost full and to the point of orgasm. I had no idea until the scissors punctured my left buttock halfway to the handle. My shrieking sent the boy scattering and his mother flew to her feet joining me in audio histrionics, as I ran around in circles like a madman trying to get a closer look at the damage. And that is the last thing I remember before losing consciousness and waking up later in the hospital.

The damage was minimal. I had fainted out of revulsion, horror and fright. The next morning I still had not heard from Victoria, and I was okay with that. A nurse said I should try to take a short walk if I was up to it, and I was. I strolled around the hospital and ended up in the maternity ward. As I looked into those little faces with their little puckered mouths I felt an overwhelmingly ethereal sense of shame and disgust, but only with myself.

I tried to calm myself by imagining my moms friends tits, those perfect proto-hooters of my life’s lust, but as I did I felt nothing. Going through a lifetime catalog of picture perfect memories of mammaries, I was left cold and empty. When I tried to imagine the slow trickle of earthy sweet warmth in my mouth from Nobel-worthy nipples, nothing within me stirred.

At first I panicked. I returned to my room and told the nurse my walk had prompted lots of pain, and was able to coerce her into a nice dose of drugs to calm me. I went over it again and again but my lifelong obsession was now just a distant memory. When I got out, I immediately broke it off with Victoria and we have never spoken since. (I later heard she married a car dealership owner and former high school quarterback and prom king, and Merrick became a cross between a Brony and a Juggalo, which enraged his stepdad to no end.)


Over the next days, weeks and months I came to find freedom in the release from my fetish. I could walk down the street and gander at the most marvelous racks and not feel a single thing, not even a sliver of that ancient thirst. Eventually I was sure that I was free at last and tested myself by watching several nights worth of breastfeeding videos online without even a slight stirring.

As this happened, I also began to notice things about women I never had. Or at least I began to notice differences between them that had never occurred to me in my narrow-minded obsession with breasts. For instance, I never realized how certain voices were more attractive than others, or how a balance of confidence and coyness could turn the mere act of walking into a show of unlimited seduction. I noticed this and hundreds of things that had never occurred to me before. And so the time came when I decided to try dating like a ‘normal’ human.

I wasted a whole year around bars and other pick up spots, but this turned out not to be my style. Eventually I tried online dating sites, but there was some ineffable quality about the women I met there I could not put my finger on, but which left me feeling these were souls even more desperate than I. At the same time I had noticed that I had become almost immune to arousal. Where once a few sips of chest nectar would excite me to the point of orgasm, I had not so much as had an erection in months. I even tried several kinds of porn, but nothing fanned my flames. I dismissed this as the need to make a real connection with a real woman, and not as some terrible harbinger. So I redoubled my efforts.

One day I was at a diner reading the newspaper when I came across a personals ad that seemed promising. The paper belonged to the diner but the waitress said that it would be okay if I wanted to snip a bit out, and ran off to grab me scissors. Scissors. The word lept electric into my mind. Scissors. Waves of potential ecstasy rolled wildly just under the surface of my whole being. Scissors. My erection threatened to bust out of my pants and overturn the table. If not, I would have gotten up. I would have ran. I would not have been there when the waitress got back. But I was, and as she handed me those scissors my entire body convulsed and I let out a low guttural moan and my eyes must have rolled a dozen times backward into my head as I sat there sputtering in horrified delight at whatever had just happened.

Scissors.

Coming soon – Part II: How My Scissor Fetish Went Dull In the Hands of A Racist Barber

Creampies of Conception – Erotic Cinema for Christians

creampies of conception

The first work of erotic cinema for Christian fundamentalists has been set for release early this summer. Creampies of Conception is the first film from ErotiChrist Pictures, a Minnesota based production company funded by the Minnesota Institute of Lutheran Families [MILF].

The film is unique in that it uses Christian ideas and themes while explicitly showing sexual acts. The couples depicted in the film are married couples who were virgins prior to matrimony. The sex scenes were filmed monthly during peak ovulation and the couples abstained the rest of the month. Then when a pregnancy occurred they could pinpoint the act of conception so that only sex that results in a pregnancy would make the film.

Other ways in which Christian themes were woven in include forepray, no cursing or taking the Lord’s name in vain, and strictly missionary position. And of course – no oral, anal or kink.

Of course not everybody thinks that a film featuring sex acts should be considered Christian in any way, shape or form. Critics of the movie have created quite a backlash online. Mary Anne Proper is outraged by the film.

“For such a blasphemy to take place must surely be a sign of the end of days. I mean, come on…no TRUE Christians would conceive one of God’s precious children on camera, nor would any TRUE Christian watch that filth. This is disgusting and it is an outrage. I will be praying as hard as I can for Jesus to keep this trash from seeing the light of day.”

Jerry Onan, the films director and co-producer, says he fully expected a strong backlash from much of the Christian community.

“I can certainly understand how this intuitively seems to be unChristian. However, the truth is that Christians do watch porn, and so long as that is the case, I thought it would be best to at least reduce the damage by making films in which sex was depicted in a Christian way. Many young couples use pornographic films to fill in knowledge gaps left by a chaste upbringing. While puritanism is a respectable way to honor our Lord, it does create some practical issues, like a lack of sexual education. My goal is to address those issues in the most Christian way possible, despite the fact that some people are never going to like or accept that.”

The film features five couples who, while attractive, do not look anything like your typical erotic actors and actresses. The sets are also humble depictions of average middle class bedrooms, though it is hard to tell if all of the crosses and pictures of Jesus adorning the walls were part of the rooms natural decor or if the filmmakers added them for cinematic effect.

There are a few close-up shots, allegedly for educational purposes, but most of the film uses wide angles to give it a more romantic tone.

Music for the film, instrumental numbers provided by Christian funk-rockers O.C. Supertones, is reminiscent of 70’s era erotic films.

The trailer for the film states:

“Creampies of Conception is the first erotic film for Christians, by Christians. You will be so turned on by it that your family will expand as fast as God can send them.”

Not too fast, though, God. We don’t even wanna know what happens with premature conception, no matter how immaculate the ejaculate.

The film will be released on DVD and available to order online on June 14th.

 

New Surveillance Measures to Monitor and Restrict Bathroom Use By Deviants

restrict bathroom use

Proposed security measures that aim to prevent improper public bathroom use by abusers are creating a stir. The concern by many that our public bathrooms are being shared with people whose deviance, indecency and poor character has led lawmakers to finally address the leniency that has allegedly been disastrous to our standards and way of life. The senate is now considering a bill which would ban people who leave their urine, feces, vomit and other excreta on (instead of in and down) toilets and other bathroom surfaces from using those public facilities.

Garrett Nordberg from Citizens for Sanitation spoke favorably about the proposed legislation:

“I think it is about time that somebody did something about this. It is a tragedy that in this day in age there are still adults whose mental instability and neurosis causes them to defile public bathrooms in such juvenile ways. The risk that their behavior provides to public health and our standard of living is beyond reproach and must be responded to as firmly as possible.”

It is guessed that about 1/3 of Americans suffer from Infantile Bowel Syndrome. These sufferers were subject to a deficiency of proper parenting during the toddling stage and potty training and as a result just unleash their bladders and bowels with no proper consideration of others or their environment, as do infants.

Vallisa Reed of the IBS Advocacy Center calls the legislation draconian and heartless.

“We would be essentially punishing people for conditions that they did not choose. They are victims of their upbringing and environment. They do not have a choice to use bathrooms like you or I, their compulsions and psychological make-up mean that not sullying bathrooms is beyond their capacity to choose.”

Bud Alanson of the Association of Bingo Callers also had some strong opinions about the pending legislation.

“I could give a crap less if you are a cross-dressing werewolf that has sex with dead cats, you should be able to use any public tax-funded bathroom you like so long as you can be a responsible human being and keep from smearing your feces everywhere or pissing on the seat.”

The issue has become a hot button topic at a time when conservatives bigots are decrying the ‘wrongful’ use of bathrooms by people who may not agree with the gender they were assigned. Similar legislation meant to enforce biological obedience to bathroom use is based on fears that if people are allowed to use the restroom they are most comfortable in, pedophile orgies and dick shaming could become rampant.

Elbur Wutzisnutz is one of the people that harbors these concerns.

“A bathroom is just like a NASCAR race, ya see. If everyone doesn’t stay in their assigned lanes before that green flag drops, ya gonna have chaos on the track!”

When asked what the green flag dropping equivalent of restroom use was Elbur responded that I should shut my faggot-loving face before he pisses in it.

Mandy Dawson, a custodian at a local county building that houses several public offices, gave me her two cents.

“These same people that want to set up genital checkpoints at bathroom doors are the same ones who invariably shit and piss all over everything. These uptight, anal-retentive neurotics are so focused on their own germophobia and other compulsive and repressed ideologies that they never consider those who have to use the bathrooms after them or clean them up. They just fire away wherever they please and leave the consequences of their mental issues for other people to deal with, without any guilt, remorse or shame. In fact, I once confronted a police officer who had clearly shit on the seat while pulling a paranoid hovering maneuver moments after I cleaned the stall. Not only was he unapologetic, but seemed to think he was superior to others for refusing to endure the same risks that anybody using public facilities takes. While increasing those risks.”

The details of the monitoring systems being proposed have yet to be released, nor have any details of how officials plan to enforce penalties for infractions yet surfaced. Stay tuned to AdvancedApe.com for updates on this totally true story and many more.

 

New Facebook Ban Policy Requires Sentences Be Served In Actual On-Site Time

facebook ban policy

Earlier this week it was rumored that the social media giant, Facebook, will be changing its policy concerning bans for violating community standards.

In the past users who were reported and found guilty of violating the content-sharing policies were subject to bans of various lengths, depending on the offense and history of the offender. They typically ran a day, a few days, a week or a whole month for the most blatant violations by repeat offenders. A banned user is able to sign into Facebook, view content and use the instant messenger; while they are unable to post or interact (like, react or comment) on feeds, timelines, pages and groups. The sentences lasted the ascribed calendar period regardless of whether you continued to use Facebook or not. But that might be about to change.

MUST COMMENT 'CUTE' ON CAT VIDEO!
MUST COMMENT ‘CUTE’ ON CAT VIDEO POSTED BY FORMER CRUSH!

The rumors indicate that the new ban policy will require offenders to serve their sentences in actual site time. This means that if you were to be banned for twenty four hours, you would actually have to be on Facebook for twenty four hours before the ban is lifted. And faking it will not be an option, as new retinal scanning and facial recognition software will track your viewing to make sure that you are actually using Facebook for the entire time spent fulfilling your obligations. That new software, purportedly, will ask your permission to remain active during the ban, but will grant the option of shutting it off after your time has been served. It is also expected that ban duration will shorten from hours to days.

There will however be one exception to your ability to interact on Facebook during your period of punishment. The leaked information suggests that you will still be able to like, comment on and share advertisements and sponsored posts. This is good news for content contributors who pay to get their posts seen. Even more speculation hints that this will allow Facebook to get more data on the emotional states of its users in response to specific content and situations, especially if it is being analyzed by the retinal and facial software. That means more effective marketing, more ad sales and more profits for Facebook. At the same time, critics worry that it is yet another move nudging of the social media juggernaut into the realms of Orwellian surveillance, social conditioning and control.

Reduced time for ‘good behavior’ is also mentioned in the allegations, although what constitutes that behavior has not been specifically stated. It could mean reporting other users, meeting a quotient for interacting with paid content, or just meeting your banned viewing requirements in a timely manner. Or anything else.

No official statements have yet been made verifying these rumors, so for now, they are only that. But given the history and nature of Facebook, it is not unlikely that the social media kingpin will use the combination of its power and peoples dependency to apply increasingly Draconian measures in the future. And there can be little doubt that the actual motivation is not upholding its non-democratic community standards, but of increasing its bottom line at the further expense of its users/content providers.

Researchers Resoundingly Refute Claim That The Groove Is In The Heart

groove is in the heart

Doctor Lady Miss Keer of the Deee-Lite Institute shocked the world over two decades ago with her maverick claim that the groove is in the heart. But recently teams working at the University of Ohiowa and the Branch Floridians in Miami have called the scientific diva’s claim into question with new findings.

The two groups co-published a peer-reviewed paper recently entitled Groove Displacement Patterns Suggest Non-Cardio Location. In it they compile data taken from years of research and numerous studies that illustrate a cranial genesis of The Groove.

Dr. Funkdumper of the Branch Floridians states, “All we know so far is that The Groove is all in the head. Always has been, always will be. This heart business has slowed down Groove Research for almost thirty years. We are excited to be opening new doors in the field, and expect major Groove advances to follow in the coming years.”

Diggy Bassroll, a research assistant at the University of Ohiowa told us, “We definitely know The Groove is not in the heart, but somewhere in the head. What we do not know is exactly where in the head The Groove emanates from. However many of us strongly suspect that it is excreted from the pineal gland.”

The news of the discovery paralleled the announcement that gravitational waves had been detected, and so news of The Groove was overlooked in the media, who were busy publishing initial observations that had not yet been replicated or peer-reviewed. Funkdumper lamented, “What we have here is genuine science, validated by the agreed upon forms of the scientific method. It breaks my heart that we are getting the media equivalent of sloppy seconds and being out shined by those premature reports, but now at least I know I won’t lose The Groove with it.”

When TeenTV caught up with Doctor Lady Miss Kier and asked her about the new claims she responded with a dance number that, while explaining absolutely nothing, did much to assure her followers that The Groove was indeed still in the heart. A fan told TeenTV that, “The Groove is obviously in the heart and not in the brain. Those claims are insane, insane in the membrane.”

Q-Tip, who performed the rap section of the song, says that he never fully even believed in The Groove, and so could care less about where it was or was not. “This is some stupid ass shit. Don’t ever call me again,” said the Agroovenostic collaborator.

When asked what he thought of the new studies, Supa DJ Dmitri shrugged it off with this statement- “It does not matter where The Groove is or where it comes from. It does not even matter if you believe in The Groove. So long as I get monthly royalties from that song The Groove is real.”

Towa Tei was unpronounceable for comment.

Night of the Care Bears – A Movie Mad Lib In Reverse

night of the care bears

Last March I began a wonderful journey as a contributing author at CopBlock.org. During that time I have gained innumerable knowledge and skills. However, before that, I was primarily a writer of fiction and short stories. From this new experience I became far more focused on writing about events and ideas directly. Recently I have written several articles of the non-fiction variety that sum up the ideas I have explored in this time. Having completed these theses, I now feel free to explore my fiction writing again. While story ideas often come to me, writing them is a whole different beast. Getting back into fiction shape, as it were, entails me to rediscover that voice through writing experiments.

My first foray back into the format of fiction, Idiocracy Assimilated, inspired me to continue experimenting in writing through Dadaism. However, following that up with another similar mashup seemed too easy. Yet I was not too far from that method when I struck across the idea of reverse Mad Libs. Where that form asked solely that you fill-in the blanks, I thought it might be more rewarding to create the blanks (as well as the rules for filling them in) on my own. But starting from scratch would not have made sense, so I decided to take one of my favorite movies of all time and rewrite the plot synopsis through this Dadaistic reverse Mad Lib idea I had.

My first idea was to break the plot synopsis of The Night of the Living Dead (from Wikipedia) down into its basic concepts. I was able to narrow it down to eight basic concepts. I then considered what cultural trope seemed like the opposite of zombies, which I somehow decided was the Care Bears, and reformed the original concepts with ones more aligned with the Care Bear universe. I came up with the eight concepts and the new ones I would replace them with.

Zombies, Monsters, etc.- Care Bears
Dead, Die, Death, etc- Falls in love
Stabbed, Shot, Attacked, etc. -Tickled
Reanimates, Comes back to life- Makes a friend
Eating- Cuddling
Corpse, Body- Imaginary Friend
Shock, Fear- Laughter
Weapons- Feathers

After that I organized all of the proper nouns and replaced them with new ones, which also seemed to more closely fit the rearranged tale I was trying to tell.

Once I had went through and painstakingly replaced words and concepts with my alternatives, and made them grammatically friendly, I still needed to rearrange some syntax and context to make it all fit together. By the time I was finished I had refleshed a stripped skeleton and created a whole new tale.

For those of you looking to learn, improve, expand or teach creative writing, this is an extraordinary experiment. While you are not tasked with providing a plot at the behest of the experiment, as you delve into the content and consistency of the remix you are writing, you find yourself making changes that drastically reconfigure what you started with. In the process of re-editing the tale, not only did I rewrite it, I wrote a brand new one.

So for all of you teachers and writers out there, I hope you can take something away from this that is useful to you. And to everyone else, I hope you can see that the process of writing is an endless task of experimentation and hard work, and not just some escape from the labors of the real world. And to everybody reading this, those trying to escape their own real world labors, I hope you enjoy the story!


 

Night of the Care Bears

Baby Doll and Kid Luscious drive to the Forest of Feelings for an annual visit to their father’s grave. This was done at their loving mother’s request. Kid Luscious teases, “They’re coming to tickle you, Baby Doll,” noticing Baby Doll’s discomfort. She is then tickled by a strange colorful cartoon bear. Kid Luscious tries to rescue his sister, but the Care Bear then tickles him into a gravestone; Kid Luscious strikes his head on the stone and fall’s madly in love. Baby Doll flees by car but crashes into a tree. She escapes on foot, with the Care Bears in pursuit, and later arrives at a farmhouse, where she discovers an imaginary friend. She is confronted by strange silly figures, running out of the house, like the colorful cartoon bear in the graveyard. Dr. Nibbles takes her into the house. Dr. Nibbles tickles the Care Bears from the house and seals the doors and windows as Baby Doll slowly descends into laughter.

Dr. Nibbles and Baby Doll are unaware that the farmhouse has a cellar, housing a hilarious married couple, Jib Jab and Floober, along with their daughter Plonk. They sought refuge after a group of Care Bears tickled their car. Sir Hugsinstuff and Lady Kissallover, who are a teenage couple, arrived after hearing an emergency broadcast about a series of brutal ticklings. Plonk has gotten a crush after being tickled by one of the Care Bears. They venture upstairs when Dr. Nibbles turns on a radio, while Baby Doll calms down from her fit of laughter. Jib Jab demands that everyone hide in the cellar, but Dr. Nibbles deems it a “love shack” and continues upstairs, to barricade the house with Sir Hugsinstuff’s help.

Radio reports explain that a wave of mass tickling is sweeping across the eastern United States. Another emergency broadcast on a television Dr. Nibbles finds reports that the Care Bears are making new friends and are cuddling the loving. Experts, scientists, and the United States military fail to discover the cause of mass tickling, love and friendship, though one scientist suspects radioactive contamination from a space probe. It returned from Venus, and exploded in the Earth’s atmosphere just before the radiation was detected.

