"Oh joy! Oh joy! You have finally come! Welcome! Oh Welcome to the Land of Happyplaces!"
Joy is joy on Earth, but exuberance in Happyplaces, where the water is flavored to candyness and the grass is a blanket which can be pulled over your body when, if ever the bright and good ol' father Sun stops shining on this land, you will find true comfort and happiness in Happyplaces.
"Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!"
Everyone takes the form of a child in the Land of Happyplaces, even though old souls occupy puerile bodies, these souls are so happy now, that they're children is what truly makes them smile.
"Me wrinkles are gone!" Nanny proclaims.
The Welcome Master is a child of six hundred and seventy six, and he smiles at Nanny's new face, which radiates with excitement, joy and naturally, utter speechlessness as she is much more youthful looking than she was about five minutes ago...
~ Five Minutes Past ~
As she did every day for the past eight decades, minus the time she spent standing or sitting anywhere else besides a couch which was chiefly used as a human sitting depot for watching television broadcasts, Nanny sat and watched Days of Our Lives, a television daytime drama otherwise known as a "soap opera".
Nanny was so old that she remembers the time when the term "soap opera" was coined to describe these daytime television dramas, not because there was any use of soap in the actual performance of the show, but because most of the dramatic pauses were placed for the advertisement of feminine hygiene products, hence the term "soap opera". As woman were at home during the day to indulge in this frankly terrible programming, this was a prime time to advertise such products, as it might prompt the ladies to recall that they needed a little something from the local store.
Alas, Nanny was not going to go to the store today. No doubt she would usually do this, but since she can't drive and can't much walk anymore without assistance, and being that she was all alone while her son and his family were all out at work and school, no doubt enjoying the severance from Nanny, especially the teenage boy, Fuckle, she has decided to indulge in sweets.
In her stomach was one ooie gooie cinnamon roll, two chocolate cupcakes with confetti sprinkles, three ding dongs, four chocolate chip cookies, five Milano wafers, six white chocolate covered pretzels, seven Andes mint wafers that she found in the recesses of the freezer by accident of accessing the ice cream, which she had eight spoonfulls of. One can probably imagine the bloated state that Nanny was in, but the silly part about all of this was the fact that she had been diagnosed with diabetes a couple weeks past. While looking upon this dreadful over-indulgence of sweet rewards, it can only be concluded that the poor woman was in the process of committing suicide.
But Nanny was nervous. She wanted the seizure to happen quickly, as to not experience a prolonged exposure to severe pain, panic, despair, regret, etcetera. So to combat this from happening, she also brought out a box of SplendaTM packets that her son used to make his coffee taste a little bit better than liquidated beans. She downed the packets one by one, and planned to keep on going until she felt something bad about to happen. By the time she spilled the contents of the twentieth packet into her mouth, she felt the overwhelming urge to vomit.
Nanny vomited, and with it came all of her hard work - the cinnamon roll, the cupcakes, the cookies and wafers - it was all so beautiful before she ate it, and when it was in her mouth, it all tasted so good, but now it left a terribly sour taste in her mouth. She vamited three times within five seconds - because of the exreme intensity of the escape - Nanny blacked out and crashed into the glass coffee table, mixing blood with vamit and sweet with sour, the last thing she heard was the outtro music to The Days of Our Lives, and the last thing that she saw with her mind was the hourglass. Indeed, her time was up.
~ One Minute Later ~
"In Happyplaces nobody has wrinkles! Everybody is young looking - forever!"
Nanny brushed her new hands across the contours of her smooth new face. She was so happy that she had committed suicide.
"I knew the lord would still have me!"
The Welcome Master smiled and tilted his head. He looked a little confused, so he summoned the Keeper, who was in charge of knowledge retention, the name of the Keeper was Chance.
"Chance," the Welcome Master whispered in his ear, "she speaks of the lord, what am I to say of this?"
"She thinks she's in the Christian heaven," Chance replies, "you will have to tell her that she is in Happyplaces."
"But I already told her that she was in Happyplaces."
"Well, you must tell her that this is not Christian heaven."
The Welcome Master is reasonably nervous being that this is a place where everyone is supposed to be in a perpetual state of happiness, even he has to deliver some unhappy news once in a blue sky.
"Young lady," the Welcome Master clears his throat, "this, I'm afraid, is not Chris-" the Welcome Master looks over at Chance, as he forgot the word.
Chance whispers, "Christian heaven."
"Ah!" The Welcome Master smiles, "this is not Christian heaven."
Nanny has her hand on her face, a bit confused, but nonetheless in a reasonable state of happiness, "Oh no? Well what is it?"
The Welcome Master does a jig and joyfully sings the name of his home, "Hap-pi-pla-ces!"
Nanny rubs her smooth arms, "And you don't have a god?"
The Welcome Master looks over at the Keeper, who shakes his head 'no'.
"No!" The Welcome Master smiles.
"Oh," Nanny feels her face again, "whatever."
But suddenly...
The entire land disappeared, and the hand which Nanny kept to her face felt a new and all too familiar texture - wrinkled skin. She was old again.
"No!" Nanny gasped.
And before her a light was shone that was of such brilliance, it burned her thin skin; she tried to guard herself from it, but she was naked. But before long, a figure of some sort appeared from the light. Nanny knew who it was, and she screamed his name!
"Loooord!"
A wind of great magnitude and heat blew across Nanny.
"Have mercy on my soul!"
The figure was close enough to where Nanny could see a set of clenched, angry teeth; no eyes or nose, just a mouth with teeth - and it spoke with fury.
"First you took the life that I gave you!"
Nanny screamed, "Have mercy!"
"Second!" the figure screamed, "You failed the test to enter my kingdom!"
"NO! NO!"
"Therefore, you will spend the rest of your soulful existence in the realm of Purgatory!"
"Have mercy!" Nanny bellowed.
"You will stay there the length of time it takes for you to forget this meeting, and when you have forgotten, you will be tested once more. If you fail that test, you will have the option to remain in Purgatory, or spend your eternity in Hell."
"Faaather!"
"You've been!" The figure pauses and waits for the echo of his tremendous voice to subside, and when is all silent, he screams, "Clu-ster-fucked!"
Nanny screams.