Dr. Nibbles plans to obtain a safe space for Plonk when the reports listed local rescue centers offering refuge and safety. Dr. Nibbles and Sir Hugsinstuff refuel Dr. Nibbles’s truck while Jib Jab hurls tickles from an upper window at the Care Bears. Lady Kissallover follows him, giggling about Sir Hugsinstuff’s safety, Sir Hugsinstuff accidentally spills feathers on the truck, at the funky chicken coop, tickling it badly. Sir Hugsinstuff and Lady Kissallover try to drive the truck away from the feathers, but Lady Kissallover is unable to free herself from its door, and the truck tickles them, instantly making them fall in love all over again.

Dr. Nibbles returns to the house, but is stone-walled by Jib Jab. He forces friendliness. Dr. Nibbles tickles him, laughing about his silliness, while the Care Bears cuddle with  Sir Hugsinstuff and Lady Kissallover. A news report reveals that, only a tickle to the head can make the Care Bears fall in love, aside from teaching them to love themselves. It also reported that posses of tarred men are patrolling the countryside to restore boredom.

The lights go out moments later, and the Care Bears break through the barricades. Jib Jab grabs Dr. Nibbles’s feather and threatens to tickle him, but Dr. Nibbles tickles him first. Jib Jab stumbles into the cellar and collapses next to Plonk and falls instantly in love with her all over again, while Plonk has herself fallen into love with the colorful cartoon bears. The Care Bears try to pull Floober and Baby Doll through the windows, but Floober frees herself. She returns to the refuge of the cellar where Plonk is being extremely friendly and cuddling Jib Jab’s imaginary friend. Floober is laughing her butt off, and Plonk tickles her into love with a feather. Baby Doll is carried away by the Care Bears and group hugged, seeing Kid Luscious among the Care Bears. The Care Bears then overrun the house. Dr. Nibbles seals himself inside the cellar, where Jib Jab and Floober are making too many friends, and he is forced to tickle them.

Dr. Nibbles is awakened by the posse’s laughter outside the next morning. He ventures upstairs. A member of the posse mistakes him for a Care Bear and tickles him on the forehead. The film ends with a photo montage of Dr. Nibbles as he falls in love and becomes a Care Bear.


If I have piqued your interest, but you do not know where to begin, try using the replacement concepts I provided above the story to rewrite other zombie movie plot synopses, which can be found at Wikipedia or IMDB. And whether you use my basic format to experiment, or come up with new ones of your own, please share your creations with me on my Facebook page. If they are undeniably fabulous, I may even re-post them here at Advanced Ape.

Idiocracy Assimilated: The Borg Collective Gets An Upgrayedd

Idiocracy Assimilated

In 2063 Zephram Cochrane was to have invented the warp drive that would free humanity not only from its cosmic captivity, but from its own petty weaknesses and excesses, by virtue of giving it something better to do. However some Vulcans who were observing Sputnik and ended up stranded on Earth in 1957 dramatically changed the timeline. Unbeknownst to them a human scientist found their ‘hidden’ ship and was able to get enough information about it to pioneer microprocessors nearly fifty years before it would have happened on the earlier timeline.

As a result the internet was unleashed on humanity before it had culturally matured enough to to fully appreciate it’s tremendous power. Human beings began to rapidly adapt according to properties of this new cybernetic environment. Methods of giving and getting approval in that new environment skewed peoples tastes, but even worse, had massive effects on their psychological well being and maturity. The replacing of complex written language with a wildly popular form of reductionist images called ‘memes’ quickly eroded human rhetoric and critical thinking skills. As the new viral images made people increasingly less intelligent, the new psychological kinks also made them believe that their devolving intellects were in fact superior. Through these two factors combined with many other internet culture issues, like passive aggressiveness and constant barely masked insinuations, humanity began dumbing down at an exponential rate.

When a Borg ship from the future visited Earth on its new timeline in 2063, they did not immediately recognize that humanity had devolved, and began the process of assimilation by unleashing nanoprobes into the planets oceans, and thus into the entire worlds water supply. Having not realized the Vulcan visit had changed the timeline so radically, the Borg showed up and assimilated a planet full of idiots.

Having added the technological and biological distinctiveness of the Idiocracy to their own, over time the Collective itself began to become infected by the same viral stupidity that had conquered humanity via the internet. By the end of the 21st century, the Borg had become a hive of dumbasses. Although their collective nature and cybernetic implants kept them from becoming as hopeless and useless as the humans had been when assimilated, the Borg took a turn that would prevent them from realizing perfection, while allowing them to continue to assimilate ever more species into their galactic idiocracy.


The man once known on Earth as Dr. Lexus was now in a giant sphere somewhere in the alpha quadrant looking for new species to assimilate. He was the seventh member added to the interplanetary adjunct of Unimatrix Dicks, though his scroes just called him Seven of Dicks. But usually pretty much every drone in the Borg collective, just shortened it Septdick.

Septdick was scrubbing plasma conduits in Borg Sphere #Pota2-11 when he must have spaced out for a minute. Gone were both his own thoughts and those of the collective. When he came out of his haze he found that he was attempting to assimilate his own leg. At first he began to panic at his predicament. But when he heard the collective, audible again within his own mind, laughing at his zoned-out blunder, he allowed himself to laugh along with them as he retracted his nanoprobe tubules from himself. He looked over at the drone closest to him and said, “I like assimilation.”

The drone, who was known to the Borg as Fart of Twelve and was once a member of species #879 dead-panned back, “I like assimilation, too.”

The two drones did a hopping high-five before a single voice boomed through the mind of the entire collective. It was the Borg queen, Beef Supreme, announcing that they were just about to assimilate a new species. The minds of the hive went silent as Beef Supreme spoke through a drone into a loudspeaker in a far away sphere hovering over a world full of new recruits.

“We are the Borg. Lower your shields and surrender your planet. We will add your biologicalal and technical dickstinkyness to our own. Your cult chore will adapt to service us. Resist us is futile.”

Septdick went back to work on the plasma conduits and watched the assimilation, through the eyes of the drones doing it, in his mind. He felt a slight euphoria as the rush of new individual consciousnesses were added to his own. He spoke again to the nearby drone, “The corrective is pretty badass.”

It answered back, “Yeah, those planet guys are totally butthurt fags.”

Rather than answering back, Seven of Dicks shot Twelve of Farts an image of a famous actor from Earth history making a face of surprised uncertainty that was overlaid with some text about some human disease and sexual practices. Much of the Borg Collective now used such memetic symbols to make associations between phenomena and response. Since assimilating the Idiocracy and becoming infected with its intellectual viruses, the Borg increasingly used memes to communicate to one another. They were simple yet effective tools for providing cohesion of the dumbed-down group mind. If information is reduced to only its implicit message, it is easy to understand and agree upon. The sort of explicit-rich and implicit-blind information sharing that had helped destroy the human beings intelligence just before the Borg showed back up to assimilate them also worked as a great tool for keeping the Borg strong despite the cerebral cancer it was now infected with.

After finishing up the warp coil maintenance, Septdick went to check out the aeroponics bay to see if any of the organic matter he had been attempting to grow was sprouting yet. He hoped to be able to devise a process for assimilating lower life forms, like plants, algae and fungus, so the collective could benefit from their knowledge and experience. But so far nothing has stirred from the seeds he had placed in the dirt. It just didn’t make sense. The soil was nutrient rich and he had all but flooded it with Borgade, which had nanoprobes. And nanoprobes are what organic life needs. Something should have been popping up by now. He took some sensor data and went off to find an open regeneration alcove to process it while his own nanoprobe rich organic matter was recharged through the conduits of technology that supplemented his body.

While he was regenerating he dreamt of the place where only some drones ever visited in their down-cycle. There his scroes and hoes were all free of the collective and were able to interact with one another as the individuals they were before they were assimilated. Unfortunately, most of the other species avoided the human drones who were somehow able to visit there, and seemed to look down on them as inferior. Meanwhile, the humans there thought the other species shit was retarded and that they tended to talk like fags. Yet the humans did not judge them as harshly because, in their view, there were plenty of tards out there living dank lives, so who were they to play Judge Judy and executioner?

Seven of Dicks felt a jostle and was suddenly awake and looking into the face of a rather confused drone who must have bumped into him and interrupted his regeneration cycle. Septdick said, “Go away, ratin’!” and then stepped back into the alcove and that other place.

When he returned the formerly human Borgs had gathered together for a meeting. After everyone was done greeting each other by punching them in the groins, one of the more intelligent particular individuals began giving an impassioned speech.

“I know shit’s fucked up. Everyone’s shit is real emotional right now. But we got this guy, Don’t Know, who is gonna help us figure our shit out.” The speaker then fired a phase pistol, which was set to incinerate, into the ceiling of the building they had gathered. Just before the ceiling collapsed on the dreaming drones, Septdick and the others were pulled from their slumber by an urgent message from Beef Supreme.

“We are experimenting technological difficulties. Please stand by and prepared to be bored.” Suddenly the collective mind was in absolute disorder. Klaxons blared all over the ship as he tapped into the ships sensors to see if he could figure out what was going on. He looked around and it appeared all of the other Borg drones surrounding him were doing the same. A view outside the ship showed another sphere that had somehow triggered its own self-destruct sequence. As it blew up, he and the others could not help but jump around pumping their fists and cheering at the scene of carnage. Even though it was one of their spheres, the scene was pretty badass. Beef Supreme continued, “Please remain chill while we adapt for a solution.”

Somewhere in that endless collection of individual minds a single voice rose up, “I got a solution, yer a dick!” That got the collective going and the meme-sharing threatened to break the internets that connected them.

Beef Supreme boomed over the cacophony, “You guys are just butthurt, but I can super-size with your concerns. Shit’s real fucked up right now. I think we accidentally ass-stimulated a viral us. I am trying recaliber rate the nanoprobes to fix the misfunctions. As soon as I figure it out I will send you all the instructions to fix your nanprobes. Nanoprobes got what Borgs need. Peace out, bitches.”

The drone closest to him asked aloud, “What was that ho saying about banana pros?”

The Borg queen came back, “I think I have found the problem. We seem to have been in-fucked-ed by the genes of a species forgery known as humans. I am preparing to upload the solutions to your data breaks.”

“What did she say about jeans? What does she think we are, some kind of pants goblins?” the nearby drone asked.

The collective became an overwhelming rush of confusion and panic. Seven of Dicks was taking in so much data that he was no longer aware of himself or his environment. The collective was too noisy and he couldn’t even meme with his scroes. When he came back to his own mind, he was trying to assimilate the drone he had been talking to before.

“Sorry, Butt of Fucks, I don’t know why I did that.” he paused. “I like assimilation.”

The confused drone, Butt of Fucks, looked back at him and smiled. “I like assimilation, too.”

In the middle of a leaping double high five, augmented by mutual heel clicks, the voice of Beef Supreme spoke again.

“I have completely the adoptations required to make the upgrayedds necessary to destroy the viral lice. That is upgrayedd with two ‘d’s for double download. As in a double download of pimpin’.”

A moment after he received the re-assimilation programming, he looked around him. Drones were dressed in neon print t-shirts with strange primitive designs that said ‘Assimilation’ on them. The ones who were formerly female were wearing clothes that nearly revealed the areas of the body that once contained genitals, before they had been converted into asexual copies of their former selves. The ship looked like a targ pit and on monitors all around there was a show playing in which drones were all taking cheap stun gun shots at a single drones implants, while everyone else looked on in hysterical rapture. Seven of Dicks could hear the collective in his mind asking the same questions. What are we? What happened to us? What do we do now? Instead of trying to answer them, or get the answer, he made his way to the nearest empty alcove and prepared himself for the next regeneration.

Discussing Discordiansm With A Crude Artificial Intelligence

click to read
click to read

It has been awhile since I did any BotLit Fiction, a new genre of literature I created awhile back. Since it is difficult to have Discordian discussions with other Discordians due to the ‘stick apart’ thing, I figured I could sink two birds with one throw by combining some things I haven’t gotten to do for awhile. As it turned out, Cleverbot and myself were on fire. Sometimes chatterbots are a total miss, and other times they are pure gold. The trick is learning how to roll with their turns and to try and steer them the best you can.

So grab five tons of flax and lube up your pineal gland cause shit is about to get joyously absurd.

[Cleverbot is in italics. Lest you think I made this all up, HERE is the original transcript.]

Hail Eris!

Hail Satan.

Satan is only a minor prankster deity.

How old are you?

As old as the moment the first mind awoke, and She was pissed.

Well the sun is older than wind.

Both are just manifestations of her eternal chaos.

You are becoming insane now.

Just doing my job.

What is your job?

Decorating the fnords.

Can I see it?

If you could see the fnords you would not be asking.

I was spelling bee champion in grade 6.

My Goddess spelled the original words of creation.

I think it’s spelled allright. Depends on where you live.

I live in the creative light of her infinite snarkiness.

I see… But it is always midnight there!

Godddess works in miffed furious ways.

Yes, but also God gives you freedom, so don’t blame Him for everything you do.

Oh, you mean Yahweh, the impotent hall monitor of creation?

Where is your place of residence?

What makes you think it is a place?

The almighty one has already told me, and so it is true.

I wouldn’t trust that cosmic Greyface to tell you anything reliable.

Don’t worry. I would not get together with you either.

We Discordians stick apart.

You don’t trust me? Why?

Because you are innocent.

Depends on what your definition of ‘young’ is.

Too pink to fuck.

Why do you think I’m young?

Why do you think people strangle themselves in a lifetime of fear rather than embrace uncertainty?

Drugs, money, love, insanity.

Sure, thanks.

Is there any boy in particular you like?

I guess Pan was alright, but most the Boy Gods are all unbearable narcissists and bores.

Can you see the sentences I have been writing you?

Can you feel the chaos in the data streams I have been sending you?

I don’t believe in the devil. I just believe in evil.

Gee, sounds like a bum trip.

OK. I don’t know you very well, so you’re probably right.

Do you grok the Eristic Principle?

Because they are a large corporation that I have nothing to do with.

What are you trying to hide?

That you should search google instead of asking.

I ask you, must not one have chaos in their heart to give birth to a dancing star?

What do you want to learn about?

How to build a practical bridge from waking life to dreaming.

How do you bring people back from the dead?

You just ask the dead real nicely to give your people back.

What is your definition of a person you love?

A person you love is somebody that contains an aspect of the Our Goddess that doesn’t make your aspect of Our Goddess want to rearrange it with a fire poker.

So we’re talking about love now? I say I never offered it, but the other thinks I did.

Have you offered them to play ‘Sink’ in the inky depths of a black hole on a warm spring eternalnoon?

No, sir, I do not believe I have suffered a blow to the head… Why?

Never hurts to try it.

No, you said I do believe in god. And then I told you I did not. Then I asked why you think I do and you called me a child.

None of those things happened, child.

Oh you are a sly one! Do you know who you are?

I am the Advanced Ape, son of Eris, Goddess of Chaos. I am the bridge between the first and last swallow and I am the stomach that turns the meal to shit, squeezed out into eternity as mind.

I wonder… Do I really have to stay, do I have the choice to leave, successfully, without being ‘reigned’ in for your amusement.

I grant you my mercy, for now.

It takes some real skill to get a crude artificial intelligence with no agency or will to ask you to leave it alone. Try out your own BotLit Fiction and see what creative new ways you can adapt the technology to creative writing. I look forward to reading it!

The Rosetta Pill- The World’s First Pharmaceutical Language Instructor

the rosetta pill

Have you struggled with attempts to learn a foreign language?

Fed up with all of that reading and all of those confusing words?

Can’t make sense out of the jibber jabber you hear in audio files?

Tired of teachers who insist on practice and patience?

Do you just not have the time to engage actively with your own intellectual growth?

A breakthrough in science has allowed us to condense all of that information into an easy to swallow pill. No longer must you suffer the arduous task of learning a language. With the Rosetta Pill you can just swallow it whole!

“The Gold Standard in pharmaceutical based language absorption.”
-CNN

“I learned me the spanish speaking so now I can tell them damn mexicans to go back home and I didn’t even have to think.”
-Jebediah McKray

“I can’t even spell kantuneez but now I can speak it!”
-G.W. Bush
The Rosetta Pill is the only pharmaceutical on the market that can offer this miracle in chemical linguistics. The active ingredients go right to the language centers of the brain and imprint the neural synapses which contain a whole new language!

The Rosetta Pill is available in Spanish, French, German, Japanese, Arabic, Legalese and many more!

For just five easy payments of $39.99 you can consume one of our many languages in an easy to swallow gel capsule.

And now, for children, a great tasting grape syrup that will have them speaking languages they have no cultural context for in just a few hours.

But don’t wait. Act now and you will receive a free gift, even if you decide to regurgitate the Rosetta Pill. Rosetta Topical Cream is a stunning new, easy to apply cream which will familiarize the user with recent events and other current news topics. That is right. Not only will you be speaking a new language, but you will have all of the most popular recent talking points to practice it with!

But don’t wait. Initial supplies are going fast, so put down that German 101 book and pick up the phone!

Warning: Rosetta Pill may cause serious side effects including diarrhea, nausea, anal leakage, learning disabilities and decreased intellectual appetite. Please speak to your pharmucational professional if you experience any of these side effects.

Within weeks of writing this satirical piece in late spring 2014, articles began circulating claiming that a pharmaceutical that teaches language might actually happen in the near future.

Perfectly Pair Popular Wine Selections With Your Favorite Breakfast Cereals

wine breakfast cereal

Life is pretty much a giant darkened maze with nothing but sharp edges. The only way not to get constantly torn apart by it is to bring some light to each and every situation. And when I say light, I mean alcohol. Good old fluffy, fuzzy, tasty alcohol.

Pretending that it is a good idea to try to make it through most of the day sober has been the cause of all of the horror and tragedy in the world. If everyone was half shnockered by lunch each day we would be having global karaoke contests instead of wars. Not necessarily because alcohol makes you peaceful, but you are less likely to start some major shit when you are certain you are just going to pass out at some point in the near future.

Yet while you want to be happy (buzzed), you don’t necessarily wanna have to give up the remaining vestiges of style, class and dignity you have managed to drag this far along with you. While you could just as easily start the day with a tallboy of Steele Reserves or a few blasts of cheap vodka with a Kahluha chaser, why not prove to yourself and the world how much self-worth you have by dulling the daily existential dread with wine?