As the figure leaves, the light escapes, the burn on Nanny's skin subsides, but a tremendous pain arrives when she encounters a new light.
She arrives back to Earth like a ruptured bag. Nanny is hunched over the coffee table, bleeding from a cut in her abdomen, staring at a pool of her own bodily fluids. The Collective Soul song, Thunderstruck is playing off in the distance, probably from Fuckle's room, Nanny imagines. She cannot move, she cannot speak.
Is the boy home? Nanny wonders.
Suddenly, Fuckle appears at the upstairs railing, looking down at Nanny's dying body. He is nodding his head to the music, and sings along to this particular part of the song...
You've been...
Clu-ster-fucked!
Nanny hears the boy and tries to see him out the corner of her eye. All Fuckle has done is changed the word "thunderstruck" to "clusterfuck"; as the two words share the same amount of syllables, changing the lyrics in such a way is quite simple.
Yeah, yeah, yeah
Clu-ster-fucked!
All Fuckle did was sing at the landing, watching from above as Nanny experienced a very slow and painful death.
The boy grimaced, "I'll see you in about five minutes, dead face. I am your God."
Saturday, December 24, 2005
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Saturday, December 03, 2005
Nanny dead face 2
Before Nanny ended up at Whispering Oax Nursing Home, or as she quite often called it "the prison", she was not, in fact in the nursing home slash prison, but living in her son's house with his wife and two children. No doubt the wife, or whom Nanny would love to openly call "daughter-in-bitch" or simly "bitch", hated Nanny's presence. After all, Nanny was a very high maintenance individual, even though she only voiced support:
"Is there anything I can cook?"
"Can I help?"
"Let me fix those rolls for you."
"So... what are you thinking for supper?"
"This is delicious."
The catch was that Nanny wasn't really capable of carrying out all of these things she offered to do - and she knew this as much as the rest of the family. It seems that Nanny, therefore, only says this shit to seem "nice"; though lets not get carried away, her face is getting dead - she knows this, and these nice words have no real substance, but are only "brownie points" for God; she hopes that this will get her into "heaven". Nanny likes to believe in heaven; you might too if you had a dead face.
Nanny is sitting at the breakfast nook table with her grandson Fuckle, who has been ordered by his mother to oversee Nanny's cooking of a frozen entre. The boy is trying to send the signal to his grandmother that he doesn't enjoy being around her, but since Nanny has recently suffered from a stroke, she is not very perceptive of people's feelings. Nanny unconciously smiles at her grandson; he hates her old withered face. Fuckle knows that the traditional inquiry is about to commence...
"So, Fuckle, how was school."
"Fine."
"Did you have any tests today?" Her voice quivers and flunctuates and yips and yaws and does all this crazy shit that makes talking to her so much worse.
"No."
"Do you have any tomorrow?"
"No."
She purses her lips and nods her head in aknowledgement. A span of a minute or so goes by before her brain is able to work up the next query, "What do you suppose you'll have for lunch tomorrow?"
Fuckle doesn't know - who keeps track of that kind of shit? Who plans ahead that far in advance? Lunch for tomorrow? Jesus Christ lady, get a life!
"I - I don't know."
"Well tell me and I'll fix it for you tonight."
The irritating thing about old people is that they always seem to be thinking about what they're going to have to eat. Constantly. And when they aren't talking about that - they're speculating over the weather. And if they've already talked about weather and food, they will try to ask their children and grandchildren some of the most impossibly answerable questions which deal mainly with "plans for the future".
"So how long do you suppose you'll have this job?"
"What colleges are you thinking about going to?"
"What are you planning on majoring in?"
Usually, after one has tried to answer or not answer these obscene queries, enough time has lapsed to where they can then talk about food again...
"So, what do you want for supper?"
And after this tremendous production is complete, and the dishes are clean and the belly's full, they will settle down for the local evening news to catch tomorrow's weather, even though they've recieved the forecast twice or thrice that day. Then they go to sleep; Fuckle is glad that he doesn't know much about this process, because he stays away as far as he can from Nanny's bedroom before she goes to bed. He's heard the noises - the gargling of Listerine and other noises pulsating behind the closed door - and he's even glimpsed her in a nightie; all of this is enough to put the boy off enough that he looses all interest in imagining having sex with a women for the eveining.
"Fuckle... I can fix you something tonight. If you tell me what you want I can make it for you."
"Don't worry about it, I buy lunch at school."
"Oh." She nods. But Nanny doesn't like it when her plans to "be helpful" are foiled. Her thoughts try to process a rebuttal, but since part of her brain was deprived of oxygen for a short period of time a couple years back, Nanny's mind doesn't usually succeed in coercing young feeble minds - even though those young feeble minds might also be stupid in their own ways.
Suddenly, some shallow pop music blasts out of a tiny over-extruded cell phone speaker and scares Nanny to the point where she leaps about a half inch out of her chair. It is, of course, the boy's cell phone, and the phone is, of course, too high tech for a boy his age; but he flips it open like a mothafuckin' gangsta.
"Sup."
Caller: "Sup, Fuck."
"Whatchu callin' me fo?"
Caller: "Seeing if you wanna see a movie."
"Ah..." Fuckle enters the other room, out of Nanny's hearing radius. "I can't man. I gotta stay home with my effing grandma."
Caller: "Aw, that sucks, man."
"I know bro."
Caller: "You gonna sneek out tonight?"
"Sure - what time?"
Caller: "One o'clock - the fort?"
"Yeah."
Caller: "I'll text you if that changes."
"Holla calla."
Click.
Contact with his outside world - Fuckle's "real world" was rejuvinating; he faced his grandma with a kinder heart now because of it.
"Who was that?"
"Oh," Fuckle flips around his phone, "just a friend."
"What'd he want?"
"Nothing"
The timer in the kitchen beeps; of course, this arouses Nanny's supreme attention - this is her rejuvination. This is her time. But Fuckle reaches into the burning hot oven with his thirteen-year-old mitts, since Nanny's skin was so thin and loose, who knows how fast it would cook; more realistically, she has poor motor skills. She knows this, which is why it's so obscene that she offers to help out with cooking and cleaning so much.