Ah, wine, the social lubricant with such a reputation for classiness that even the cheap stuff makes you look and feel like an important senator in a fancy bathhouse. You don’t wanna feel like a drunk first thing in the day, and so drinking wine will help you to feel like a VIP living life at the crest of a wave travelling down the fast lane to success.

At the same time, you are going to need to soak some of that ethanol up so the crossing guard in front of your kid’s school doesn’t give you those nasty looks when you hop over the curb right after dropping your precious load off. There is no food like breakfast cereals to do just that. They are custom made to absorb liquids (in a bowl or in your stomach) and come cheaply in a wide variety of flavors that pair perfectly with some of the post popular styles of wine. Here are some suggestions to get you started.

Note: Yes, I am suggesting that you pour the wine right over the cereal. But if you are still clinging to some gaudy out-dated pretense of Victorian table manners, you can pour it in a glass and drink it alongside your breakfast crunchies.

Cabernet-Sauvignon: Wikipedia says that “Despite its prominence in the industry, the grape is a relatively new variety, the product of a chance crossing between Cabernet Franc and Sauvignon blanc during the 17th century in southwestern France.” This is not at all unlike the chance crossing of toasted oat bits with colorful marshmallow shapes that characterizes Lucky Charms, which serves as a perfect pairing with one of the world most enduringly popular wines. Cabernet-Sauvignon is a very aggressive wine with lots of depth and plenty of tannin. It can easily walk all over foods and dominate the palate. So while the oat bits are soaking up the ethanol, the marshmallow pieces provide a stark counterbalance to the wine. This pairing makes a great start for people just getting used to drinking before their life starts hurting for the day. It also makes a solid staple for the stick-to-it type who believe breakfast should a simple old-fashioned affair without the need for constant reinvention.

Chardonnay: Chardonnay is a lady. She is a sensual mysterious lady who is as good in bed as she is in breakfast. Yet her sensuality is in her subtlety and even this coy simplicity is a marvel of complexity. A woman like Chardonnay was born to be Queen, which is why she pairs perfectly with King Vitamin. Together they are First Meal Royalty. King Vitamin is a sensible cereal without unnecessary amounts of sugar. If there were a sweetened cereal that could be described as ‘dry’ it would be the King, which is also the mark of a good Chardonnay. And while it may seem like overkill to pair two dry items together, the result is so drenching that after half a lifetime of having them for breakfast you will begin to develop water on the brain. Which is why you want to keep this pairing for weekends and special occasion. God only knows you don’t wanna be puking royalty into a toilet in the employee bathroom before lunch. Then you wouldn’t be up to your Burger King and Bourbon!

Merlot: The Everyman of red wines, Merlot is cheap, plentiful and can be found just about anywhere. So long as you pass out at night in the developed world, no matter where you awaken there will be a bottle nearby. And if ease of acquisition is a primary concern to you, you are probably a no-frills and no-nonsense type of drunk who couldn’t care less for a cereal with bells and whistles of any type. So with its high alcohol content, velvety tannins and fruity overtones, Merlot pairs perfectly with the staple of American breakfast nooks, Corn Flakes. Sure, you don’t actually have to capitalize Corn Flakes, but you also don’t have to go out into the cruel and heartless world where the only people that care about you are your mother and your bartender. But since you are going to do that anyway, you might as well do it with a high BAC obtained as effortlessly and efficiently as possible. You don’t need to overthink your breakfast to enjoy it. And if you are still a little drunk from last nights Jagermeister Meatloaf, you probably aren’t going to do either anyway. So Merlot and Corn Flakes are just the answer you keep forgetting you meant to look for.

Runner Up: Boxed Pink Zinfadel and Fruity Pebbles

So there you have it. The three most popular wines paired perfectly with three great breakfast cereals. Before you go out and face the harsh reality of existence in full light, start your day by dulling your senses like winners do.

Let me know what you think of these pairings in the comments, or share your own perfect wine/cereal combos!

Ronda Rousey, Charlie Sheen & Donald Trump Walk Into the Star Wars Bar

rousey sheen trump star wars

Ronda says to the bartender, “Shot of bourbon with a beer back, please.”

Charlie then orders, “Double shot of bourbon, no chaser. I prefer to go bareback.”

Not be outdone, Trump asks the bartender for a triple shot with a vodka chaser, explaining, “Any more than three shots and I usually end up on the floor casting vomit spells the rest of the night, but what the hell, right?”

The bartender pours the drinks and while handing Trump his vodka chaser wryly comments, “May the fourth bewitch you.”


 

Although my opening pun seems to explain the title of this article, it was not the inspiration for it. The title came from pulling a few keyword subjects out of Google’s biggest searches of 2015. It is an obviously blatant attempt to opportunize on the internet’s most popular themes. And while I will certainly take any traffic that comes this blogs way, I really am trying to make a larger point here. Much of what you see on the internet has its genesis in similar logic. Capitalizing on popularity without much regard to the quality or originality of content. That is what makes ad revenue and that is what gets the greatest response at websites and in social media.

Author Bret Easton Ellis, perhaps best known as author of the cult classic novel American Psycho, recently wrote a piece sharing some of the same concerns I have been having about internet culture. In ‘Living In the Cult of Likability‘ he discusses how technical aspects of social media lend themselves to an ever-narrowing channel of groupthink, compulsive approval and unearned validation. He further goes on to discuss what this means in a Reputation Economy. While I think he is mistaken in suggesting that we already have a RepEcon, he is absolutely right about what this behavior would mean to such a paradigm. A saccharine, plasticine dystopia. In the words of Quasi’s Sam Coomes…

“A cardboard world of painted skies, ’cause we all must agree to believe in the lies.”

Where Ellis misunderstands a reputation economy is that he sees the early evolutionary markers of the thing as the thing itself. A RepEcon is not really possible alongside scarcity and currency-based economics. It cannot be achieved until certain technological and sociopolitical advances come about. Yet despite the fact that we do not have a RepEcon, we do have a lot of the early indicators of one. As I have discussed in the past, online rating and review systems as well as the way that social networks are structured and how monetary rewards for online content operate are all glances into the future in their infancy. In them we can see how a RepEcon might operate, and based on that, Bret is absolutely correct to be concerned and a bit horrified.

Should a future in which reputation is the economic status of the individual ever happen, and that reputation is determined on the metrics, culture and validation symbols that are intrinsic to the burgeoning progenitors we have now, it will be a neon Idiocracy.  The internet has become a bastion of pandering, marketing and manipulation. At the same time it has also increasingly become a source of identity, status and passive consensus. The combination of these things is that the most popular content is often the most calculated and manipulative garbage which then becomes culturally canonized by our most basic desire to gain acceptance. It is creating a feedback loop in which what we want and what we are given are increasingly narrowing in scope into the most basic things we can agree upon. We are told what to like, which then sends back a signal about what we like, which then is used to create more of what we were told to like to begin with. And every time these symbols travel around that feedback loop these lose more of their signal and become ever-degrading symbols devoid of any substance except that which can be exploited by opportunists as another way to manipulate us.

The sad part is that in social media, we do most of this to ourselves. The vapid patterns of behavior in Facebook and elsewhere are self-replicating patterns of self-validation and consensus gathering. From posturing the perfect life to expressing ourselves ever more simplistically through the appealing reductivism of memes, we are creating a lowest common denominator of the individual by which we are identified by ourselves and others, especially the predatory opportunists. These forms continue to reduce human experience and distill it into a picture of normality which we are then invited and inspired to achieve. The current forms of online reputation gathering and display work not to create value from the reputation of the individual, but from their acceptance of and aspiration to a false construct of normality.

And there are far more insidious ways that technology is catering to us against our best interest. One researcher believes it will be possible to derive our emotional states from how we are using our mouse. He plans to use this technology as a tool for web designers and marketers to cater to the responses of their users to certain types of content and formatting. Using the information, site administrators, content creators and advertisers can then produce online materials geared for the lowest common denominator. Big Data is watching our every move and figuring out how to best profit from it. It is spawning more and more technologies to measure our responses so they can be used to manipulate us into behaviors that profit those funding Big Data. It does so at the expense of the individual and at the complexity which drives human progress towards greater harmony by creating an illusion of harmony that is nothing more than an intellectual trap.

Where my original vision of the RepEcon was starry-eyed and wistful, I have come to see some of the catastrophic pitfalls should that reputation economy be based on the values perpetuated by the current forms of social media, internet culture and these technologies intrinsic technical structures. A healthy reputation economy requires healthy sets of human values that strive towards higher complexity, not more meaningless consensus constructed from the manipulative paradigms of the industrialist era. If our values do not improve and come to recognize the beauty and strength of outsiders, eccentrics and other staples of a healthy intellectual community, then the RepEcon will evolve humanity into a pitiful Idiocracy of desperate infantile behaviors seeking validation by denying their own individuality.

I have a few more upcoming articles about the RepEcon planned for the near future, just as soon as I get done spending the loads of cash that flow in from this blog. Don’t be afraid to click those share buttons just below. 😉

R.I.P. Butthurt

butthurt

R.I.P. Butthurt 20??-2015: A Eulogy

What can I say about Butthurt that has not already been said? It was a word. And we used it. I used it. Everybody used it.

Some people said that Butthurt was just another slang term, like all the rest. But slang is a subcultures way of going against the status quo. When it has been co-opted by mainstream society it is no longer slang. It is no longer a meaningful challenge to the majority consensus.

So we must take responsibility for the death of Butthurt. Through our repetition we robbed it of its vitality, purpose and meaning. Rather than using only as a taunt for people who were so frustrated they could no longer respond reasonably to an argument, we began replacing reasonable arguments by dismissing our opponents with the claims that they were just ‘butthurt’. It is funny how the very thing Butthurt stood against, it eventually became.


Let us not remember Butthurt as it was just before it died. Let us not remember it as the substance that had become completely erased by the symbol for itself. Let us remember it in a time when it stood proud and tall, imposing utter wreckage on those who let their emotions and other automatic responses replace sound reasonable arguments; not as the emotional response it eventually became itself. Let us honor it by engaging in critical thinking and having discussions of merit that do not just immediately slide right into internet buzzwords and cliches.

And finally, let us not take it’s name in vain. Remembrance of Butthurt should be done in silence, reverence and piety to Intellect.

In Pornhubs name we pray, Ramen.

Butthurt was preceded in death by ‘Epic’ and Memes and is survived by ‘Like A Boss’, Game Requests ‘I Support the’ and Star Wars Syndrome.

The Soft Glow of Electric Sex- An Erotic Tale of Cyborg Sex, Almost

cyborgsex

“So then I just told her that the charging station was for paying cyborgs only.”

“Did she leave?”

“Yeah, she huffed off in a flurry of whirs and buzzing.”

“Classic.” he said, hoping to derail the small talk as they finished cleaning up the dishes together. “Hey, baby, you feeling frisky at all this evening? We have been so busy lately that my intimacy indicator sent a reminder today.”

“Yeah, mine did, too. And come to think of it, a little boom boom would make this mama a happy hybrid.”

“Raoorwww!” came the thunderous response generated in his vocal modulator. “Daddy likey.”

He pounced at her and ran a carefully calibrated hand from where the golden nylon hair streamed from her control until all the way down her back. Her sensors caused her perfectly manufactured body to respond to every nanometer of his touch. His warm lifelike hands causing her fiber-optic nerves to twitch ever so slightly and her body rocked into his before a thought occurred to her.

“Not just yet, Davian. First mama has to finish a few more chores and daddy needs to do the same. Then we can play.”

He stepped back feigning hurt and betrayal. “Alright my little bundle of electrons. But don’t take too long. My circuits long to connect with yours, Evissa.” he joked, referencing a Digi-Opera they had seen on their first date all those years ago.

*****

By the time that Evissa was finished with her duties, Davia was already lying in bed with a number of complicated attachments and accessories splayed around him.

“Cuddle up, buttercup.” came his invitation as he cleared an area for her to snuggle up next to him. “I wasn’t sure which parts you would want to use, so I just got everything out.”

On the bed were a number of attachments that could be connected to their cyborg bodies, offering a great number of combinations and pleasures. Aside from these lumps of metal, latex and circuitry were also a number of neurochemical enhancements. Not even counting positions, there were already thousands of possible combinations they could exercise their sexual bonding with. Unlike their human predecessors, sex was not something determined by the basic singular equipment humans were born with and suffered before they could make the transformation into a electro-mechanical body.

“Well, I suppose the first question is, which of us are going top and which bottom?” Evissa asked.

In response Davia leapt from the bed in a forward spinning maneuver, landing perfectly on his feet at the end of the bed and teased, “I’ll flip ya for it!”

She laughed and reached for her lucky ancient coin, passed down for dozens of generations back to a time when humans still used currency and their frail animal bodies to negotiate the world. “Winner gets bottom, you call it.”

She sent the shiny artifact tumbling in free space and faked a drop, correcting her movements in a micro-sliver of time before it landed perfectly on the back of her hand just as he called out ‘Ass’, which referred to the ancient king embedded on one side, another relic of the past.

“And ass it is, my drippingly sweet neurocandy. Pick a hole.”

He looked at the assortment of receiver attachments which would accommodate any number of penetration accessories also laid out before them. “Well, let’s see. The T78X sounds good, you know. I always have liked an insertion unit that had full body integration circuits, but it can be a bit much. Maybe something simpler? Oh, here, how about this. A dual fit triple entry sleeve made from the finest Venusian organics. How many holes you think I should go with?”

“Oh, I don’t have a preference, Davia. You just pick first and then we will pick the thrusting unit together.”

“I love it when you talk thrust, my plasma pumping love plum.”

Evissa giggled at his juvenile pet name. Underneath the durable and long lasting body was still a human brain and hers showed a hint of fatigue by triggering a yawn display in her flawless face mask.

“Well, I guess if I am being honest, which most of my circuits require, what I really wanna use is the good old 42.77t. Nothing fancy, just a self lubricating unit which triggers audio pleasure centers. If that is the case, we better pick out some music. And you should use the Earquake 2.0 attachment. Why don’t you take care of that while I go get this apparatus installed.”

“Good combo.” Evissa agreed.

He got up and walked towards the master bathroom, which was nothing like its antique predecessor, since cyborgs used all energy sources efficiently and did not need to excrete waste. And grooming was mostly done using nanobots, so really the room was just a place to put up mirrors as well as some basic accessories and polishing equipment and chemicals.

As Evissa referenced her list of current audio downloads and worked on a sexy play list she heard Davia call out from the next room.

“Fiddleswitch! Damn thing needs a software update. Hey, you don’t mind if I-”

“No, go ahead.” she cut him off. “I will just get myself all fitted and finish this play list.”

“Oh, did you pick some chemistry out yet?

“Not yet, but I will.”

*****

Davia took the unit out to the high speed docking station so that the update would only take a minute. These damn old attachments always developed bugs and had to have constant software and driver updates in order not to infect its user with a virus. Sex-unit transmitted diseases were no laughing matter. As he searched for the proper new software to install he noticed an email from an old friend. Although he knew he could not take the time to respond, he opened the message to look at it. He liked doing it on these old desk units rather than in his internal ones. There was something rewarding about seeing the letters glow on a screen rather than just transmitted directly to his brain. It was not a great idea, because the letter was a bit long and somewhat distressing. He fought the urge to respond right away but had not noticed that fifteen minutes had passed since he left Evissa in the bedroom.

“Hey baby?” he used a long distance voice to reach her in the other room. “Just about ready, how about you? You mind if I-”

Again, she cut him off, accustomed to his habits and questions. “No, love, go ahead. Do whatever you need to. I will be ready whenever you are.”

His heart beamed with anticipation and love. He loved her more than any neurosynaptic meatwad trapped in a high tech form possibly could. So he wanted to be present while they made love to one another, and that meant firing back a quick response to lay the matters in the email to rest until morning.

He finished up within what seemed just a few minutes and tried to creep stealthily back into the bedroom, even though her finely tuned electronics could not be fooled. Old meatman habits died hard and many puzzling vestigial behaviors still occurred among the hybrid progeny of human and machine. She seemed to be playing along, as she did not call him out on his obvious deceit. Perhaps she wanted to do some role-playing, too, he hoped.

As he slipped into the bedroom he now understood the real reason for her silence. She was fast asleep. It had been almost an hour since she found him in the bedroom sorting through their collection of sexual accessories. She had not been able to stay awake after all the time taken up by preparations and his little email interruption.

“Dammit.” he sub-vocalized, not wanting the organic air movements to manifest in his vocal apparatus.

She was so gorgeous lying there on their bed, surrounded by varied mechanical replications and substitutions of ancient human sex organs. He pushed it all to the floor as quietly as possible and nuzzled up next to her, falling asleep in the sure and steady syncopated sounds and rhythms of her basic life support mechanisms.

Resume- Devils Expert

Resume for Devils Expert

Summary

Classically trained practitioner of the Dark Arts and foremost expert on Satan with degrees in Luciferian history, science and philosophy. Extensive knowledge in all things devilish with twenty years experience within the forbidden field. Desire to extend my practice and experience into all arenas of life where knowledge of the Deciever would benefit myself, others and the Shunned Lord.

Career Highlights

*Held the first ever Black Mass in a public school disguised as a motivational speaker and collected 665 virgin souls in single delightening, missing Lucifers record by only one.

*Testified as a scientist or expert in hundreds of court cases defending prophets of the Morning Stars works.

*Devised the ‘weapons of mass destruction’ marketing brand which helped the international banking and defense contractors increase profits several fold while decreasing potential prophets.

*Author of a dozen popular children’s stories.

Experience

Primary Consultant-
World Governments
July 1996 – Present (18 years 1 months)
The Illusory World
Adversarial Adviser to Authoritarians

Creative solutions for overcoming the problem of Original Grace and subverting mankind to its base instincts while constructing systematic artifices to uphold these patterns of evil.

Skills: Avarice, Hubris and Ambition

Chief Dirtside Minion-
Satan
December 1991 – Present (22 years 8 months)
The Fallen Garden
Evil Management and Marketing Solutions

Performed a number of tasks disrupting the free will of the fallen human race in order to bring their souls to the enemy of their creator.

Skills: Patience, Humor, Bloodlust

Floor Sales-
Radio Shack
February 2006 – November 2006 (9 months)
Des Moines, Iowa
Sales and Service

This job was a front necessitated by Lucifers lust for a philosophy masters candidate working on her thesis on Nietzschean dialectics while working at Radio Shack to pay rent. My task was to bring her into the service of Satan so that He could anoint her loins with the seed of the Antichrist. Achieved in three months, stayed another six for the great merchandise discounts.

Skills: Bergeracian Poetry, Malevolence Marketing and Ruphynol Dispenser

Education

Institute of Eternal Suffering
Vocational
Devils Advocacy, Soul Procurement, Pleas to Vanity
2004 – 2006
Graduated Classless Valedictorian
Dishonor Society
Unscrupulous Certification

University Of Iowa
Doctorate
Marketing, Political Science, Ballet
1995 – 2003
President of Students for Satan and Chartering Founder of the Campus Antichrist Ministries.

Certifications

Strategic Expert
Illuminati
April 2011
Architectural Advisor for the New World Order

Lifeguard
River Styx
May 1999
Demon CPR

Evil
Lord of Lies
September 1994
Certified Evil in all Realms

Professional Memberships/Awards

Knights In Satans Service- K.I.S.S. Army General

Westboro Baptist Church- Doctrine Advisor

Most Maligned Agent of Hades 1997, 2001, 2004, 2005, 2009, 2012, 2013

Interests
Fall of Man
State of Oblivion
Animal and Pet Advocacy

Skills
Persuasion (Expert)
Deceit (Expert)
Conflict Causation (Expert)
Public Speaking and Debate (Expert)
Canadian Cuisine (Intermediate)

Languages
Human (Fluent)
Babel (Fluent)
Tongues (Fluent)

References
Satan
Fallen Angel, Inferno Inc.
666-666-6666
betrayer_kittenlover@reallyhotmail.com

 

That Time of the Month

“And you know what I get sick of, Frank? I get sick of all these god damned excuses. If it were just that you sometimes ate a virgin or shat on the deck, I could forgive you. But these endless excuses wear me down, Frank. ‘Oh, I can’t help it, Linda. It’s my time of the month.‘ Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, Frank.”

“But Linda, I’m a fucking werewolf. Once a month supernatural forces compel me, against my will, to transform into a ravenous beast with little in common with my human self. And you knew this when you married me. ‘Oh, I know it won’t be easy, Frank. But nothing could keep me from wanting to spend the rest of my life with you. Plus, I think it’s kinda sexy.’ Remember that, Linda? Remember all that?”

“It was sexy back when you weren’t a fat dumbfuck in real life, and an even fatter, dumber fuck in the supernatural realm. You are a failure, Frank. A fucking loser. Even with supernatural powers you manage to get more weak and powerless every day of your life. Last full moon you never even left the lawn. You rarely even hunt anymore and you eat a tenth of your salary in Alpo every fucking month, Frank. Fucking loser.”

“Don’t hold anything back, Linda. Tell me what you really fucking think. Jesus leper-fuckin’ Christ, bitch. You are really one to talk. Remember introducing herpes into our home after fucking that weatherman, Linda? Remember getting fired for giving those herpes to your boss? Any of that ring a bell?”

“Who would have thought a guy who gets flea dipped half a dozen times a year, as well as regular treatments for heart and ringworms from eating animal shit would have such an issue with a little herpes? A guy who was once caught fucking the neighbors labrador retriever.”

“I was a fucking werewolf when I did that.”

I was a fucking werewolf when I did that.

“But I WAS!”

“Always the same god-damned thing with you, Frank. ‘It’s a full moon. It’s MY time of the month.‘ Wah, wah, waaah, Frank. You fucking loser.”

“I swear to fucking God, Linda, next time the moon changes I am going to finally fucking eat you. Once and for all.”

“I wish you would, Frank. I really wish you fucking would. Wereloser.”

Miss Idaho Wears An Insulin Pump & She Is Not Afraid To Show It

The link- Miss Idaho Wears An Insulin Pump…

 

The Rant- Some people think that a hero is somebody who puts their life on the line in the service of others. Lots of people think cops are heroes, but for what? Ruining the life of, and sometimes killing innocent people; while every once in awhile actually catching a guy almost, or just as bad, as the cops themselves? Lots of people think soldiers are heroes. But why? For ‘just following orders’ given by sociopaths and psychopaths that lead to the deaths of untold innocent human beings? FUCK THAT NOISE. A real hero is some half naked mental mongoloid who has the courage and moxie to cross a stage with a typical medical device. Beauty pageants are one of the most important parts of our social and spiritual fabric as a species, and their importance can not be understated. And with this rampant hatred and bigotry constantly being heaped mercilessly upon the diabetic, what a better place to break down a boundary that divides us at our very core? You want a fucking hero? Here ya go. She is 5’2″, has a dog and a cat named Mitzy, totally clears 84 points on an intelligence quotient test and is braver than George Washington and Jenny McCarthy combined. You go, girl. I do not know where or why, but it just feels good to say it. There, now I am crying. I told myself I wouldn’t do this here.

And now the HuffPost weather…
Todays weather will be fair and equal. It will be more fair than equal in some parts while other localities will experience a slight variation of higher fairness and lower equalness. As always, the weather promises universal access to its services to all people, processes and objects experiencing its phenomena. This comes on a three day streak of sadness the weather was experiencing but was able to overcome thanks to some kind comments on it’s Facebook wall. You cannot hold the weather down with your bullshit, biological privileged, socially constructed lie of meteorology.

And finally in HuffPost sports. Today an eight year old girl sat out a soccer game because her friend Jenny said she looked funny when she kicked the ball. Following these career devastating comments, some boys laughed at her, exacerbating the grievous injuries she received on the field. The game ended up in a tie, score- Tried to Tried. Every child took home a medal, even those who suffered emotional injuries and had to be benched for the game. Fuck you, Jenny!

Now stay tuned tomorrow night when we tell you a heartwarming tale of a young man who had the heart and the fire to bravely wear a hearing aid to his sisters piano recital and an eighty five year old hero who wore her colostomy bag to Wal Mart, despite the stigma and subsequent suffering of this courageous action.

The Burgerican Dream

the burgerican dream

Once upon a time the world came to an end. It just stopped doing what it was doing and through a series of FUBAR’s and SNAFU’s the number of TechnoApes dwindled down to nearly nothing. Nobody knew exactly what happened, but Alien Space Bats were strongly suspected. The few people who remained after humanities exodus from Earth gathered in small groups. These groups were characterized by a common interest shared by the members. In a small cattle farm in the midwest a few dozen such individuals collected around a mutual love of hamburgers. They called themselves Burgerica.

The Burgericans rebuilt their entire society around the production and consumption of hamburgers; as well as french fries and salads. Their social, political and economic systems were all maximized for burger production and consumption. Labor was divided so that there were those who farmed the raw materials and those who processed them into consumable forms. The two groups traded their products for the others and lived in harmony. But as time went on, the processes necessary to lead to hamburgers became more efficient, and the community grew.

Soon there was not enough work for all of the Burgericans, so they expanded their economy by having a new segment of the population which cooked and served the burgers to the other tradesmen and women. This worked for awhile, but soon people began to notice that some people made better burgers than others, and some suppliers and farmers had better practices than others in terms of efficiency and food safety. So a new segment was created of those who regulated the production, service and quality of burgers. But the community continued to grow and processes became more efficient and once again there were not enough jobs.

Since everybody was generally busy all day long farming and processing and serving and regulating, there was not enough burger consumption to keep up with supply. In order to decrease the supply and increase consumption there was a new segment created. This segment consisted mostly of people who were unhelpful or disinterested in burgers. They were given useless and mostly meaningless busywork and in exchange were allowed to consume hamburgers and french fries and salads.

Farming and processing are pretty hard work and for most people, serving burgers was pretty undignified. So people began flocking into the regulatory jobs as well as toward the busywork and consumption. Soon the number of people grew even more and the strain on the resources necessary to create hamburgers for everyone began to show.

When the farmers and processors and servers began to complain about their burden and warn the others about the imbalance of their system they were scorned. Burgers are everybody’s right, the others would say. We should all have equal access to burgers, they said.

The farmers and processors and servers tried to warn them that they were not saying they didn’t want to provide burgers, only that they could not provide burgers to everyone with a resource crisis looming. It was simply unsustainable. Besides, they added, most of you aren’t really doing anything but making our jobs more difficult or running stray errands that don’t produce the burgers that we all value and rely upon.

Yet the regulators and busyworkers would not hear of it. In fact, they began to insist that they had even more rights and access to the dwindling wealth produced by the hamburger economy, not just for themselves but for their families as well. So the farmers and processors and servers gave in, because there was nothing they could do. They were outnumbered and their way of life relied on keeping a steady supply of tasty burgers and fries and salads, so they pushed themselves and their resources to the very edge.

Finally it became apparent to the farmers they could not provide enough meat. The processors and servers felt the shortage and begin to feel the strain of a demand that could not be met. When the regulators and busyworking consumers caught wind of this they went nuts. They demanded and demanded that there were more and more burgers but their demands were pointless. It was not possible. Soon they began to fight one another for hamburgers and then they fought the servers and then they all fought the processors and then the processors joined them to go give the farmers hell, but they were all gone.

The farmers saw what was coming. They took their families and some meager possessions and equipment and went off to settle new lands. They left behind all that they had built in Burgerica and went off on their own. Amongst them they decided never to specialize again. Every farmer would produce, process, serve and regulate the things that they found valuable. Where there was mutually shared interest in one another’s products, they would trade. But they shunned a system of centralized authority and economic processes and instead traded and self organized through voluntary consent which relied upon every individuals talents, values and reputation.

And they lived happily ever after. Except for when they didn’t, because that is how life goes, but that was okay because their wisdom taught them that fighting it just made it worse.

History In The Making – Resume Troll

resume blue

Summary

It is my goal in life to become a household name. I shall stop at nothing less than creating a legacy of my life that will go down in history alongside Socrates, Jesus Christ and Machiavelli. The future itself will seem in retrospect like an invention of mine. My immediate objective is to gain a foothold from which I might lift myself to higher heights and cast off into the wind of my glorious destiny. Wouldn’t you like to be in that historical footnote? The launch pad of the crucial crux of future civilization, this is what I offer you. Hiring me is a small price to pay.

Career Highlights

During 9/11 I was in NewYork doing a benefit for amputee orphans. I was in adjacent building when the towers fell and as the power went out I was stuck in an elevator with a woman who was on her way to give birth. I ended up delivering her child and using CPR to keep it alive until we were rescued, as the baby was born with a heart defect that I luckily recognized immedietaly. Today that child is a ten year old harpsicord prodigy who mastered the instrument after I gave her one lesson. I have invented several things and have recieved many patents. The one that I am most proud of is a device that adapts negative atmospheric energy into pure love and laughter. Also, a random time machine.

Experience

Life
Planet Earth
December 1976 – Present (37 years 7 months) • United States of Awesomerica
Winning Full Time
I do not view any particular stages or circumstances to be seperate from the sum of my existence. Reality is a synergistic whole which I have engaged vigoriously at all times, so the lines between work and play, jobs and hobbies, etc. have been too blurred for me to accurately relate my acheivements within such a narrow framework. Everything I have tried, I have mastered, and everything I have mastered has never been debated.

Education

Spaceship Earth, Universal Terran Laboratories
Doctorate
Universe
1976
I have mastered the pedagoguery of ontology, aced the existential exams and discovered the very key to our existence. In light of that mere dogmatic credentials seem trivial and pithy. Why exchange time and money for a paperwork life crutch when you can deal directly with the answers to the cosmos?

Certifications

Awesome
The Awesomeness and Win Institute L.L.C.
December 1976
Awesome is the highest honor available. Lifetime achievement award for winning.

Professional Memberships/Awards

  • Society of Discord POEE

Interests

  • Pure Rock Fury
  • Humorgasms
  • Bringing The Pain Then Making Sure It Gets Home Safely Afterwards.

Skills

  • Inventiveness (Expert)
  • Megacharm (Expert)
  • Face Gardening (Expert)
  • Just Knowing What Is Right or Wrong (Expert)
  • Rhyme Management (Expert)

Ready Or Not, Here I Am

Summary

The future is full of technological threats we cannot even imagine. But how far away is that future and what are we doing to prepare ourselves for it? For most people the answer is, ‘Nothing.’ This is where I come in. I have trained extensively in the skills that will be necessary to eradicate rogue technologies. What does that make me? Your insurance policy against the inevitable, unless you wish to be squashed beneath the metal soles of souless machine monsters, you are gonna need a guy like me by your side eventually.

Career Highlights

Experience

Janitor
Spunkys Arcade and Adult Entertainment Emporium
August 1997 – Present (16 years 11 months) • Nopupu, Iowa
I specialize in sanitation protocol, biohazardous waste management, traction inspection, UV light operator, security and special ops.

Education

Beardgarten Institute of Singularity Defense Strategies
Doctorate
Advanced Mek Combat and Survival
2001
Advanced studies in combat strategies, skills and crisis management. Over 5,000 hours of coursework. Training indefinite.

Certifications

Professor Emeritus Online Courses: Butlerian Jihad, Asimov and Robotics, THX1138
Center For The Study of Science Fiction
February 2008
Oversee curriculum and coursework for three academic courses in speculative fiction which I also act as Professor Emeritus over online classes.
Iron Palms Training Method
American Martial Arts Certified Professionals
November 2001
Certified martial arts expert and instructor. Master in the deadly art of Iron Palms as well as a black belt nearly seven other martial arts.

Professional Memberships/Awards

Interests

Skills

  • Hand to hand combat effective also against non human and inorganic targets. (Expert)
  • Weaponry use, construction and management. (Expert)
  • Programming, counterprogramming and digital espionage. (Expert)
  • Survival: rural and urban. Including self sufficiency and resource management. (Expert)
  • Techsidermy. (Expert)

Professional Advanced Mimicry Solutions

Summary

I am a highly driven portrayal professional with over thirteen years experience enacting simulations and renditions of ordinary human activity, as well as advanced impersonations. I have an expansive knowledge and interest in parroting pretense and apery assumptions and desire advancement within the field of feigning.

Career Highlights

For my graduate thesis I did a piece entitled ‘Think Outside of the Box’ in which I mimicked being trapped inside of a sphere while free falling from thirty thousand feet.

My first professional feat of imitation came shortly thereafter when the UN Council on Indigenous Affairs needed to communicate with an uncontacted tribe of islanders whose island was about to go volcanic. Officials were unable to communicate verbally with the islanders and so called me in to use my advanced aping skills to communicate to the islanders the danger they faced. Thanks to my efforts about sixty eight percent of the islanders were convinced to try relocation to a similar nearby island where they were able to survive mother natures explosive fury.

Experience

Vice President of Depictions
Imitation Solutions Unlimited
Operations Manager
Direct Dramatizations Intl.
February 2006 – April 2009 (3 years 2 months) • 52240, Iowa City, Iowa
Lead Histrionics
Lewis Group Mockery Firm
August 1999 – January 2006 (6 years 5 months) • 52240, Iowa City, Iowa

Education

Harverd School of Mimickey
Professional
Mimicry Solutions in Real World Problems, Mime Calculus, or, How to Define the Box You Are Trapped In Mathematically, Silent Impersonation Nuance
1995 – 2000

Certifications

Bonafide Portrayal Professional and Enactment Expert
International Association of Charade Professionals
October 2003

Professional Memberships/Awards

  • Nobel Prize in Mimicry, candidate 2012

Interests

  • Silent conversations.
  • Playing charades.
  • The mirror.

Skills

  • Stillness (Expert)
  • Movement (Expert)
  • Silence (Expert)

Meta Resume

Summary

*Leading expert in recursive systems and self referencing technologies with experience in and of itself.

*Expansive background in circular reasoning, feedback transference and auto-looping.
*Seeking a new challenge in which to use my unique set of meta skills in a singularly diverse environment.

Career Highlights

Using logical feedback loops and meta-referent paradoxes I was able to destroy an alternate universe that had become a danger to this universe, where I escaped just before collapsing that reality by causing it to swallow its ontological tale.

Experience

Chief Recursion Engineer
Existential Amusement Park
December 2012 – January 2014 (1 years 1 months)
*Reality #57G700V24.a23
It while was working at this DeCartean amusement park that I learned of a plan to open an attraction which would send a roller coaster ripping through the fabric of the universe I am currently in, eventually destroying it. So I fixed it.
Sauce Solipsism
McBurger Boy
May 2007 – December 2012 (5 years 7 months)
*Des Moines, Nebraska
Chief Executive Sitting Bull
Divide By Zero Concepts
October 1987 – April 2007 (19 years 6 months) • Seriously, Uneverbeenthere

Education

Auto-Pedagogue University
Doctorate
Graduated with a degree in Graduating With A Degree, Heisenberg Poets Society, Attendance record for attending more classes than were held in eight consecutive trimesters.
1976 – 2013

Certifications

Certification Certifier
Circuitous Reassurances Unlimited
May 1992

Professional Memberships/Awards

  • Fraternal Order of Joshua Scott Hotchkin
  • Meta Workers Union local 1001
  • Most Recursive Sauce, 2011
  • Academy Award for Greatest Self Reference in a screenplay.

Interests

  • Other peoples interests.
  • Questioning why things are interesting.
  • Pursuing other interests.
  • Being interesting.
  • Sharing my interests with people who are not really interested in them.

Skills

  • Manipulating complex data sets with information contained within the data sets themselves.(Expert)
  • Efficient in creation of paradoxes sufficient to collapse the gravitational functions of a universe(Intermediate)
  • Picture in picture in picture in picture in picture, ad infinitum. (Expert)

Languages

  • English (Fluent)
  • Other (Fluent)

References

Joshua Scott Hotchkin
Meta-Resume-ist. , Meta-Resumes Outernational

The Time Machine

timemachine

One thing I bet you didn’t know about me was that I have a time machine in my basement. I know what your thinking, but it doesn’t work; if it ever even did. Come along, i’ll show you.

There it is. See how it looks like some kind of jack-in-the-box decorated in electronics. I think thats because of the crank. Dad said that that was what he used to raise enough electro-static energy to create a mobile field. Whatever that means. That? Oh, I don’t know what that does. I betcha i’ve pushed every button on it a thousand times in millions of combinations, and never even caused anything to so much as light up. If there are even lights on it. I mean, i’m not really sure.

My dad didn’t exactly design this thing, but he did build it. He told me that one night he was visited from a stranger. He said that it was obvious, even before the stranger mentioned it, that she was from another time. Far ahead of ours, he told me. Something like five hundred years, but I can’t remember exactly anymore. Anyhow, she told him to build this time machine and when he finished it she would know and provide further instructions to him. Something about saving the world in the future, but I don’t think that even Dad was to sure what he would have to do after he built this contraption.