Nanny was a housewife, and that time passed long ago. When her children left - when her husband died - her purpose of living, or so it had seemed her purpose for the past five decades, was now reduced to caring only for herself. Soon, she found ways around this - like babysitting her grandchildren while her children went out to get piss ass drunk and have wild and crazy sex in a hotel room which they would only use for less than an hour at the most. Now Nanny's grandchild was monitoring and helping her - she was most definitley on the downward-slope-portion of life. Some might say that the old become more and more like children, but her appearance and conservative values say otherwise - she is more like a spoiled special-needs child who costs more money the longer she lives.
Fuckle and Nanny sit at the table, eating their frozen entree, which Nanny praises as if it were a home cooked meal that she slaved over for hours. Actually, she didn't even buy the entree, and all she did was slit the plastic covering open - Fuckle had to do the rest. He had to preheat the oven, whose controlls were not analog knobs but digital buttons that really threw Nanny for a loop - she couldn't even press the buttons correctly. And he had to put the entree in the oven and remove it from the oven. But Nanny still seemed like she thought that it was all her doing. Like she was the master chef behind it all.
"Mmm."
Nanny likes the way it tastes. She couldn't even wait a proper amount of time for the food cool down; she shoveled it in her mouth even though Fuckle warned her otherwise. Thus, she gasped at the heat, and made an assortment of obscene sounds and faces which all siad, "Ooh - this is hot!" Fuckle looked at Nanny with a face that said, "Maby you should have listened to what I had to say you effing idiot."
After she was done gasping, "Hot." With an emphasis on the "t" which spewed a little entree out of her mouth.
"I told you. It said wait five minutes."
"I did."
"No. We just pulled it out of the oven."
"Well - we shouldn't have to wait any longer. It took over an hour to make anyway."
"It's not like we had to do anything. It cooked itself. Maybe if you would have just sat down in frot of the TV and not worried about the food, you would notice that you had to do nothing."
"It needed to be watched."
"For what?"
"To make sure it was cooking properly."
"You couldn't even see it. The light was off."
"Well I didn't know how to turn it on."
"It's the button that says 'light'."
"Well - I don't know these things."
"Yes - you do. I think it's impossible for you to not figure that out. If you know how to turn on lightswitches around the house, I don't see why you can't master an oven light."
"Well I couldn't, Fuckle. Now please, let's just eat. I would like to eat my food."
"That's all you ever want to do."
Nanny gasps, "We didn't say grace."
"Yeah - that and grace. Eat pray sleep that's all you do. You're a nutcase. No wonder you can't turn on an oven light."
"Dear lord thank us for the food we are about to recieve, amen."
"Feel better? What if you forgot to say grace? Would you go to hell?"
"Fuckle! Don't say that word! Your mother would me mortified."
"No she wouldn't, she named me Fuckle!"
"I don't know why she did that - your mother - you have too much of your mother in you, boy."
"You and your damn prayers and your saying grace and blessing food. It's effing food! It's like - wheat and dead animal meat!"
"That's why we bless the food."
"No you don't. You don't give a shit about the animals. You say the blessing for yourself - so that you can get into heaven. And you don't even know if there's a heaven!"
Nanny blows on her entree.
"That's like saying to my parents, 'well - I'm thinking about getting a degree in Boobology. But Fuckle, that isn't even an area of study. Oh, but I'm planning that by the time I get to college, it will be. Because that would be great'."
"Please pass the margerine."
Fuckle passes the margerine. "It must be nice to just kind of - you know - bullshit. I mean, believe in bullshit and not get questioned about it."
Nanny struggles to open the lid to the margerine container, and lifts it - gesturing to Fuckle, to please open this for her.
"I don't believe you." Fuckle rips open the lid to the container, "I've seen you move. Oh yeah, I've seen you walk fast. You do it for food. The other day when we were all in the family room and Amy had a jar of peanut butter that she was eating with a spoon. All of the sudden you kind of left at your normal slow ass walking speed, but then you returned to the room like a split second later, walking just as fast as anybody else - spoon in hand - out in front of you - right on target to dive into the jar of that ooie gooie peanut butter. It was like 'wham bam' and you had that spoon full of it and in your mouth - savoring, no, I'm sorry, what do the commercials in the Oprah time slot say? Indulge. You indulge in that smooth, creamy taste that melts in your mouth."
Nanny's fork rattles against her plate, she is craving some sweetness. Her mind dozes off, and Fuckle's talking just kind of disappears - she is now in a land of cupcakes and chocolates and doughnuts and Cinnabon and Sarah Lee snacks - all floating around. Nanny plucks a chocolate dildo from the vaccum of space and starts to eat it.
"Mmm..." Nanny moans, "cream filling."
"Yes - yes. Secret passageways leading to chocolate storage facilities - this is your heaven, isn't it, Nanny. Allow me - allow me to fufill your dreams, dead face. I am your God."
"Is there anything I can cook?"
"Can I help?"
"Let me fix those rolls for you."
"So... what are you thinking for supper?"
"This is delicious."
The catch was that Nanny wasn't really capable of carrying out all of these things she offered to do - and she knew this as much as the rest of the family. It seems that Nanny, therefore, only says this shit to seem "nice"; though lets not get carried away, her face is getting dead - she knows this, and these nice words have no real substance, but are only "brownie points" for God; she hopes that this will get her into "heaven". Nanny likes to believe in heaven; you might too if you had a dead face.
Nanny is sitting at the breakfast nook table with her grandson Fuckle, who has been ordered by his mother to oversee Nanny's cooking of a frozen entre. The boy is trying to send the signal to his grandmother that he doesn't enjoy being around her, but since Nanny has recently suffered from a stroke, she is not very perceptive of people's feelings. Nanny unconciously smiles at her grandson; he hates her old withered face. Fuckle knows that the traditional inquiry is about to commence...
"So, Fuckle, how was school."
"Fine."
"Did you have any tests today?" Her voice quivers and flunctuates and yips and yaws and does all this crazy shit that makes talking to her so much worse.
"No."
"Do you have any tomorrow?"
"No."
She purses her lips and nods her head in aknowledgement. A span of a minute or so goes by before her brain is able to work up the next query, "What do you suppose you'll have for lunch tomorrow?"
Fuckle doesn't know - who keeps track of that kind of shit? Who plans ahead that far in advance? Lunch for tomorrow? Jesus Christ lady, get a life!
"I - I don't know."
"Well tell me and I'll fix it for you tonight."
The irritating thing about old people is that they always seem to be thinking about what they're going to have to eat. Constantly. And when they aren't talking about that - they're speculating over the weather. And if they've already talked about weather and food, they will try to ask their children and grandchildren some of the most impossibly answerable questions which deal mainly with "plans for the future".
"So how long do you suppose you'll have this job?"
"What colleges are you thinking about going to?"
"What are you planning on majoring in?"
Usually, after one has tried to answer or not answer these obscene queries, enough time has lapsed to where they can then talk about food again...
"So, what do you want for supper?"
And after this tremendous production is complete, and the dishes are clean and the belly's full, they will settle down for the local evening news to catch tomorrow's weather, even though they've recieved the forecast twice or thrice that day. Then they go to sleep; Fuckle is glad that he doesn't know much about this process, because he stays away as far as he can from Nanny's bedroom before she goes to bed. He's heard the noises - the gargling of Listerine and other noises pulsating behind the closed door - and he's even glimpsed her in a nightie; all of this is enough to put the boy off enough that he looses all interest in imagining having sex with a women for the eveining.
"Fuckle... I can fix you something tonight. If you tell me what you want I can make it for you."
"Don't worry about it, I buy lunch at school."
"Oh." She nods. But Nanny doesn't like it when her plans to "be helpful" are foiled. Her thoughts try to process a rebuttal, but since part of her brain was deprived of oxygen for a short period of time a couple years back, Nanny's mind doesn't usually succeed in coercing young feeble minds - even though those young feeble minds might also be stupid in their own ways.
Suddenly, some shallow pop music blasts out of a tiny over-extruded cell phone speaker and scares Nanny to the point where she leaps about a half inch out of her chair. It is, of course, the boy's cell phone, and the phone is, of course, too high tech for a boy his age; but he flips it open like a mothafuckin' gangsta.
"Sup."
Caller: "Sup, Fuck."
"Whatchu callin' me fo?"
Caller: "Seeing if you wanna see a movie."
"Ah..." Fuckle enters the other room, out of Nanny's hearing radius. "I can't man. I gotta stay home with my effing grandma."
Caller: "Aw, that sucks, man."
"I know bro."
Caller: "You gonna sneek out tonight?"
"Sure - what time?"
Caller: "One o'clock - the fort?"
"Yeah."
Caller: "I'll text you if that changes."
"Holla calla."
Click.
Contact with his outside world - Fuckle's "real world" was rejuvinating; he faced his grandma with a kinder heart now because of it.
"Who was that?"
"Oh," Fuckle flips around his phone, "just a friend."
"What'd he want?"
"Nothing"
The timer in the kitchen beeps; of course, this arouses Nanny's supreme attention - this is her rejuvination. This is her time. But Fuckle reaches into the burning hot oven with his thirteen-year-old mitts, since Nanny's skin was so thin and loose, who knows how fast it would cook; more realistically, she has poor motor skills. She knows this, which is why it's so obscene that she offers to help out with cooking and cleaning so much.
Nanny was a housewife, and that time passed long ago. When her children left - when her husband died - her purpose of living, or so it had seemed her purpose for the past five decades, was now reduced to caring only for herself. Soon, she found ways around this - like babysitting her grandchildren while her children went out to get piss ass drunk and have wild and crazy sex in a hotel room which they would only use for less than an hour at the most. Now Nanny's grandchild was monitoring and helping her - she was most definitley on the downward-slope-portion of life. Some might say that the old become more and more like children, but her appearance and conservative values say otherwise - she is more like a spoiled special-needs child who costs more money the longer she lives.
Fuckle and Nanny sit at the table, eating their frozen entree, which Nanny praises as if it were a home cooked meal that she slaved over for hours. Actually, she didn't even buy the entree, and all she did was slit the plastic covering open - Fuckle had to do the rest. He had to preheat the oven, whose controlls were not analog knobs but digital buttons that really threw Nanny for a loop - she couldn't even press the buttons correctly. And he had to put the entree in the oven and remove it from the oven. But Nanny still seemed like she thought that it was all her doing. Like she was the master chef behind it all.
"Mmm."
Nanny likes the way it tastes. She couldn't even wait a proper amount of time for the food cool down; she shoveled it in her mouth even though Fuckle warned her otherwise. Thus, she gasped at the heat, and made an assortment of obscene sounds and faces which all siad, "Ooh - this is hot!" Fuckle looked at Nanny with a face that said, "Maby you should have listened to what I had to say you effing idiot."
After she was done gasping, "Hot." With an emphasis on the "t" which spewed a little entree out of her mouth.
"I told you. It said wait five minutes."
"I did."
"No. We just pulled it out of the oven."
"Well - we shouldn't have to wait any longer. It took over an hour to make anyway."
"It's not like we had to do anything. It cooked itself. Maybe if you would have just sat down in frot of the TV and not worried about the food, you would notice that you had to do nothing."
"It needed to be watched."
"For what?"
"To make sure it was cooking properly."
"You couldn't even see it. The light was off."
"Well I didn't know how to turn it on."
"It's the button that says 'light'."
"Well - I don't know these things."
"Yes - you do. I think it's impossible for you to not figure that out. If you know how to turn on lightswitches around the house, I don't see why you can't master an oven light."
"Well I couldn't, Fuckle. Now please, let's just eat. I would like to eat my food."
"That's all you ever want to do."
Nanny gasps, "We didn't say grace."
"Yeah - that and grace. Eat pray sleep that's all you do. You're a nutcase. No wonder you can't turn on an oven light."
"Dear lord thank us for the food we are about to recieve, amen."
"Feel better? What if you forgot to say grace? Would you go to hell?"
"Fuckle! Don't say that word! Your mother would me mortified."
"No she wouldn't, she named me Fuckle!"
"I don't know why she did that - your mother - you have too much of your mother in you, boy."
"You and your damn prayers and your saying grace and blessing food. It's effing food! It's like - wheat and dead animal meat!"
"That's why we bless the food."
"No you don't. You don't give a shit about the animals. You say the blessing for yourself - so that you can get into heaven. And you don't even know if there's a heaven!"
Nanny blows on her entree.