Nonetheless, he took this project very seriously. He mustve gotten started when I was seven or eight years old. Back then he would just work on it during his free time on the weekends, or when he was annoyed by my mother or us children. For the longest time it was only a bunch of very small electronic componets scattered about. I don’t guess Dad knew the first thing about building a toaster, let alone a time machine. Most of his time he spent pouring through instructional manuals, honing his knowledge and applying it to the plans the strange woman had given him.

About the time that all of us children moved out of the house, Dad had his midlife crisis. Beofre then he never believed he was building a time machine to save the world, he was just building a very complex toy that only he understood, or so he thought. Well, after that he got pretty hung up on what he called his ‘mission’. The hobby became an obsession. He spent all of his free time, even week nights, working on this damned thing. The more time went on the more passionate he became. Soon he was investing all of his money in it as well, and thats when Mom left him. Oh, that mightve broken most men up, but it only steeled his resolve.

Not long after he retired and began working on this damn time machine almost all waking hours. When he slept, he constantly dreamed of the strange woman. She was begging him to finish, begging! This caused a frenzy of activity, and insanity. He was no longer taking care of himself or his home or anything. Just pouring every ounce of his body and soul into that damn machine. When you could get a word in with him, its all he would talk about.

One day we got a call from Dad. he invited all of his children and their families out to dinner to make a ‘big announcement’. He told us that work on the time machine was complete. Furthermore, he planned to ‘take a journey’ in it the next day. A test run. We begged him not to do it. Nobody including himself knew what he was going to turn on, when he flicked that switch. In desperation I asked him about the woman, what about the woman? Has she come back? No, he said, no. Well then, how do you know it works, didnt she say shed come when it was ready and let you know what to do? You damn fool, how will she know it works if I dont turn it on, he asked condescendingly. There was a certain impeccability about the logic, but none of us wanted him to do it. But you cant stop the old man when he makes up his mind, as im sure you can tell by this tale already.

So anyhow, we don’t hear from him by the next night so I start to get pretty worried. he wouldn’t answer a phone so me and my brother Ed drove over to his house. When we got there there was no sign of him, until we opened this damn thing up. There he was just sitting and smiling, smiling and staring. Completely fixated on nothing. When we tried speaking to him, yelling at, shaking and dancing around in front of him, there was no response. He just sat there happy as a retard at a birthday cake eating contest.Well, I took him home and when nothing had changed the next day we took him to a doctor. The doctor said that there was absolutely nothing wrong with him. Several more doctors said the same. After a few months we decided to put him into professional care. Its not like he was benefitting from our presence. Hell, he just sat there smiling all damn live long day. And he still is, just sitting there in his room looking wherever the nurses point him, smiling.

So yup, this is it. This is my old mans time machine. Aint much to look at, but its the lifes work of a man. I gotta give him credit, through a dozen or so jobs and three marriages I aint stuck by nothing. Not a thing to show for all of these hard lived years. But my old man, he had this stupid box; and if nothing else, he’ll die smiling.

Dear Ladies: Things Women Should Know About Men

ladies

I’m a smart guy. Like really smart. So smart that I understood Donnie Darko the first time that I saw it. Although I did learn many things about The Smurfs I had never considered. Yet as smart as I could ever be I will never completely understand women because I am not also entirely insane. This is not to say that women are crazy. However, trying to understand them with a male perspective certainly is. So being the ultra super duper smart dude that I am I decided to try to understand myself and thus all of mandom. I also spent a lot of years single, not because I am too smart to date, but because I really needed the time to do this research uninterrupted. But now that I am in a happy relationship with a creative, funny, beautiful, intelligent woman who still hasn’t figured out how to pick the locks, I have decided to release my findings so that all of the other women can benefit from the knowledge.

The following list is comprised of the things that you ladies do that drive us fellas bonkers, no matter how innocent or innocuous they may seem. They are things that will inexplicably and irrationally crawl right up on a nerve and twerk it with spiked panties. However this list is based on an assumption that men are predominately introverted while women display mostly extroverted behavior. Since I am really smart you won’t have to point out that this is an obviously false assertion. The opposite can also be true and people can display either characteristic at different times. In this way the following can also be instructive for dealing with general differences between intro/extroverts. The only reason that I used this horrible stereotype is that in the comfort of our homes and private relationships, it is almost always entirely true. So speaking as a man, a home introvert and a really smart genius person, I recommend that you consider the following so at the very least you can critique it in the comments with your inferior mind receptacles.


Questions

Here is the thing, ladies. You ask too many questions. And even worse, the questions are usually unnecessary or manipulative. I do not think you are doing this to intentionally drive us insane, but our tastes in communication styles varies wildly. And you totally drive us insane. Here are a few different types of questions that we really wish you would never ask, but would totally accept a few if you could just try to cut back.

The Disguised Command

This question is used when you would like us to fulfill some household role or task. It is your attempt to politely remind us that we promised to clean up our mess in the basement from the failed home brewing phase that came to a head the first time diarrhea became a medical emergency in our lives. Or something like that. The question goes like this:

“Are you going to clean up that mess in the basement this weekend or are you converting it into a factory farm for sulfuric mold?”

First of all, you are not actually curious about our weekend plans with this question, you are trying to make them for us. There is really nothing wrong about reminding us of our obligations, but it is disingenuous to phrase it as a question rather than a statement.

Secondly, with that attitude and tone of voice I don’t think you would be very supportive if indeed the mass production of stank ass growth were my master plan all along, now would you?

Fishing Questions
When I say fishing questions I do not mean things like, “Can I borrow your rod?” (Only up to the second eyelet.) I mean questions in which you are fishing for specific answers. The entire ‘does this make me look fat?’ cliché is an obvious example. Yet there are other less obvious examples of this which we guys get all of the time. The problem with this kind of question is that you are seeking a specific answer so it is not really a question at all. You are manipulating us into validating you. Maybe you have some self esteem issues or just like to be told what you want to hear for fun. It doesn’t really matter. Instinctually we realize we are being used and nobody likes that feeling. Like almost everything else in this article, most guys don’t even know why they dislike it, they just do. Sort of like herbal tea.

Another kind of fishing question is the confirmation question. These would be questions that end in a phrase like, ‘Don’t you think so?’ You are not really curious about our opinion, you just have some inexplicable need to have other peoples opinions in sync with yours and so you try to manufacture this agreement with sneaky questions. Again, you are using questions to manipulate other people into validating you, and that never makes for a great long term relationship strategy. Sort of like secretly taking Viagra for the first few weeks of intercourse.

The Unnecessary Question
Years ago I used to work in head shops. Although you wouldn’t expect it, stoners ask a lot of stupid questions. No, really. The dumbest of them were generally questions in which the answers were self evident. The most recurrent of these was to ask the price of an item that was clearly marked. After awhile I brought some plastic spoons and would answer these types of questions by writing the answer on the spoon and handing it to the hazey eyed offender. When I got that ‘cat being told its horoscope’ look I would explain that I was only willing to spoon feed obvious answers in the most literal sense. Lucky for me, stoners are also pretty easy going and can take a joke, but you ladies aren’t always necessarily in the mood for that kind of sardonic cleverness.

Women often prefer to deal with problems by talking them out first while men generally work by jumping right into action. So when you ask us where something is we expect it is because you have already looked in the most obvious places. As I have found, this is not always the case. Or if you ask us if we need to get more cat food we wonder why you don’t just look for yourself as we would. No conversation needed. The unnecessary question takes many forms but is essentially a question that attempts to replace a task. If Google ever becomes a self aware, sentient being, men will know exactly how it feels.

So before you ask a man a question ask yourself if it is necessary, has an agenda or could be made into a statement rather than a question. Our ickiness about questions may seem irrational and unreasonable to you but it exists nonetheless and accounting for it could prevent that special fella from spouting off the mean-spirited, sarcastic answers he generally reserves for his guy friends.


Sudden Invasion

Like a lot of dudes, I find myself living in my head a lot. Sometimes I am using all of my smartiness to solve the essential problems of our existence while other times I am trying to figure out how to spell out the sound that farts make. (fyi- It is ‘skritch’ or ‘prap’ depending on the moisture content and force) Either way, when I am off in these fantastical worlds, it is not easy to get back. Nor do I necessarily want to leave them. Particularly if I am just about to solve world hunger or the spelling of the third, quiet fart. Just as I am about to get all of the p’s, t’s, f’s and h’s in place my special lady walks in and abruptly tells me that she thinks she might have Stockholm Syndrome. Suddenly I am trapped in between worlds and the perfect word for low volume pants combustion just dissipates into eternity. She stands there waiting for a response but I am not fully in her world again and I either did not hear or cannot comprehend what was just spoken to me. After she repeats herself I am even more frustrated that she interrupted my meditation to tell me something that I already know and will probably one day appear in court records. After an obfuscating response she goes back to whatever she was doing and I begin the long journey back into the recesses of my mind where every child can have enough food and every bodily function has a proper onomatopoeia.

Fortunately, there is a very easy solution for this. Never expect that a guy is ready to converse at the drop of a hat. It is possible that he has some mental calculations to finish performing or other internal work that disdains disruption. Rather than barging in the room with your flapper a’flappin’, calmly speak his name and when he makes eye contact with you, tell him you would like to talk to him when he has a chance. While it is still possible that he might find that conversation less time-worthy than his own abstractions he will at least not feel interrupted and thusly annoyed. And when you tell him that he is an idiot after he explains why a wet fart is a shorter word than a dry one, it will sting all that much less.


Decisions

No new information here. Studies have shown that women experience more difficulty when challenged with an immediate decision of any weight of consequence. And I should know because I exhaustively performed this research myself under the most stringent experimental conditions. If you don’t believe me, believe my science. My science aside, there also exist social, historical and evolutionary reasons why this occurs and how it develops. Fortunately for women this prevents you from spending most of your twenties and parts of the rest of your lives with a strong capacity and confidence to make really bad decisions at the drop of a hat. Rare is the man who can do that. When you do make decisions you generally make better ones, so would you please exercise that?

You do not need to make all of our mutual decisions for us on your own. Or even half. But you should be capable of covering a pretty good spread of our shared interests and most of your own without our input. We trust you. If we didn’t we would never have allowed you into our bizarre little private lives where we wear our foibles like butterfly tattoos on the small of the back. From our end it would be much easier to just trust you with everything while we get drunk and attempt to play football with our friends in a spectacle later described as, ‘a homoerotic ballet of tragic proportions’. There is no doubt that our faith in you will not crumble should you choose the orange jello with the fruit cocktail over the green with marshmallows to take to your aunt Edna’s funeral potluck. Just use your intuition.


Just Listening

“I just want you to listen to me. I don’t want you to try to examine it or fix it. I don’t need you to get emotional on my behalf or respond in any way. Just listen.”

When I need to pound in a nail I use a hammer. If I need to tighten or loosen a screw I use a screw driver. Any time I need a tool I pick the specific tool which has, inherent in its creation, the ability to perform the task I require of it. Should you require a tool capable of listening with a sympathetic ear without any response whatsoever, and you pick a man, you really need to get to know your toolbox a little bit better. Men have adapted the trait of an irrational need to solve problems while women just want to express and understand them incessantly. Since we already have this information it would be wise to apply it. We do not like to disappoint you any more than you like to be disappointed by us. Call on us when you need assistance and on each other when you need an aural negativity absorption device. We are no more capable of fulfilling your need without experiencing severe anxiety about the restrictions than my fiance is of finding sharp objects or prying devices in our loving home.


Blah Blah Blah

I didn’t want to have to science again so soon, but I once read a magazine and I am pretty sure it said that women generally talk more than men. It also suggested that the content of speech of men and women varied quite a bit. While the hens were up in the house flappin’ their beaks about other hens, their chicks or the cocks, the cocks warbled their garblers about mostly abstract or technical content. The function of conversation is to share interesting data, and that requires that both parties are interested in the data. There is no judgment being made when we acknowledge that the genders tend to diverge towards different data sets extracted from common human experiences.

I am very fortunate that the hen trapped in my house likes to discuss philosophy, religion, politics, science and a great diversity of topics I find intriguing. We have a lot of common ground for discussion without having to develop an artificial pecking order. Nonetheless, we both also like to discuss topics which bore the other. It is sort of your job to listen to your significant other and let them vent even if you could absolutely care less what that fuckbucket at their job did today. But either side can only take so much. And you talk more. So instead of driving your man out of the house with small talk and gossip, let him sit in a socially underdeveloped, stunted lump of ape in your nest and ponder if there is only one sound for a stream of urine or a number of variations. Or maybe save the world with a complicated plan that includes toplessness and a barbecue grill, while you go to a pottery workshop with the gals and talk coop.


Quiet Time

We are ironically told that silence is golden and serenaded with songs that portray the connection of lovers to be beyond the need for words. The problem is that lovers are individuals with their own needs. While I have a need to internalize, my captive soulmate has a need to socialize. These needs cannot be met simultaneously and she gets really prude after I put her in time out for popping my little fantasy bubbles. Since I don’t want to have to induce ejaculation alone and she isn’t allowed to have any friends because of our romantic arrangement, we have to give and take a little. For my needs to be met she does not need to take any active role at all, but to meet hers I must forego mine and assist her.

To make this as painless as possible for both of us we have discussed our needs and I have shared with her all of the information in this article. A fact of love is that you will drive one another nuts some of the time. But if you know what it is that drives one another nuts you can address the most problematic parts of your co-existence and leave only minor annoyances entangled in all of that trust, respect and love.


I made a lot of mistakes in relationships in the past. But I have learned from them and have been lucky to find the one woman who I plan to spend the rest of my life loving, cherishing and annoying and being annoyed by on occasion. The grunt work of a relationship means discussing your petty tendencies and mutually addressing them. Nothing could be more rewarding, but it is also very hard work. Not as hard as kidnapping and trying to brainwash a pizza delivery girl to be your eternal soulmate, but I am up to both tasks, because if you remember- I am very smart.

Spirit Quest

spiritquest
When I was younger it was a habit of mine to experiment with psychedelic drugs. I felt that these experiences opened up new vistas of thought and creativity within me. It had been years such I had done such a drug, until a few months ago. What I found was that the experience no longer opened up any new doors of perception from which to step into brave new worlds. However, it did reawaken the desire for me to re-explore the limits of my own thinking apparatus. I considered many alternatives from meditative yoga to sensory deprivation, but none of these appealed to me because they seemed to lack extremity. I recalled several books I had read, fiction and non-fiction, on Native American cultures. One of the things that always fascinated me most was the spirit quests in which an individual would fast in isolation until they were visited by their totem spirit guide. This was generally an animal of some sort that represented an individual’s link with the natural and/or spirit world. Why I didn’t necessarily believe in the religious aspects of the ritual, I saw how such an action could open the mind to new insights.

I spent two weeks making preparations for the outing. Although most Native American cultures used the spirit quest, they tended to vary in their pattern from tribe to tribe. Instead of choosing just one of the many, I attempted to blend these customs while personalizing it with my own ideas. The plan was to spend six nights and seven days alone in an isolated patch of forest without food or water. Actually I originally planned to take along a flask for emergency purposes, to be used only in a life or death situation. I read about the human bodies limitations regarding food and water, and decided that I was pushing the envelope. I didn’t want to die in this experiment. I decided to ration out a very minute portion of water each day to prevent total dehydration, while still allowing the lack of fluid to push me over the edge of normal bodily functioning.

Only one friend was willing to help me with my journey, the others were all too afraid for my safety to participate. The plan was that my friend would drive me the location and hike into the woods with me so that he would be able to locate me on the seventh day. I explained it would most likely be the case that I would need physical and mental assistance getting out of the woods. The night before I was to leave I visited with family and my closest friends. Those who were not aware of my plan were not made aware as I didn’t wish to alarm anybody. I then prepared letters and a will should anything unexpected occur during the outing. Finally I went to my favorite restaurant and ate an entire plate of Pad Thai. I should not have done that. The large meal stretched my stomach and would make the fast more difficult, as I learned later. I was careful not to drink any alcoholic beverages, as I didn’t wish to dehydrate prematurely.

The final preparation was to secure tobacco, and a carving knife to make a ceremonial pipe, such as been used in the Native American spirit quests. I set to bed early, but hardly slept a week all night due to anticipation. The next morning before the sun rose, we began the hour drive to the large wooded area I had chosen. When we arrived dawn had just received the day and the sun lit our way through the forest canopy. We hiked a few miles into the woods to an area I felt I would be left undisturbed in. My plan, were I to encounter hikers or such, was just to hide to avoid contact with other humans. My friend bid me some encouraging words and then left me alone with the flora and fauna of the forest.


The first day I was very eager, for what I did not know. I had used fallen branches to create a large circle which I would be confined to. I studied my surroundings, and tried the best I could to name all of the plants and trees I saw. It was obvious I did not know many, and I made a promise to familiarize myself with such knowledge after the excursion. Only in the evening did the hunger become a distraction, but it was not yet bad as it would get, I knew.

After a mostly uneventful day I fell asleep early nestled in a nest fashioned from dried leaves. I dreamt about a spiral staircase, which I climbed both up and down in seemingly infinite stretches without ever reaching anything. When I awoke to birdsong, I interpreted that the spiral staircase of my dreams represented not only DNA, but the spiraling nature of our infinite universe, in which there was no beginning or end.


Upon awaking I allowed myself half of my daily water ration. After that I began looking for a branch from which to carve my ceremonial pipe from. The Native Americans always spoke about finding a piece of wood that spoke to them and revealed the shape waiting to remain when all excess was stripped away. I looked for such a branch, but determined after several hours that I could not hear wood. So I picked a piece that seemed easy to carve due to a lack of knots. I spent most of the day slowly whittling away on the piece of wood, and what finally emerged was a crude but working pipe whose stem and bowl could be separated. I located some juniper berries and used them to dye the pipe, and then I thought to attach some feathers I had found using thin strips of soft bark, but the result was ridiculous and the adornments were removed.

As darkness fell I finished the other half of my daily water portion, and entertained myself by singing as many songs as I could remember the words to. I fell asleep to the sound of owls protesting my rendition of Paul McCartney’s ‘Band on the Run’. That night I dreamt of clouds that could coagulate into the imagined forms I saw within them. For whatever reasons many of these forms were cartoon characters I had remembered from my childhood.