"That's like saying to my parents, 'well - I'm thinking about getting a degree in Boobology. But Fuckle, that isn't even an area of study. Oh, but I'm planning that by the time I get to college, it will be. Because that would be great'."
"Please pass the margerine."
Fuckle passes the margerine. "It must be nice to just kind of - you know - bullshit. I mean, believe in bullshit and not get questioned about it."
Nanny struggles to open the lid to the margerine container, and lifts it - gesturing to Fuckle, to please open this for her.
"I don't believe you." Fuckle rips open the lid to the container, "I've seen you move. Oh yeah, I've seen you walk fast. You do it for food. The other day when we were all in the family room and Amy had a jar of peanut butter that she was eating with a spoon. All of the sudden you kind of left at your normal slow ass walking speed, but then you returned to the room like a split second later, walking just as fast as anybody else - spoon in hand - out in front of you - right on target to dive into the jar of that ooie gooie peanut butter. It was like 'wham bam' and you had that spoon full of it and in your mouth - savoring, no, I'm sorry, what do the commercials in the Oprah time slot say? Indulge. You indulge in that smooth, creamy taste that melts in your mouth."
Nanny's fork rattles against her plate, she is craving some sweetness. Her mind dozes off, and Fuckle's talking just kind of disappears - she is now in a land of cupcakes and chocolates and doughnuts and Cinnabon and Sarah Lee snacks - all floating around. Nanny plucks a chocolate dildo from the vaccum of space and starts to eat it.
"Mmm..." Nanny moans, "cream filling."
"Yes - yes. Secret passageways leading to chocolate storage facilities - this is your heaven, isn't it, Nanny. Allow me - allow me to fufill your dreams, dead face. I am your God."
Saturday, November 05, 2005
Nanny dead face
The epoch of a person only ends in Grotesquanny; Nanny's end is near, and her children and their children are trying their damndest to comfort this woman who has transformed into such a wreched person over the past couple of years - no doubt her anger has only been tempered by the hypocrisy that she has slowly been realizing over the past few final years of her one hundred. Nanny lay in this hospital bed, which is now her permanent bed, as she spends her entire life now in a socialist complex called a "nursing home". This retirement villa is nothing more than a prison, she has realized, and to think that she has spent her entire life propagating democracy only to end up in an autocracy is nothing more than blatant hypocrisy, and therefore a dismal ending to her being. She holds "Bible Code Annotated" against her bosom...
"Fuck this place," her children and grandchildren stand around her bed, "I'm in a Rat's hell!"
Her voice rasps and cackles like she's a witch - the grandchildren realize this stereotype, and therefore suppose that she has gone mad - their parent's assume this, also, as do the nursing staff, their administrators, and the President of the United States, who made the mistake of congratulating Nanny on reaching her 100th birth day...
You dumb bastard, it was my one hundredth birthday nine months ago! You savage hypocrite - on one hand you say that aborting baby fetuses is killing humans, but then on the other, you don't even recognize that the time I spent in my mother's fucking womb was part of my lifespan. You're a terrible person Mr. President, and I hope you rot in hell!
Though Nanny isn't really mad, she's perfectly sane - she has just lost all patience in dealing with hypocrisy; and after one hundred years of living on this planet, who wouldn't? She has felt the effects of neo capitalism; when her husband died, his pension went with him - and so did Nanny's. Her family was left with the bill of keeping her alive and well, which is why they moved her into a nursing home.
"You children ready for Christmas?"
The younglings nod with all honesty.
"Have you been to see Santa?"
Again, they nod.
"And," she touches one of the children on the hand, they flinch, understandably, "what kind of eggs, I mean, gifts, did you ask for?"
The little girl answeres quietly, "A cell phone."
"I'm sorry darling, what is it you said? Baskets?"
One of the parents impatiently pipes up for their daughter, "A cell phone, ma."
Nanny's face withers in confusion, "What the hell does she need a cell phone for?"
Constance, the daughter-in-law, and the source of the children's attention deficit problems, pipes in like a cornerstone bitch, "So we can stay in touch with her. If there is a problem, she can call us."
"But the girl is only five years old. I don't understand, why would she need to call you for anything?"
"It's just," Constance huffs, "what she wants."
Nanny's son reassures his mother, "But Santa will be the one who decides."
"Santa?" Nanny seems pissed, "Well tell Santa that little kids about five don't need any fucking cellular telephones."
The little girl's eyebrows crease in sadness.
"And if Santa gets you a cell phone, darling, let me know, because I'm going to write him a nasty letter if he does."
"Ma..."
"What happened to dolls? When I was a girl we got dolls for Christmas. And when we got the doll - we didn't even play with the damn thing. We just put it on a shelf and let it collect dusts. I played in my imagination. Start giving kids cell phones as toys - what the hell kind of message is that sending to them? It's not a toy - it's something that's high tech and flashy so she can walk around and show her friends, 'ooh look at me, I'm a hot little bitch, I've got a cell phone'."
Nanny then took the little boy's hand, "And what did you ask Santa? Not another cell phone I hope."
"I've allready got a cell..."
Constance yelps, "Just answer Nanny's question."
"I asked for an iPod."
"Oh now that sounds like fun, what does that do?"
"It play's music."
"Oh - you mean, like an instrument?"
"No, you put songs on it, like from C.D.'s and stuff."
"Oh."
"You can even watch video's on it."
"Oh my. That sounds nice."
"There's a codec on the internet that you can download, and It'll let you put any kind of video on there."
"I see."
"So I can put all my porno on there."
"Your what?"
"Porno."
"What?" Nanny laughs, "Pornography! You're only eleven." Nanny looks at Constance, "What's this about pornography?"
"Oh, he is into porno now. You know, he's getting to about that age, Nanna. We got him an account at a fairly clean website where he can you know, look and whatnot. Just so that he can get it out of his system before he gets into high school - his psychologist says that repressing sexual interest could be damaging in the long term - so we let him just, feed that interest, because it's going to happen anyway."
"I'm sorry," the Bible Code Annotated has slipped off her bosom and into the boy's hands, "I think I've slipped into one of the lower circles of hell. To save me, you must read that book in it's entirity."
"I can't Nanny."
"But why?"
"Dr. Psychologist thinks that religion might confuse my sexual desires."
"But," Nanny grasped the young boy's wrist, "I'll die."
The boy removes Nanny's hand from his young arm, "I'm sorry Nanny, but I can't, and you can't have my skin again, and you can't have my age again. You have built your own castle of despair, and I will not be the one who crashes it down, that will be you and the dusty wicker baskets that cloud your mind and hold nothing but a thin, arid air which only exists in the presence of moth balls. This arm you want again will not happen, and you can read these pages all you like if it makes you feel better, but it makes me feel like masturbation is bad, so although I feel sad, I've had enough of your brew, your doctrine; the nation you built was once yours, but now it's mine, and the grave we will dig for you one day will sometime later be subject to redistricting when I get tired of watching porno on my iPod. I would suggest cremation since cemetaries take up too much of my space."
"They've got my kids, Lord," Nanny whispered. "You motherfuckers! They've got the kids!"
Luciferians 3:676
"Fuck this place," her children and grandchildren stand around her bed, "I'm in a Rat's hell!"
Her voice rasps and cackles like she's a witch - the grandchildren realize this stereotype, and therefore suppose that she has gone mad - their parent's assume this, also, as do the nursing staff, their administrators, and the President of the United States, who made the mistake of congratulating Nanny on reaching her 100th birth day...
You dumb bastard, it was my one hundredth birthday nine months ago! You savage hypocrite - on one hand you say that aborting baby fetuses is killing humans, but then on the other, you don't even recognize that the time I spent in my mother's fucking womb was part of my lifespan. You're a terrible person Mr. President, and I hope you rot in hell!
Though Nanny isn't really mad, she's perfectly sane - she has just lost all patience in dealing with hypocrisy; and after one hundred years of living on this planet, who wouldn't? She has felt the effects of neo capitalism; when her husband died, his pension went with him - and so did Nanny's. Her family was left with the bill of keeping her alive and well, which is why they moved her into a nursing home.
"You children ready for Christmas?"
The younglings nod with all honesty.
"Have you been to see Santa?"
Again, they nod.
"And," she touches one of the children on the hand, they flinch, understandably, "what kind of eggs, I mean, gifts, did you ask for?"
The little girl answeres quietly, "A cell phone."
"I'm sorry darling, what is it you said? Baskets?"
One of the parents impatiently pipes up for their daughter, "A cell phone, ma."
Nanny's face withers in confusion, "What the hell does she need a cell phone for?"
Constance, the daughter-in-law, and the source of the children's attention deficit problems, pipes in like a cornerstone bitch, "So we can stay in touch with her. If there is a problem, she can call us."
"But the girl is only five years old. I don't understand, why would she need to call you for anything?"
"It's just," Constance huffs, "what she wants."
Nanny's son reassures his mother, "But Santa will be the one who decides."
"Santa?" Nanny seems pissed, "Well tell Santa that little kids about five don't need any fucking cellular telephones."
The little girl's eyebrows crease in sadness.
"And if Santa gets you a cell phone, darling, let me know, because I'm going to write him a nasty letter if he does."
"Ma..."
"What happened to dolls? When I was a girl we got dolls for Christmas. And when we got the doll - we didn't even play with the damn thing. We just put it on a shelf and let it collect dusts. I played in my imagination. Start giving kids cell phones as toys - what the hell kind of message is that sending to them? It's not a toy - it's something that's high tech and flashy so she can walk around and show her friends, 'ooh look at me, I'm a hot little bitch, I've got a cell phone'."
Nanny then took the little boy's hand, "And what did you ask Santa? Not another cell phone I hope."
"I've allready got a cell..."
Constance yelps, "Just answer Nanny's question."
"I asked for an iPod."
"Oh now that sounds like fun, what does that do?"
"It play's music."
"Oh - you mean, like an instrument?"
"No, you put songs on it, like from C.D.'s and stuff."
"Oh."
"You can even watch video's on it."
"Oh my. That sounds nice."
"There's a codec on the internet that you can download, and It'll let you put any kind of video on there."
"I see."
"So I can put all my porno on there."
"Your what?"
"Porno."
"What?" Nanny laughs, "Pornography! You're only eleven." Nanny looks at Constance, "What's this about pornography?"
"Oh, he is into porno now. You know, he's getting to about that age, Nanna. We got him an account at a fairly clean website where he can you know, look and whatnot. Just so that he can get it out of his system before he gets into high school - his psychologist says that repressing sexual interest could be damaging in the long term - so we let him just, feed that interest, because it's going to happen anyway."
"I'm sorry," the Bible Code Annotated has slipped off her bosom and into the boy's hands, "I think I've slipped into one of the lower circles of hell. To save me, you must read that book in it's entirity."
"I can't Nanny."
"But why?"
"Dr. Psychologist thinks that religion might confuse my sexual desires."
"But," Nanny grasped the young boy's wrist, "I'll die."
The boy removes Nanny's hand from his young arm, "I'm sorry Nanny, but I can't, and you can't have my skin again, and you can't have my age again. You have built your own castle of despair, and I will not be the one who crashes it down, that will be you and the dusty wicker baskets that cloud your mind and hold nothing but a thin, arid air which only exists in the presence of moth balls. This arm you want again will not happen, and you can read these pages all you like if it makes you feel better, but it makes me feel like masturbation is bad, so although I feel sad, I've had enough of your brew, your doctrine; the nation you built was once yours, but now it's mine, and the grave we will dig for you one day will sometime later be subject to redistricting when I get tired of watching porno on my iPod. I would suggest cremation since cemetaries take up too much of my space."
"They've got my kids, Lord," Nanny whispered. "You motherfuckers! They've got the kids!"
Luciferians 3:676
Saturday, October 29, 2005
Serviced Merchandise
Ditzig scratches his signature down on a three thousand one hundered and fourteen dollar check he just wrote to Service Merchandise. He exhales from his 29 (plus four months) year old lungs as he hands over the check to the African American cashier; she has long red nails which are a perfect accessory to her typing in his account number - the bright red fake plastic nails create an enjoyable aesthetic for everyone, including Shaniqua.
Ditzig knows that the check will clear; he has been saving up for this purchase for quite some time now - he isn't clearing out his bank accout, mind you - Ditzig is an adult and spends accordingly to his need and wants. He writes down the purchase in his check book, accounting for the purchase so that when he recieves all of his checks in the mail at the end of the month, everything will balance out perfectly - like he's running his own little company or something.