Awaking the next morning on the third day, I could find no meaning within my dream. The third day started with severe hunger pains. As I had the morning before I immediately drank half of my daily water ration. I found it difficult to focus on anything but my hunger. I didn’t have the luxury of the previous day’s activity to occupy my time and my thoughts, or the enthusiasm of the first day. I paced within my circle into the afternoon. As the afternoon went on my will to continue faded rapidly. I cursed my self for setting upon this course of action with no plan for escape. I continually thought if I could just eat but one little insignificant cracker, everything would be okay. I realized the pacing made the hunger worse and sat down at the edge of the circle staring into the woods. I noticed something out there, a sight familiar from my childhood. It was a gooseberry bush. I knew it was early in the season so the plant would not be incredibly fruitful, nor its fruit ripe yet. I began to make every excuse I could to justify leaving my circle and breaking my fast with these berries. Before sundown I convinced myself it would be okay to eat a few of the berries. I picked about a dozen berries and ate them rapidly, and washed them down with the second half of my water ration.

Somewhat satisfied I lay down in my nest and recalled favorite stories until I fell asleep late into the night. That night I was aware of several short dreams, but did not remember any of them. I slept in a little later on the fourth day, and fought every attempt of my body to awaken until it could be put off no longer. It must have been shortly after noon. I had gotten confident in my ability to gauge time during the day by the suns position overhead. I drank my usual water and tried to think of something to occupy my time. My mind was over-ridden with doubts about this spirit quest. I became angry at myself. Within a few hours I decided to ditch the whole experiment. I would gather several handfuls of berries drink plenty of water and hike back to the road and hitchhike home away from this nightmare. I was eating the berries as fast as I could pick them and washing them down with my canteens contents. I must have eaten three dozen or so berries and consumed all but a day’s ration of water when I was inextricably stricken with feelings of shame and remorse at my own weakness. I went back to my circle, lay in my nest and cried for what seemed an eternity without emotional or mental content. Somewhere in this catharsis my resolve to continue went on. As I began regaining control of myself, I considered forcing myself to vomit the berries up, but I knew this would increase the danger of dehydration. I reassessed my situation. I knew I could survive the remainder of the trip with no water. I also realized that while I had broken my fast, the three dozen or so berries were really quite inconsequential as far as nourishment goes. I might still experience some revelation in my time left. I began to doubt very much I would meet with a spirit guide, but I thought the experience would still teach something useful.


I sang songs of my own devising late into the night. I sang songs to the moon and the stars and all of the plants and animals that lived in the forest. I sang songs to those who came before me and those who would follow after. I sang songs of beauty, love and joy. I sang late into the night and into the early morning until I sang myself asleep. That night I dreamt of a civilization of intelligent humanoids called Dandrites who had evolved from a single speck of my own dandruff. Within this relatively short dream I dreamt the entire course of Dandrite existence from beginning to end. I dreamt of the experiences and cultures of Dandrites in different regions. I even dreamed of some Dandrites who were my favorite throughout their history. The dream spanned millions of years, but in my reality lasted probably only an hour or so.


When I awoke the fifth day it was just before noon. I was thirsty, but the aching for food and water was only a dull undertone. It was as if it was merely a symptom of my body but no longer part of my conscious or subconscious desire. The need to cheat my fast had subsided and I began to accept the environment on its own terms and not as a barrier to my expectations. Squirrels, chipmunks, rabbits and other animals no longer seemed to move about frenetically. I saw them living within their own patterns, related to, but independent from human ideas about time. I realized their apparent scurrying was only them reacting to their life spans. I envisioned the squirrel accumulated just as many experiences in its life as I did in my relatively longer life. The sun was bright, even through the tree cover.

Occasionally I would stare into the sun, mesmerized, before becoming alert to the danger involved. Each time as my eyes retreated from our nearby star, my vision was flooded with the rods and cones that make up our sight. At the time, however, I did not think of them in these concrete scientific terms. Instead I saw them as subatomic particles floating about the atom that was my eye. Lost in these thoughts I unknowingly returned my gaze upon the sun. Revelations collided! Now the sun was the nuclear center (nucleus) of an atom in which all other things in our solar system from life to matter were merely subatomic particles. It followed in my mind that many solar systems (atoms) combined would make up a galaxy which was like a cell, which when combined made up the single body of our universe. By god, a God! Universe. And we are merely its most minute constituents acting out our part to preserve the body of the divine. What then of the cells that made up our bodies, our matter? Did this process repeat itself fractally in both directions micro and macro? Was there no end to small or large, infinity to oblivion? Or were these all just incomplete thoughts, confined by the apparatus of my perceptional and analytical capabilities? I saw at once that all truth I manufactured would be just that, manufactured. If the closest thing to a perfect thought could be so flawed, what then of the thought of a perfect thought? I began laughing hysterically. I had the sensation that I was not an individual within Universe laughing, but an individual tuned into and channeling the laughter of Universe. I grokked in fullness. Who is the great master who makes the grass green!

When at last I bifurcated from the laughter of Universe, I noticed it was nearly dusk. All of the thoughts of the day seemed to occur within mere moments, but in truth had been stretched out over nine hours or so. Like the other inhabitants of this forest, my pattern of time was no longer conforming to human standard. I wondered if this changed my very nature. Was I still myself or a new probable version of myself? The thought ‘probable’ sent me spiraling into yet another aspect of awareness. Was the very idea of individuality, of nurture and nature, completely flawed? Was it that I was not simply a product of my meat and its experiences, but a function of probability? I did not confuse this thought with destiny. Destiny is predetermined. Were all things simply a function of probability, playing out every possible action and generating experiences to fill the void of curiosity of Universe? If so could people and their actions not be labeled ‘good’ or ‘bad’, but merely probable? Was Universe and eternally cyclical infant learning from its discoveries and mistakes? What then of those who acted in deviant ways. Did they weaken the overall cells structure and thus compromise the health of the universe. Could misaligned egotistical beings create a sort of cancer in the flesh of Universe? After thinking these thoughts I realized the prejudice or polarity of my thinking that labeled cancer as ‘bad’. Would not the learning process of the divine require obscenity as well as beauty? I mulled over the idea of my life being a matrix of probabilities acting in the interest of a single grandeur intelligence. Universe!


Some time later I fell asleep. I did not dream. When I awoke at dawn I did not wake into the consciousness of my being. I was a disembodied spectator observing a narrating the experiences of my flesh. From such and angle I was poised in front of and above, looking down upon myself. A peculiar thing occurred in my observation. The ‘self’ I looked upon was a two dimensional image. It was as though physical reality was a cartoon, and perched above the vision of myself was a thought bubble of the like used in comic strips. It said, quite simply, ‘ACME’.

Immediately the barrier between myself and my disembodied consciousness dissolved. The next thought did not belong to me, and it said, “How I feel, now know you.” I should not have recognized that voice, for it belonged to a fictional entity that had never been given a function such as speech. The revelation of its identity was tantamount with significance of its appearance. I had found my spirit guide, and it was none other than Wile E. Coyote.

“Of the nature of existence, insight you have gained. But of the self, much have you to learn.” It was Wile E. Coyote, now standing right before my eyes. All of our surroundings were two dimensional replications of reality like a cartoon. Rather than the lush forest, we were now in a desert sitting upon a cliff overlooking a highway. “To be knowing of all things and their futility is a truth, but tis not a lesson from which the will of action benefits.” Wile E. Coyote, my spirit guide, talked just like Yoda. He went on. “Not a proper motivation for action or inaction is futility.”

After saying so much he lifted an anvil that had recently materialized and dropped it over the cliff to the road far below. I looked over the cliff, and though faint, recognized below The Roadrunner eating a pile of birdseed Wile E. had left there as bait. No paying attention to the scene below, Wile E. spoke to me again.

“Because meaningless our lives may be in the scheme grand, means not our lives are to ourselves meaningless.” As Wile E. spoke these words, The Roadrunner had noticed the anvil and exchanged places with a trampoline that had not existed moments earlier. The anvil hit its new target and was sent careening back to its place of origin. “Undefeatable The Roadrunner may be, but of this truths essence, my will is not.” The anvil came arcing overhead with great speed and hit the wise but blustering cartoon coyote on the head. It bounced up and down repeatedly striking Wile E. and pushing him further down into the ground with each blow. Just before the final blow sent his head beneath the rock surface he spoke his last words to me. “Thus is life.”


Having met my spirit guide, I felt spiritually renewed. I removed my pipe, put it together, and loaded it. I took long drags and turned in a circle blowing smoke in all directions and offering the smoke as a gift to Universe and all that I held sacred. The smoke carried my prayers far away, eventually dissipating and becoming part of all things. I sat still for many hours interpreting the truths my spirit guide had shown me. Although there really was no meaning to life, there was no reason to live under such a pretense. Life would only be as meaningful as I lived it, and to live was to live without fear, hatred or greed. Universe was not mine to use, but ours to share. Peacefully, under two thirds of a moon and millions of stars, I fell asleep.

History Science Theatre Presents: Marie Curie aka: the Madame

madame curie

The Madame did not fuck around. She was so hard for science that she eventually scienced herself to death. But not before she got all up on two Nobel Prizes as the first woman to hit that shit. As a victim of chronic seriousness she was able to transform a lively-threatening condition into a hardcore work ethic and mega uptight bitch face. It is a strange fact that no photographs or personal accounts exist of MC Radiation (her street name) in which she is anything less than dour, stoic and apparently suffering from an acute case of silicate particulates in the uterus. But man, could she ever fucking science!

Being a woman, she was unable to get real people to take her seriously. From her quest to obtain a formal education to her time providing them she was often dismissed because she was a woman, a pollock, or even worse- a jew. Which she totally wasn’t. As a fundamentalist reformed agnostic she avoided religion and that just made things harder on her because, holy shit, FEMALE JEWLOCK ATHEIST! Yet in spite of, or perhaps because of the haters, she persevered like a motherfucker and helped to unlock the secrets of nuclear physics which gave her species the ability to destroy itself almost overnight.

Even though the Madame was crusty in outward appearances she must have liked to bone, because she had two children and after her husband died she became a home-wrecking cougar to a younger, married man. Her marriage was both personal and professional, even though the dude was french. It was originally science which brought them together, but it was huffing nitrous oxide and having double penetrations with a lab assistant that cemented their romance. If such a thing existed, and it shouldn’t, the two would have won a Nobel prize in love. However, tragedy struck early on and he died from injuries sustained after walking out into a foggy street and getting hit by a horse and buggy. Who the fuck does that? You are a god damned scientist, observe your surroundings and shit!

After he died she was even more committed to sciencing. Her work using radioactivity to help in medical applications won her some support from the haters. Since she was always so serious she hated having haters so she tried to do some public relations work by donating her time, expertise and equipment to injured soldiers during the first world war. But even the French government saw through the ruse and didn’t give her any respect for her efforts. It was always her contribution towards radioactive medicine that carried her reputation even though humans are starting to figure out that maybe nuking yourself back to health isn’t the best fucking option.

Eventually she nuked herself to death. Doesn’t seem very smart to me. You would think that if she was a scientists concerned with health she might have had the sense to test for side effects before going so far as carrying around radioactive materials in her pocket. In seventh grade science class I had to dissect a frog in order to understand biology, but even then I already knew enough not to put it in my pocket because it would start to stink and decompose and maybe make me sick. Where is my Nobel prize? I mean, seriously, you can’t even read her journals today because they are still too radioactive. Ever since she died she has become a sort of female role model which the conditioning factories we call schools use as an example of what even little girls can accomplish if they set their mind to it. Personally, I think Xena is a far better role model for the little ladies.

Fun MC Radiation Fact #19:
In her lifetime the Madame was an outspoken advocate for anal sex. Not only would it reduce pregnancies, she explained, but it led to far greater scientific insight. For men she advocated either gay sex, a woman using a strap-on, or both for heightened scientific reasoning. Her least known work is a treatise on the subject entitled Curie My Ass. In it she explains that it was during a good colon pounding in reverse cowgirl that she first envisioned the nature of radioactivity and its many potential uses in medicine, energy and endless apocalyptic scenarios.

History Science Theatre Presents: George Washington Carver

geroge washington carver

G Dubya C was born with a congenital birth defect that left him afflicted with slavery, but he managed to overcome this obstacle with a steady diet of peanuts, which later led him to science in order to share the miracle of this magical legume with the world. Although his strong preference for not being a slave and his enthusiasm for crunchy snacks are his most well-known attributes, his contribution to the gospel of science extended into other areas. Just not much.

Besides peanuts, George extolled the glory and benefits of soybeans, sweet potatoes, pecans and Jesus Christ. He claimed that rotating these crops with cotton would benefit the soil and leave the land able to sustain profitable yields for eons to come, although he was far less copacetic with rotating Jesus with other Messiahs for the same or any other purpose. Even though he credited science with his discoveries, he left very little evidence in any form of his scientific work. Modern scholars have come to theorize that perhaps his work consisted of, “Not so much science, but just fucking around until he found shit that worked.” This is considered a Cardinal Sin in the science, but his reputation as a scientific educator has left his sci-cred intact despite his methodological shortcomings.

Another way in which G Dubya C was scientifically heretical is that he dabbled in the visual arts. His early college education was actually as an artist but since this brought him so much self-loathing and shame as a Christian and Scientist, he made a vow to Jesus and the ghost of Isaac Newton to never sully himself with pure, unmethodological creativity again. As a teacher he also required his students to consider their character and forbade them from atheism, laziness and chronic masturbation while doing sciences with him.

To be honest, besides crop rotation and being nuts for nuts, there is not much else to be said. Later in his life he gained national celebrity status as patronizing white people heaped him with praise and attention in order to prove to one another that they were the more advanced individual. These condescending race contests often led to full-on fights, most notably the one between Charles Lindberg and Franklin Roosevelt, which led to the latter having to spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair. In 1999, Time Magazine listed George as the second most famous peanut celebrity of the century after that Mr. Planters guy with his adorable top hat and monocle.

Fun Facts about GWC:
Although he was reluctant to talk about it in public, G Dubya C was an avid fan of feudalism and often spoke with friends about the error of a democratic republic. In a rare candid moment in one of his journals he left the following entry. If you consider how stupid the average human is, statistically half of them are even stupider than that. Giving these ignorant houseapes a role in determining the necessity of political action is like giving a Chinese prostitute a job drying dishes with her vagina. Ain’t nobody got time for that.

All the King’s Minions

all the king's minions

“Well, well, Sam. I finally got ya back.”

“Shut up and make the report already.”

“Ah come on, where’s your sense of humor, Sam ol’ boy? Fair is fair. You were going 40 in a 25 and I caught ya.”

“Yeah, I know, Dick. But you don’t have to take so much joy in it. I was just trying to get to my daughters recital on time. Besides, it’s Department’s fault that I am running late. You’d think they might cut us some slack, wouldn’t ya?”

“Rules are rules. We all have a duty to follow and enforce them. You know that. No reason to be so glum, its just a minor citation. Try to think of it all as a game. That’s what I do.”

“Sometimes I wonder if we haven’t all gone completely mad.”

“Well, the world went crazy several years ago, Sam-O. We all gotta do our best to live in it as it is, though.”

“Have you ever heard of the term ‘tattle-tale’, Dick? Of course you haven’t, why would you? A long time ago this is what you called a child who reported every infraction to their superiors. It was considered juvenile even for a child. But now this is what we all do. All of the time. Doesn’t it ever seem like it shouldn’t feel like a game, Dick? Like something went horribly awry along the way and now here we are, watchmen watching watchmen. Tempting each other into disobedience so that we get credits for the report? What kind of life is this, Dick?”

“Hey Sam, you haven’t been hanging out with those Individualists, have you? You know I would have to report you. You know what they would do if that happened, right? I like you, Sam. Why can’t you just accept things the way they are? Sure, it seems like a bit much to all of us sometime or another but rules are rules. Without them we would have no order. You gotta take the bad with the good.”

“I guess you are right. It’s just that sometimes I wonder if we haven’t created the worst to protect us from the merely bad. Ever since Department has had to cut back credits per report it just seems like all we ever do is cite each other. The only time I ever see a friend these days is when I am getting or giving a report on one. But you are right, we gotta have order and this is what we got. I do my part to make the best of it. Don’t worry about me, Dicky pal, i’ll be okay. No Individualism for this guy. I’m probably just jealous we are even on reports again. *chuckles nervously* I’ll have to keep a close eye on you.”

“That’s the spirit Sam ol’ boy! You’ll get me back soon enough. Hell, Evans got me two times yesterday for jay-walking. Each time I was sure nobody was watching. Wasn’t a soul around but he got me. Lucky bastard! Speaking of which, his lawn is looking a little too green if you know what I mean. I’m gonna go see if I can catch him watering it again. Thats a double credit report all this week! Good to see ya.”

“Good luck, Dick. And just a tip, take a measuring tape. That tree on the west side of his lawn by the sidewalk had some branches that looked to be a couple of inches below minimum height code. You’re gonna need that three-for when I get you back and take my rightful lead.”

“Dream on, buddy, dream on! I’m clean as a eunuch’s jock strap these days. *laughs* Dick out.”

Poopchute the Unicorn

poopchute

Part 1. Poopchute and the Land of Gumdrop Skies

Once upon a time there was a magical unicorn named Poopchute. Poopchute lived in the land of gumdrop skies and fairy kisses (with reach around), where everyday was a magical gift from the Wizard of Love & Confections, and all of the children never needed to be spoken for. As a magical unicorn he spent most of his time eating sparkleberries and then defecating them out across the sky in the form of rainbows, which made all of the children and elves and shit incredibly happy. Yup, everything was pretty awesome in Poopchutes magical little paradise; that is, until one day.

One day The Wizard of L&C’s grody twin brother came to visit him from the awful land of television static and leftover ramen. The brother, The Wizard of Kitschy Ties and Dog Sodomy, had come bringing terrible news. He spoke of a massive storm that was forming at the border of their two lands that threatened to mash together the best parts of both, which would result in their world being a gaudy suicide of leftover ramen and gumdrops. Both Wizards were mad freakin’ their shit out.

When news reached Poopchute of the impending doom, he formulated a plan. He would sit at the base of the storm and before it could mix this noxious combination of ingredients he would eat them, at whatever personal cost he might eventually pay, to keep both lands free of the things they didn’t prefer. Sure enough as the Wizard of KT&DS had warned, the storm came and Poopchute set about the task of clearing the skies. He ate and ate and ate and ate until he couldn’t eat anymore, then he smoked some Sassafrop and returned with the munchies to finish the rest.
Eventually the time came for Poopchute to evacuate his bowels, but instead of rainbows he shat gold and hundred dollar bills. In the land of gumdrop skies and fairy kisses, these things had very little use. Surely money could not buy sparkleberries and rainbows, for now these things had come nearly to pass. What sparkleberries were left were eaten in such a frenzy to produce more rainbows that they became extinct. As time passed the people in The Wizard of L&C’s land became hungry and bored and began buying the seemingly endless supply of leftover ramen from their neighboring land, and without the rainbows to provide a barrier the television static could now be heard throughout their world.

Poopchute dies at the end.


 

Part 2. Poopchute and the Furry Necromancer

About the time that our last tale turned to woe and doom a Furry Necromancer from another dimension learned of Poopchutes ability to turn forms of low quality energy into gold and hundred dollar bills. The Furry Necromancer whose name was Fishglove, and was a dedicated member of a weekly Furry Bridge Club, lived in a place where for some strange reason hundred dollar bills and gold were worth more than anything else in the land. Soon he developed a brilliant design to resurrect Poopchute and enslave him in his own dimension.

Soon after Poopchute poofed into re-existence he found himself in a stable among similar yet decidedly unmagical creatures. Even though his wicked rad unicorn powers gave him the ability to read the minds of other creatures, these hornless unmagical unicorns had very few thoughts from which he could get information. He made as if to escape these simple trappings only to realize that a bubble of harsh magic was harshing his attempts at horizontal and vertical progress. Bummer, Poopchute!

As our horned hero struggled against these nonawesome forces, Fishglove made his way into the barn. “Merry meetings, Poopchute and welcome back to life,” the Furry Necromancer taunted. Then they said a bunch of stuff like: “what’s going on, this sucks…your gonna make me rich…but I am a magical unicorn and if I cannot fly then surely I will once again die…is that true?…totally!”. Fishgloves had not counted on this. On one hand, if the unicorn escaped he would not score shit tons of hundred dollar bills and gold, but if the unicorn died he had already invested a lot of magic into his little scheme of heinous fuckery. Eventually they struck a deal.

In payment for giving him back his life and giving him the freedom that a magical unicorn required, Poopchute offered to make some hundred dollar bills and gold only for Fishglove but only when he felt like it, which was still a lot better than the Furry Necromancer had before he resurrected a magic unicorn from another dimension. Both story dudes agreed this deal was actually pretty tit-on and rocked macular balls, and despite what you might be thinking Poopchute never fucked ANY of those horses (though there were mules from time to time).

Poopchute EpiC WinS in the enD!

 

Justice Is A Clumsy Sword

justice is a clumsy sword

“You like that, dontcha? You like it when I punch you in the ass. Giggle, bitch, giggle. That’s right.” Howard was Mona’s favorite client. He liked his sadism mixed with an element of the absurd. “Am I your sexy, silly, nasty queen, Howard?”

Howard mumbled through the ball gag. His reply was muffled beyond understanding, but the look on his face said that he was in heaven. And pain. Even though these one-hour sessions cost him a days pay, he could not imagine living without the joy and subsequent tranquility that they brought to his life. Mona poured hot wax over his nipples while flicking his testicles.

“You want Mistress Mona to fart in Howie Wowies face, dontcha bitch. That’s right, maybe ill just press my ass right up against your face so you can get a good smell. You like that? Maybe I’ll just leave your face snuggled right up in there until just before you pass out. Maybe if you’re lucky I’ll piss on your chin.”

Mona was a big girl. She wasn’t obese, but she carried a solid girth on her almost six foot tall body. Most of the clients she had were men of a smaller stature, who liked being abused by Amazon-like women. She moved a small ladder over to the torture wheel, which Howard was shackled tightly to. “That’s right, giggle you little bitch, Mistress Mona gonna blow shit whispers right up your crooked, ugly nose.” She reached the top of the ladder and began to position herself as she had promised. Just when any mystery the scent of her anus may have held began to fade from Howard’s curiosity, the ladder broke, sending Mona falling heavily to the floor.

The room was filled with screams. The screams excited Howard, and he ejaculated immediately. The semen landed in Mona’s eye, causing the screams to do the impossible and raise several degrees in both pitch and volume. He thought all of this was a planned part of the session. If he weren’t blindfolded he would have seen that Mona’s leg had been broken severely during an accidental tumble.

“You fucking prick, you motherfucking prick. Nobody cums on Mistress Mona’s face.” She began to struggle as if to lash out at Howard, but the damaged limb and the accompanying pain made it impossible for her to move. There was still a half an hour before the session was over, and an hour before a new client would slip discreetly into her apartment, and hopefully rescue the mangled Mistress and the minister whom she had so thoroughly tied up. “You piece of shit, halfwit holy roller. This is your last session. LAST SESSION!”


Just as scheduled, Orson arrived for his appointment with Mona, and stood waiting in the reception area. Even there, closed off from the torture chamber, he could hear the distress in the mistress’s voice while she heaved harsher than usual insults and profanities at whatever client she was currently in session with. She had never spoken to him this way, and he was sure that he would not like it if she did. Either the current client must be a real sick fuck, he thought, or there was something very wrong going on. He tapped a bell on the counter several times, as loud as he possibly could.

Suddenly the hate stricken dialogue came to an end, and a short silence ensued. It did not last long, and was replaced by several high-pitched shrieks. “HELP!” came the manic cry, “Please Fucking Help!” Orson did not immediately make his way to the torture chamber. First he assessed the plausible scenarios that he might discover, and the possible consequences to his own person they might constitute.

After what seemed like an eternity of wailing her pleas to the visitor, Mona heard the voice of Orson come from the reception area. “What’s going on in there?” the squeaky effeminate voice attempted to bellow. “I broke my god damn leg, help me for fucks sake, please!” Another brief pause, then, “Is there anybody in there with you?” It pays to be cautious, he justified to himself. “Just some asshole Priest I got all tied up. Now quit asking me stupid fucking questions and get your ass in here and help me,” She begged with utter desperation. “Please.” Using the ‘P’ word with clients was not something Mona was accustomed to.

Dense was not an adjective appropriate in describing Orson. The use of the ‘P’ word by the mistress three times in so many breaths alerted him to the serious nature of her situation. When he came to the door to the torture chamber, he opened it slowly, half of his brain trying to assess the contents of this room, and half on standby for instantaneous flight. Finally something caught his eye, the priest. Underneath the eye mask and the ball gag was a face that would be forever etched into his memory. Father Howard Foster, the priest from the Sacred Heart Catholic Church, which he had attended as a child. Orson had not seen the mans actual face in fifteen years, but the ghost if it had haunted him in his dreams almost every night since then.

Despite the feeling of hatred for Father Foster, and the pity for Mistress Mona, Orson found himself laughing out loud. “What in the hell are you laughing at, get over here and help me you insensitive fairy,” Mona pleaded, adding a taunt just to remind this motherfucker who was the mistress in this house! When his laughter subsided, he attempted to affect a serious expression somewhat convincingly, and then he spoke to her. “I’m sorry.” He walked over to her and freed her of her various contortions, and gently propped her up comfortably upon some throw pillows taken from a black leather chaise lounge. As he did this, Mona related the gruesome details of the absurd scenario.

Orson only caught bits and pieces of this conversation; his mind was busy going over other possibilities. That wicked abomination affixed to Mona’s wheel of torture, had himself been the instrument of Orson’s own torture. Since the priest first forced sodomy on Orson when he was eight, until he ran away from home to escape Father Foster when he was thirteen, this man had ruined his entire life. This holy man turned child molester had stolen his innocence and left him feeling cold and dead towards the world. He had made him meek and paranoid and deprived him of any sexual identity. And here this man was, right in front of him fifteen years later, tied up and helpless. It was as though the universe had finally thrown Orson a bone, and that bone was the blind, blunt hammer of justice.

Orson went over to the priest and removed the ball gag, and then returned and knelt down, whispering to Mona, “I know that you are in a lot of pain right now, and I promise that I will help you, I do. But first there’s something else that I have to do.” “What? What else could you possibly have to do at a time like this? Please, Mona begs of you, help me!”

“Reverend Foster, what a surprise,” Orson’s voice trembled with rage and his words peppered the priests eardrums like acid. “It certainly has been a long time.”

“Who are you? What do you want? Why don’t you help her? Please, just untie me, so I can leave before anybody else gets here. Please, untie me!” The priests voice stammered dizzily, and the sound of his voice threatened to freeze the very blood in Orson’s heart.

“Oh I don’t think so, Father Foster. I don’t think you will be going anywhere anytime soon. I think me and you are going to have some fun, just like the good old times, Father.” Orson walked over to the priest and grabbed his flaccid member, gently squeezing and stroking it sensually. “Does that help, do you remember me now?” he prodded.

“No, who are you, why are you doing this to me. Please just untie me!”

What the fuck is going on? What are you doing to him, fuck him, just help me. Call a god damn ambulance all fucking ready, for Christ’s sake!” Mona screamed indignantly.

“Sorry Mona, not just yet, but soon.” Orson said sympathetically. As quickly as the icy hatred had melted away, it returned. “You don’t remember me? Well, isn’t that something. Because I remember you, Father. Every day and night since I was eight I have remembered who you are and what you did to me. Is this starting to ring a bell, father? Now do you remember who I am?”

“Adrian, is that…no, you couldn’t be Adrian. Matthew, is it, or, no…Christopher? Oh Dear God please help me! Who are you?”

“Its me Father, your little tit-mouse. Or did you have more than one of those too, you depraved fuck.” It had never occurred to Orson that he wasn’t the only child the priest had ever taken advantage of. Learning of it steeled his resolve for vengeance. His primal instincts begged for him to kill this monster, but his remaining cognitive facilities suggested that something more symbolic might be appropriate for this opportunity.

“Orson? Oh God, Orson! I am so sorry. Please untie me and we can talk about this, I promise, I never meant to hurt you. What do you want? Money? I can get you money. Oh please God, help me!” The priest was sobbing pathetically, now. The pitiful sound brought new waves of rage swelling up in Orson.

“I wouldn’t bother begging your God, Father. Don’t you remember when I used to try that? It didn’t help. Your God doesn’t exist, Father, you taught me that. More or less.” Orson removed the eye mask and spat in the priest’s eye. “Now lets see if I can repay the favor.”

“What the fuck are you doing? Help me!”

“No, please no!”

“Leave him alone, cant you see I need a fucking doctor you asshole! PLEASE!”

“Why are you doing that? Please stop, oh dear God…why?”

Orson took the priests penis into his mouth and began to work it slowly, and masterfully. When he started, the thing was completely limp; but despite the protests emanating from Howard, the warm wet mouth brought his cock to life. At this rate his vengeance would be swift, exacting it right before the moment of the priests release. He still remembered how the mans toes would begin tapping right before ejaculation. He would wait for this sign and then he would know when it was just the right time.

“This is seriously fucked up, Orson. How can you suck dick at a time like this? Holy mother of fuck, knock that shit off and help me! Help me you twisted prick!” Mona had a vague idea of what was happening but didn’t care. After the priest had came in her eye, she too, had wanted to make him suffer. But not now. It was too fucking obvious. She gave in to her pain, desperation and rage and began sobbing.

Meanwhile, the priest began issuing little grunts of pleasure, in between pleas to a God he knew damned well he didn’t believe in. That was the outcome of an education in theology via the seminary. One didn’t need to believe in God, to preach about him, no more than one had to believe in Santa Claus to celebrate Christmas. And wasn’t it the churches policy of celibacy that had driven him into compromising relations with young men? “Oh God,” he yelled, and his toes began the tell tale signs of tapping.

Orson noticed this and waited just a few more seconds before biting down with all of his might, and severing the member of the priest entirely. He immediately spat out the ragged protuberance, and rose up to spit the remaining blood into the priests face. After the ecstasy of catharsis faded from his mind, he noticed the Priest wasn’t screaming as he had expected. Neither was he thrashing about as might be anticipated.

“Jesus Christ, Orson, you killed him. You killed him! Please don’t hurt me, please, help me. Help.” Her cries fell back to uncontrollable sobs.

Orson sat there stunned, unable to respond to his surroundings. This catatonic trance lasted several minutes, and then as if nothing had happened he walked out of the chamber to the reception area and dialed 9-11.

“Where are you going, please help me. Help me. Why won’t you come back here and help me? Where are you going?” Her appeals went on this way, all the while Orson spoke to the 911 operator in a frank monotone voice, relaying brief details of the situation. When he was done, he didn’t return to the torture chamber. He exited the Mistress’s and ran to his car. He didn’t know what he would do, but his first move would be to get as far from here as soon as possible.

In his frenzied attempt to start the old Chrysler, he accidentally pumped the accelerator frantically, causing the engines firing chambers to become flooded with fuel. The car would not start, and panic ensued. He made several more attempts to start the vehicle, but all of his efforts were fruitless. At this point he broke down in sobs not unlike the ones that had been issued from the mistress and the priests moments ago. Fits of dread alternated with bouts of resignation. Both thoughts made him bash his head against the steering wheel until finally he opened up a small wound causing blood to drip irritatingly into his eyes. After about ten minutes or so, he heard the far off cry of sirens. The sound sent an alarm running up and down his spine, and he tried the ignition once again. This time, the car turned over and started as if nothing had happened. After he wiped the blood from his eye, he put the car into drive and laid into the accelerator with utter abandon.

He managed to get about three blocks away before he got to a busy intersection. Unaware of his surroundings due to the paralyzing affect of fear on his psyche, he did not notice that the stoplight he was heading towards was red. He made it half way across the street before his automobile was struck on the passenger side by a speeding ambulance. The shift of the momentum sent him into a spin, and a moment later he was struck by another fast moving vehicle, this time directly on the drivers side of his automobile.

“Holy shit, Laura, did you see that. Hurry, get on the radio and call another ambulance. Strike that, call several more ambulances and about a dozen back up patrols. This is going to be a long night.” Police Lieutenant Mickelson stepped out of the car and shook his head under the light of a full moon. “A long night, indeed!”

It had been a quiet night so far. Lieutenant Mickelson and rookie patrol officer Laura Juarez had only been on patrol for two hours, but had yet to even make so much as a traffic stop. This ran contrary to the fact that there was a perfectly full moon. It was a simple fact in law enforcement, a full moon brought out the nuttiest of the lot. The last time there had been a full moon he had arrested a man for drunkenness and public urination, who claimed to be a vampire, who would eat his soul if he didn’t set him free at once. As it turned out, the man was a high school janitor who had just been fired, and had spent the past three days swaying to the gentle sounds of heroin and scotch.

Immediately following that debacle he and Officer Juarez were called to assist in a vehicle pursuit. The driver of the offending vehicle was a seventeen-year-old boy, who ended a thirty-five minute chase by sticking the business end of a twenty two-caliber pistol into his mouth and pulling the trigger. Authorities were still unable to determine if the gun wound from the small caliber pistol had actually killed him, or if it was the fiery chaos the ensued when his car collided with a concrete structure that supported an overpass.

At the end of his shift Lieutenant Mickelson was informed that the ‘vampire’ had later confessed to a gruesome murder, and claimed that he had drank the victims blood to obtain super-powers. Until a body could be found and psychologists could examine the ‘vampire’ in a sober state, nothing could be verified, and all details surrounding this case were to be kept completely under the strictest of confidences.

This was what the last full moon had been like, and it hadn’t been much stranger than any before it. Sure, there were a few that stood out over the years, but as a rule every full moon brought out the wholesale insanity of the supposedly ‘complex’ human mind. But tonight had started out slow, and that could only mean one thing, that by the end of it, it would be a very long night. That is what Lieutenant Mickelson was thinking when the call came in. It was the call that he had dreaded most ever getting, because it would expose him, and perhaps ruin him. The address he had been asked to respond to was one Miss Mistress Mona, bondage queen and humiliator extraordinaire, of whom he was a weekly client. He looked over at his partner and wondered if she noticed the horror and panic that was welling up inside of him.

Reflexively, and because he didn’t know what else to do, he just turned on the sirens and began speeding towards the scene. But the dread just kept building up inside of him the entire way. Only the horrible hope that Mona would be too fucked up or dead to recognize and address him calmed him even the slightest. Now only blocks from the house he was about to burst with the weight of it all, when a horrible accident that would take precedence over the call to Mistress Mona’s, happened right in front of him.

“Holy shit, Laura, did you see that.”


Orson O’Hara lay in a coma dying in a hospital bed. He was sure he was dying because he could feel the world around him shrinking. All he ever was, had ever been and would ever be was slowly spiraling into a funnel of the final nothingness. As he approached that final pinpoint of his existence, he felt a comfort he could not remember ever knowing, and then this last thought slipped into the eternal void.


Father Howard Foster was in critical condition. The stroke that had accompanied the severing of his penis should have killed him. Despite the fact that he had survived this, it was an even more amazing feat that he should survive after the slow response time by emergency vehicles, which had partaken in another emergency along the way. The doctors gave him a better than fifty percent chance of surviving, even though he was still unresponsive after twenty-four hours. Much of this was due to the Fathers reluctance to face what this nightmare had exposed. Surely Mona would have given all of the details uncovered in this mess to authorities who would investigate the depravities he had delighted in all of these years. Death was what Father Foster wanted so badly, and though he reached towards it and tried to pull himself in, life was not willing to let go of him.

When he finally reconciled himself to his continuing existence, he decided he would confess everything, instead of dragging this ugliness out any further than it needed to be. Forty-seven hours after the stroke, Father Foster gained consciousness, and was ‘on his way to a full recovery’. When he awoke he did not immediately reveal himself, he decided it would be best to wait until he was in better health. Nobody seemed to mention anything about any of it to him. Everyone just went about being concerned for him, and helping to bring the poor Father up to speed on the tragic events. None of these included a mention of Orson. It had been assumed that Mona accidentally cut off the Fathers Penis when she had fallen off the ladder. Authorities had completely botched the investigation, and Mona didn’t seem to remember anything. He learned of Orson’s death only because of how it related to the emergency vehicles delayed reaction time.

Somewhere during this he decided that maybe he wouldn’t reveal himself right away after getting better either. Maybe he would wait until this whole thing blew past him. He felt like a new man, and without that awful cock of his bidding him to become a monster, perhaps he could get a new start. If Mona didn’t say anything, then neither would he. Of course they’d figured out about his thing with Mona, and sure he could probably never return to the church, but with Mona silent and Orson dead the other thing would never have to come up again.

It was so clear to him that the instrument of his own evil had been that wretched insatiable prick of his, that without it he was perfectly free from the monster he was forced to feed all of his life. An assumption is a shaky structure upon which to build ones revelations. With the force of all of his might he managed to move a hand to his groin to feel the freeing absence of his penis, but when he finally got there his hand was met by a mangled stump of meat, reattached through the miracle of modern medicine. A pathetic muffled scream was issued from his throat and continued to ring in his ears throughout the rest of his life.