But Ditzig doesn't own or run a little company, he is only an accessory in a very large one that was started by someone who was likley much more fortunate than he was, and certainly more wealthy. His apartment was no indication of affluance; Ditzig assumed a humble, quaint hospice on the corner of Corning and Crown, within a building that holds many other hospices much like his. Ditzig couldn't wait to get his new purchase back to his apartment.
After the check cleared and Ditzig was given a record of his purchase, Shaniqua pointed towards a Service desk, "Your computer should be waiting over there."
Yes, a computer. Ditzig had bit the bullet and bought a computer, a machine which would satisfy many of his needs - word processing and digital accounting for home use, as well as games with arcade-quality graphics, and at some point down the road, an America Online account. This was exactly the thing that Ditzig was waiting for all of his life - a machine which could deliver both productivity and entertainment.
Soon, the purchase was sitting squarely in a shopping cart - there was the computer itself - the CPU, and then there was the monitor - the CRT. And to Ditzig's luck, Service Merchandise was running a special - buy any combination CPU, Monitor, Keyboard, Mouse and Speakers and receive a free Inkidyne color dot matrix printer with a ream of perforated feed paper. So there were three boxes in his cart - he couldn't fathom at the moment how he would be able to take all of this up to his apartment in one trip, less three, without making himself look like a weakling, which he was by stereotype.
Ditzig simply adorned Janett - that blonde down the hall from him. His first trip was the printer, as it was the lightest item; he was pacing himself. He hoped like hell that Janett would not pop her hot little body out into the hall, to observe Ditzig making a weak fool of himself. He sweated with anticipation and worry as he approached his door, knowing that the first trip was over, and the next trip, he would be carrying a more heavy item. "I should have started with the monitor first," thought Ditzig.
But he carried that monitor secondly, and low and behold, as Ditzig was making his way back to the elevator on the first floor, Janett has somehow materialized out of nowhere - possibly his own imagination - right in front of the elevator doors. Now Ditzig would have to ride up with her.
He sweated profusley as the doors to the elevator closed, thinking only what she could be thinking - but what he didn't know was that Janett was actually thinking about the black italian sling-back stilettos she just saw at the mall - thinking to herself how sexy she would look wearing them. Janett was thinking about this the whole way up the elevator and down the hall to her room, until she opened her door and discovered that she had left the TV on; then she was thinking about the electric bill thereafter, and how she needed to put it in the mailbox.
Ditzig was thinking about her, though. Mainly, Ditzig was thinking that Janett was thinking he was ugly, sweaty, weak and smelly, and was probably a nerd since he was struggling to hold up CPU that was packaged with Lucas Arts' TIE Fighter and Microsoft's Flight Simulator - and cleary stated this on the outside of the package. Ditzig wish that the computer wasn't called CLICK!, because it didn't look as professional as an IBM, but he knew after careful research and word-of-mouth that the two computers were basically the same on the inside. The processors were the same - both Intel 486's. The operating systems were the same - both running of Microsoft's DOS, and packaged with the Windows 3.1 graphical user interface. Both had 256 kilobytes of the same random access memory as well as the same 512 megabyte hard disk drives - and who can forget the optical CD-ROM for playing spectacular interactive games and Microsoft Encarta videos like the fist moon walk.
12 months later
Service Merchandise had managed to sell Ditzig a two-year warranty which covered the imminant death of the computer, as well as other problems that might have been involuntarily caused by the user. So on this day, exactly one year later, Ditzig stumbled into the service department at Service Merchandise with his CLICK! computer in his bare hands. Blood was dripping out the back of it's casing; something was wrong.
"Please," wimpered Ditzig, "help me."
His manner and sudden presence startled the personnel behind the service counter. They only asked the next possible question, "What's wrong?"
Ditzig had made it to the tall counter and was struggling to put the CPU on it, "My computer is bleeding."
A woman at the service desk covered her mouth with a cold, pale hand; she had never seen a case like this before. She signaled for Benji, the computer repair technician.
"What's up?" Benji asked right before he saw the pool of blood forming on the counter.
"My computer is bleeding."
"His computer is bleeding."
Benji was a bit confused, but he aknowledged, "I see."
The woman asked Benji if he had seen anything like this before, and he said no.
"But I'll have a look."
Ditzig waited in the lobby in tears; waiting for the diagnosis. Nobody else seemed to understand the peril he was going through. Ditzig had spent the best year of his life with that computer, and there it was, corrupted. But why? Why was the computer corrupted? It was only a year old. It made Ditzig sick. The woman at the service counter tried to console Ditzig, saying that everything will be fine.
"But I don't understand," said Ditzig between tears, "Click's only a year old."
The woman held his hand, "Sometimes - these things happen. But you know what? We fix these kinds of problems. Benji does this every day."
Ditzig then saw Benji emerge from the technician's room; he stood up, awaiting the diagnosis.
"Mr. Ditzig," Benji continued in all honesty, "I must say I've never seen anything like this."
"Well," Ditzig was anxious, "tell me what the problem is."
"It seems that a human tissue has been substituted for the computer's random access memory."
~
After some careful investigation by local authorities, it was confirmed that Ditzig had used the flesh of Janett for his computer's random access memory. He encased the flesh in two pieces of plate glass, which held the skin together, and measured it all so that it would fit properly in one of the expandable RAM slots.
The mortician was held as an expert witness for the trial of The People vs. Ditzig, "Underneath Ms. Janett's left breast, we found an incision, and within that incision, was a piece of - what I could only describe at the time - a piece of silicon with solid state memory modules fused to the surface."
The autopsy revealed that the RAM missing from Click was implanted into Janett. It seemed to the authorities that Ditzig was in the beginning stages of tying to emulate Janett with Click.
"We also found - in Ms. Janett's trachaea - what seemed to be red, yellow and black cables that might be used to power certain internal pieces of hardware in a computer system."
In fact, the blood that was dripping from Click's case, was from the blood of arteries that Ditzig had removed from Janett and installed inside Click. Though they were a jumbled mess by the time of the investigation, Ditzig's testimony reveals that he was using Janett's arteries as cables to power an aftermarket processor fan.