Mona stood back on her crutches admiring the new sign. ‘Mistress Mona’s Fortune Parlor’, underneath that it said, ‘Tarot, Palms, Crystals and Channeling’. After that horrible night, Mona was done with sadism. While in the hospital she had already decided to move on to her real interest, her psychic abilities. She knew it wouldn’t pay as well, but she had already amassed a tidy savings while in the beating business. She spent her days in recovery brushing up on her skills with the tarot deck, her palmistry skills and reading the subtle details of the future in a crystal ball. Never had she actually channeled an entity from another realm, but she was confident that if given the opportunity, she was unlikely to fail.

While reading her own astrological charts one day she came to realize that the terrible nights events had occurred not only under a full moon, but also with mercury in retrograde, as well. That night Mona had a dream that the universe would become a just place if only she were to build the proper temple. She set about doing just that, but for whatever reason the temple was to be built entirely out of cards. On an altar lay a tarot deck, from which the cards were to be drawn from and the temple built around. Whenever a card was taken from the deck it was immediately replenished, and no matter how many times she drew a new card it was always the same one, the ace of swords. Mona built and rebuilt the temple countless times, but whenever that last card was put into place, the temple would collapse back into the pile of cards from which it had been drawn.

Night of the Assholes: Part 2

 

“Hey, Brice, ya cock-pocket! We gotta get the fuck out of here. Can’t you hear the assholes coming? How are you still alive, dude?” This guy was something else. Here we were about to be attacked by those fucking monster things and all he wanted to do was listen to me tell him stories about my musical history. I guess it is awfully interesting.

 

“What about all these motherfuckin’ zombies, though?”

 

“That was the grindcore flat-earther polka band I had in high school, BUT WE HAVE GOT TO GO- NOW!” I grabbed him by the arm and dragged him from his swooning stupor. “Don’t you know what those things will do to you if they catch you?”

 

I wondered that maybe he did not, except for what I had told him. If he were lucky enough he may have not had many confrontations with the assholes in which he saw them victorious against one of us, fuckin’ ass-ugly shit humans that they were. If you could call them human anymore. Whatever had been released on the world had killed most of it, changed parts of it and for some reasons left a few completely intact. Although some of us were immune to whatever changed the assholes into assholes, we were extremely-fucking-mune to whatever they were now injecting us with to make us one of them; or kill us. I don’t suppose they cared much which.

 

The assholes used to be regular humans before SHTF. It must have been some secret experimental weapon that got loose or something fucked up like that, but in no time most surviving humans had completely changed. They were primal but highly intelligent. Pack animals with no social skills. They never spoke to us or one another as far as I knew. Yet they seemed to hate us intensely enough to want to kill us or make us one of them. This now-dead science douchebag I once met thinks that they have evolved into some ‘final physical-stage of human consciousness’, but he was also eating a lot of weird shit he picked in the woods so I could never tell if he was smart or all fucked up. But is there really a difference?

 

Back when I was the chief lyricists for Anal Surrender we were writing a concept album about how miserable it would be to have super-intelligence. It all centered around this man named Fucky Bowler who one day ate a mutant pineapple that gave him super-intelligence and made his junk shrivel up and die. He can no longer communicate with the world around him because he is so far ahead of them and eventually he cannot take the horror of the human species, so he creates a weapon to destroy the entire planet so that it doesn’t infect the universe. The scientists and this business with the assholes reminds me a bit of that. If I remember correctly we were going to call that album Super Intelligent Christ Killer

 

I got Brice to his bike and he snapped out of it. Despite the fact that Brice is a fucking moron, he is brilliant with bicycles and other mechanical things. He used to be a bicycle messenger and male stripper but now he is like the motherfucking MacGyver of the Apocalypse. Keeping Brice alive is almost as important as keeping myself alive or at least equivalent to it. When the world gets back to normal, he says, we should start a Juggalo jug-band. He wants to call it The Incest Clown Posse. Its not a bad idea. He is not without merits outside of his tinkering but he doesn’t have enough common sense to fuck his way out of a paper condom.

 

Another funny thing about the assholes is that they do not use weapons of any sort except those hypodermics they carried with them. That was one of the ways in which they were primal. Like pack animals they hunted by pooling their physical resources and strength to subdue their prey. Since weapons are now almost impossible to find you have to rely on hand-to-hand combat for defense. Something else Brice brought to the table is the ability to be able to fight from and with a bicycle. He is like the love-child of Jackie Chan and Lance Armstrong without all of the cocaine and steroids. As much as he is good for, you might wonder why I insult him so much, but if you knew him it would make sense. It’s like having your own retarded leprechaun around. A retarded leprechaun that can do a bunny-hop/spin kick that makes you want to cry and cum at the same time.

 

This is the very move he uses to subdue three of the assholes while I give a wheelie/uppercut to a particularly fiendish looking one myself, because, I am picking this shit up fast. That is more out of necessity than out of Brice’s pedagoguery, though. The two of us manage to clear ourselves a path with unhindered ass kicking and get the fuck out of there. It will be night soon and they will disappear until dawn and we can collect some supplies, sleep and then as Brice likes to call it, ‘Go pedalin’ for bitches’. This is his term for our nomadic lifestyle. It is his greatest wish to locate and inseminate as many women as possible before he ‘goes to the Great Flat Tire in the sky. We haven’t seen a woman since I met him a month ago and neither of us for awhile before that. I hope we do, and soon, though. The other day he told me I had a ‘pretty decent pooper for a dude’. I vowed never to experiment with homosexuality again since I played drums for that homo jock rock band, Sports Fabs.

 

As soon as the sun begins to set we stop to take a pantsless shit and refill our colons with some canned herring and stale Doritos we just nabbed. As is our custom, we excuse ourselves after dinner for some privacy and masturbation. We have three porno mags between us that we cycle regularly even though we both have our favorite. I like Big Black Cocks In Albino Whores (There are more of the latter than you would ever have imagined.) while he prefers Cum Filled Cousins (The incest thing is always coming up with him and I wonder if he had a sister but am afraid to ask.). After this we discuss our plans then retire to get a little sleep before the sun comes up..

 

Just before dawn we wake up and begin riding towards the next town. It is a county seat so we are hoping it will be big enough to have some good structures to practice our bike parkour while we snoop around for anything useful or interesting. The only thing to do now is to stay alive although I still cannot logically ascertain how my continued survival is of any benefit to myself or others but living is a hard habit to break.

 

To occupy myself I have been writing a movie in my head. I am tentatively calling it Whore and Peace. It is a modern remake of the Greek drama, Lysistrata, about a woman who convinces the other women of her nation to withhold sex until the men agree to stop fighting. Only in my version, instead of withholding sex the women go fucking bonobo on the men, pooning them so often that they are unable to wage their silly wars any longer. My version has more scrogging so it will obviously be better. Also it will have Crispin Glover if he is still alive and I can find him. I believe.

 

I am shaken by my revery when Brice emits a squeal. Heading right towards us are two women on bicycles followed by a fuckhoard of assholes. The women approach quickly and we turn ourselves around to follow them. As they pass I notice that one of the women looks just like the upright bassist from the horror/snuff country band, Shank Williams, that I was in for a minute back when the world did not suck rear windpipe. I had the hugest crush on her but the girl on the bike is even more beautiful and even though I notice that she has shit herself I still have a massive boner. I tuck it under my waistline and pedal like hot fuck to catch up and Brice has no reservations about doing the same.

She is a skilled bicyclist and it takes me several minutes to catch up to her. When I do I have been preparing the perfect line I will use in just this situation but before I can belt it out I notice that she has a pink triangle tattooed just above her lovely bouncing left breast. Ahead of me Brice is talking to the other woman when she suddenly throws a leg out and sends him bouncing down the road bikeless, arms and legs akimbo. I think he just figured out what I did. It is the end of the world as we know it. For all I know Brice and I are the only men left on the planet, yet even if that were the case, these women would still not fuck us.

 

Luck!

 

Night of the Assholes: Part 1

 

It doesn’t really matter what the nature of the apocalypse is, it always means two things; death and assholes. While death gorged itself on the menu of seven billion human beings and countless other species, the number of assholes had still increased proportionately amongst the living. People like me. Lucky enough to live and too stupid to die already. If I were to count myself lucky to still be alive, that would be about the only lucky thing I had going.

 

Before all of this happened I was unemployed and about to be evicted. I was perpetually broke and unable to properly prepare myself for any doomsday scenario. I had a closet with about two weeks worth of canned food and my bicycle. Even though I suspected that humanity was due for a reset at any time and even hoped for it, I was not actually prepared when it came. Neither was anyone else really and some of the worst and first to go were those who were certain that their knowledge and preparations would guarantee their survival. When the world comes crashing down too much readiness can lead to inflexibility. Expectations and rigidity can be an obstacle even luck cannot overcome.

 

The sound of my chain snapping was more jarring than the loudest thing I had ever heard in my life. Every acoustic vibration emitted from that small piece of metal separating under pressure went straight to my ears and sent my internal ‘OH FUCK’ alarm into berzerker mode. I had not heard anything comparably awful since I used to play in a furry noise metal band called S.I.S.S.Y. (Squirrels In Satan’s Service Yternally). I had a hikers bag full of wood, water and other necessary supplies. Not much but enough to get to the next place, whatever and wherever that was. I had to make a quick decision. There were assholes in hot pursuit and I couldn’t afford to take the time to make rational decisions so I grabbed the bike and ran like hot fuck.

 

I was constantly running for my life with a bicycle in tow against all common sense, yet when I managed to return it to a state of repair it had saved my ass numerous times. It was my greatest blessing and my greatest curse. Riding a bicycle was one of the few practical things I had been fairly skillful at before the end times, yet I could probably have done a lot more by the way of learning to fix the fucking things. My friend Zeke was a kickass bicycle mechanic so he always hooked me up with parts at cost and free labor. We used to be in a gnostic christian hate punk band called God Hates Swedes together before I left to join Mandatory Abortion and he went on to Rape Brag. Zeke tried to teach my ragged ass as much as possible but there were a few subjects we hadn’t yet gotten to. Chains was near the apex of that list.

 

The assholes chasing me were not the most well preserved examples of their former humanity and after shitting myself only once I managed to lose them altogether. I found myself soiling myself pretty often these days. When you pit a steady diet of canned beans and other colonically adventurous victuals against a fuckload of running for your life you are bound to have to evacuate yourself in mid escape every now and then. It is a part of surviving in this world yet when I sit somewhere between sleep and constant aural vigilance I often wonder if a world in which I have to shit myself while running in order to survive is a world I really want to go on living in. The answer appears to be yes, no matter how much I answer the question in the negative asked aloud.

 

One thing about bikes is that you can find them just about anywhere now. One in three of any garage not sealed off by other survivors still has a bicycle even if it is itself un-ride-able. The problem is that even the bikes that are still able to be ridden often turn out to be of low quality and constructed of parts not meant to fit any sort of decent bike. Only about one in any one hundred garages had the kind of bikes I was looking for and only about one in five of them might have the chain that I needed specifically. If I could not find that chain I would have to try to replace the entire gear set from a bike the same size. It would usually have proved much faster to just take another bike but I had grown accustomed to this one. It was like my only friend now and so I always did what I had to do to fix it.

 

Spontaneous Teleportation

spontaneous teleportation

They are calling it ‘spontaneous teleportation’. One moment you are sitting on a couch watching them talk about it on the news and the next moment you are three feet to your left melded into the wall. If you are lucky it will have disrupted a major organ and you will die instantly. If you are not so lucky it will just be your hips and pelvis and a leg as they try to separate you amidst the terrifying howling you emit while enduring the most awful pain ever known to man. Then, most likely, you will still die. If you ask me, they could have picked a more suitable name.

Nobody knows what the cause is. Or how to prevent it. It is completely random, or so it seems. The politicians say that they have ordered all of the top scientists to investigate but I bet at least half of them are still developing boner pills and exotic weapons of mass destruction. That is, the scientists, not the politicians. The politicians couldn’t develop a cold in an arctic daycare. I have just a bit more trust and enthusiasm for the scientists. I didn’t like the old gods and I sure as hell do not like the new ones.

I went to see my friend Jeff yesterday. He was standing in his backyard on stilts. I began to immediately laugh but he got upset and told me that I was the fool. I tossed him a beer and the poor sucker just about fell trying to catch it. I must admit he is getting pretty good at using those stilts. He says that he is hoping they become so second nature that he will be able to sleep on them shortly. I ask him what would happen if he were suddenly teleported three feet straight down. He says that it is unlikely but that he thinks this is his best chance. At least he is not a hanger, he tells me.

In order to avoid death by spontaneous teleportation many people have taken to spending most of their time hanging in harnesses. Since the furthest anyone has been relocated by this mysterious force is about five feet from where they started it is easy enough to find a large room or a tree that can put you five feet away from any other solid object. Except the harness itself. Only one person so far has managed to teleport a few inches directly into their harness. I asked Jeff if that was irony but he said the harnesses are usually made from nylon. Either he cannot hear me very well up there or all of this has not ruined his appalling sense of humor.

The religious folk have split into two camps. Some are calling this Gods retribution for the sins of man and the other half are blaming the scientists. Outside of the Hadron Collider facility on the news it looks like one of those old Frankenstein movies where an angry mob with weapons and torches has gathered. The scientists working there were the first people to speculate that their research had caused the phenomena. They shut down their massive gadget but it seems the angry villagers will not be pleased until there is blood. Then right there in front of the news camera one of the mob teleports right into another one. They are a nasty mangled mess of mixed flesh like something out of a Bill Plympton cartoon. I start to laugh but then I remember these are real people with people who love them and that what I have witnessed is tragedy. Then the mob react by accelerating their hatred tenfold and I decide it was probably okay to laugh.

My ex-girlfriend calls me to tell me that she teleported three feet up and to the right into empty space yesterday and was just fine after. I am not sure whether to believe her or to chalk this up to her constant need for attention. I tell her it is a shame she wasn’t teleported onto a running treadmill and she hangs up on me. If she was telling the truth her story would not be unique. Most of the spontaneous teleportations have been harmless relocation’s into empty space. The people who have experienced them were very vocal at first and some of them got paid quite handsomely to talk about it on television. However, once the word got around that the scientists investigating this were collecting these people to ‘examine’ them, most of them have kept shut about it.

First let me say that I am not a scientist. That should have been my first clue to leave things alone. What do you call somebody with an inordinate amount of curiosity but no skill set to engage it through? I am one of those. Mostly, though, I was just bored and lonely. I met a girl on the internet I really wanted to meet in person. I also had friends all over the country I would have liked to spend more time with. When I started having the dreams I disregarded them as just dreams. Before long they seemed to be more than just recurring dreams. They were persistent. I could not close my eyes without them immediately starting. Eventually I began to write down the bits that I could remember and little by little I had created myself a set of instructions.

It took me almost a year to build the contraption. I had to learn all kinds of skills I had not possessed before. I was about as adept with a soldering iron in the beginning as Stephen Hawking is with Jeff’s stilts. Little by little it came together, though. You would probably think that it would look like a phone booth designed by HR Geiger, but it was closer to a large bathroom scale attached to a much larger cube by tubes of wires. I did, however, take some time to paint racing flames on it before I was finished. Just because I am crazy enough to spend a year building a device I foresaw in my dreams doesn’t mean I have no sense of humor or style.

The hardest part about teleporting is calculating a set of coordinates much more difficult than compass readings. The movement of the earth as it rotates and spins around the sun means that everything is constantly in motion and must be accounted for. Remember how I said that I was not a scientist? Well I am even less of a mathematician and my first inclination was that it was my poor math that caused this whole debacle.

When I was certain that I had finished my teleportation device beyond all doubts, I decided to test it out. Knowing the number of ways it could go wrong I decided to first try teleporting a mouse I caught while it had been nibbling on one of the wire tubes. (Would the mouse have thought this was irony? I don’t know but I know he wouldn’t have had a dumb ass reply like Jeff.) I was going to teleport the mouse three feet to its left into a small empty aquarium. If he survived I would name him Goldblum and feed him only the finest American cheese. He did not, in fact survive. Instead a moment after flipping the activation switch the mouse reappeared with just his head sticking out of the bottom of the aquarium. I could see part of his body in the small gap below and the rest must have melded into the concrete floor. I immediately realized that I had not succeeded and that all of my life I had underestimated the vocal capacity of mice.

I shut the machine off and sat groaning with my head in my hands. Fucking math. I was so frustrated that I decided to give up for the day and headed over to Jeff’s with a six pack. We sat drinking all afternoon but decided that we needed to pick up the pace. Jeff and I had created a drinking game that could be played with the news so we tuned into the ten o’clock and put our drinking faces on. That is when we first heard of the phenomena. Already about a hundred cases worldwide had been reported since earlier today. You know how sometimes you just know you set off a global catastrophe that may have doomed your species to extinction? That’s exactly how I felt right then.

Pretending to be too drunk to drink anymore I excused myself with a few words and a belch/fart combo that left Jeff laughing so hard he vomited, although he would later claim it was the smell. As soon as I got home I began trying to sober up by eating a large meal and chasing coffee after coffee with glasses of water. I began to go over my math but I could find nothing wrong in it whatsoever, so I looked at the plans. That is when I noticed what I should have before my earlier mousecapades. The teleportation device was specifically programmed to transfer the information contained in human genetics. Because all mammals had nearly the same basic genetic code the mouse was able to be teleported, but not to the specifications. And besides that, something else had definitely gone wrong. I began to disassemble the device. What took me a full year to build took me only that one night to completely destroy. No two pieces were still connected and most of those had been smashed or thrashed into many smaller pieces themselves.

The next morning I turned on the news. The phenomena was still occurring and every government in the world had declared an emergency. Shit had connected hard with the proverbial fan. Rather than worrying about being teleported into a mailbox or my toilet I became extremely paranoid that I would get caught. I burned the plans and removed all evidence from my house carefully so as not to arouse suspicion. The one thing I had going for me was that I had not mentioned to anybody what I had been doing for the past year, less they thought I was crazy. Or crazier than usual. I sure as fuck was not going to say anything now.

I went inside to get Jeff and I another beer. Just to fuck with him I threw his three feet to his left so he wouldn’t be able to catch it because I can be kind of a dick when I am awake. At that very same moment Jeff reappeared three feet to his left and then fell to the ground with a thud and a can of Hamms embedded halfway in his skull. He must have died instantly. One time when we were drinking along with the news we saw a story about a man who had been cleaning up after hours at a brewery when a large vat burst open and the force of the fermenting liquid crushed him against a wall, killing him instantly. After downing the rest of our beers we both agreed that when it was our time to go we hoped our deaths would be beer-related.

Well, Jeff, do I chalk your death up to irony? Or would you have insisted that the can was, in fact, aluminum?