"And possibly the most interesting item was found in Ms. Janett's vaginal cavity - that being a three and a half inch floppy disk removed from it's protective casing."
In his response to the floppy disk, Ditzig mentioned that the important thing was not the floppy disk itself, but what was on the disk. Forensics reviewed the disk and uncovered the data; the only data on the disk being a text file that repeated the word "spermatazoa" an unspeakable amount of times.
"I will tell you one thing," said Ditzig, "I did try to use what I believe was Janett's clitorus as a means for overclocking Click's processor, but my efforts seemed futile so I stopped trying. That's when I broght Click in to be serviced."
Ditzig knows that the check will clear; he has been saving up for this purchase for quite some time now - he isn't clearing out his bank accout, mind you - Ditzig is an adult and spends accordingly to his need and wants. He writes down the purchase in his check book, accounting for the purchase so that when he recieves all of his checks in the mail at the end of the month, everything will balance out perfectly - like he's running his own little company or something.
But Ditzig doesn't own or run a little company, he is only an accessory in a very large one that was started by someone who was likley much more fortunate than he was, and certainly more wealthy. His apartment was no indication of affluance; Ditzig assumed a humble, quaint hospice on the corner of Corning and Crown, within a building that holds many other hospices much like his. Ditzig couldn't wait to get his new purchase back to his apartment.
After the check cleared and Ditzig was given a record of his purchase, Shaniqua pointed towards a Service desk, "Your computer should be waiting over there."
Yes, a computer. Ditzig had bit the bullet and bought a computer, a machine which would satisfy many of his needs - word processing and digital accounting for home use, as well as games with arcade-quality graphics, and at some point down the road, an America Online account. This was exactly the thing that Ditzig was waiting for all of his life - a machine which could deliver both productivity and entertainment.
Soon, the purchase was sitting squarely in a shopping cart - there was the computer itself - the CPU, and then there was the monitor - the CRT. And to Ditzig's luck, Service Merchandise was running a special - buy any combination CPU, Monitor, Keyboard, Mouse and Speakers and receive a free Inkidyne color dot matrix printer with a ream of perforated feed paper. So there were three boxes in his cart - he couldn't fathom at the moment how he would be able to take all of this up to his apartment in one trip, less three, without making himself look like a weakling, which he was by stereotype.
Ditzig simply adorned Janett - that blonde down the hall from him. His first trip was the printer, as it was the lightest item; he was pacing himself. He hoped like hell that Janett would not pop her hot little body out into the hall, to observe Ditzig making a weak fool of himself. He sweated with anticipation and worry as he approached his door, knowing that the first trip was over, and the next trip, he would be carrying a more heavy item. "I should have started with the monitor first," thought Ditzig.
But he carried that monitor secondly, and low and behold, as Ditzig was making his way back to the elevator on the first floor, Janett has somehow materialized out of nowhere - possibly his own imagination - right in front of the elevator doors. Now Ditzig would have to ride up with her.
He sweated profusley as the doors to the elevator closed, thinking only what she could be thinking - but what he didn't know was that Janett was actually thinking about the black italian sling-back stilettos she just saw at the mall - thinking to herself how sexy she would look wearing them. Janett was thinking about this the whole way up the elevator and down the hall to her room, until she opened her door and discovered that she had left the TV on; then she was thinking about the electric bill thereafter, and how she needed to put it in the mailbox.
Ditzig was thinking about her, though. Mainly, Ditzig was thinking that Janett was thinking he was ugly, sweaty, weak and smelly, and was probably a nerd since he was struggling to hold up CPU that was packaged with Lucas Arts' TIE Fighter and Microsoft's Flight Simulator - and cleary stated this on the outside of the package. Ditzig wish that the computer wasn't called CLICK!, because it didn't look as professional as an IBM, but he knew after careful research and word-of-mouth that the two computers were basically the same on the inside. The processors were the same - both Intel 486's. The operating systems were the same - both running of Microsoft's DOS, and packaged with the Windows 3.1 graphical user interface. Both had 256 kilobytes of the same random access memory as well as the same 512 megabyte hard disk drives - and who can forget the optical CD-ROM for playing spectacular interactive games and Microsoft Encarta videos like the fist moon walk.
12 months later
Service Merchandise had managed to sell Ditzig a two-year warranty which covered the imminant death of the computer, as well as other problems that might have been involuntarily caused by the user. So on this day, exactly one year later, Ditzig stumbled into the service department at Service Merchandise with his CLICK! computer in his bare hands. Blood was dripping out the back of it's casing; something was wrong.
"Please," wimpered Ditzig, "help me."
His manner and sudden presence startled the personnel behind the service counter. They only asked the next possible question, "What's wrong?"
Ditzig had made it to the tall counter and was struggling to put the CPU on it, "My computer is bleeding."
A woman at the service desk covered her mouth with a cold, pale hand; she had never seen a case like this before. She signaled for Benji, the computer repair technician.
"What's up?" Benji asked right before he saw the pool of blood forming on the counter.
"My computer is bleeding."
"His computer is bleeding."
Benji was a bit confused, but he aknowledged, "I see."
The woman asked Benji if he had seen anything like this before, and he said no.
"But I'll have a look."
Ditzig waited in the lobby in tears; waiting for the diagnosis. Nobody else seemed to understand the peril he was going through. Ditzig had spent the best year of his life with that computer, and there it was, corrupted. But why? Why was the computer corrupted? It was only a year old. It made Ditzig sick. The woman at the service counter tried to console Ditzig, saying that everything will be fine.
"But I don't understand," said Ditzig between tears, "Click's only a year old."
The woman held his hand, "Sometimes - these things happen. But you know what? We fix these kinds of problems. Benji does this every day."
Ditzig then saw Benji emerge from the technician's room; he stood up, awaiting the diagnosis.
"Mr. Ditzig," Benji continued in all honesty, "I must say I've never seen anything like this."
"Well," Ditzig was anxious, "tell me what the problem is."
"It seems that a human tissue has been substituted for the computer's random access memory."
~
After some careful investigation by local authorities, it was confirmed that Ditzig had used the flesh of Janett for his computer's random access memory. He encased the flesh in two pieces of plate glass, which held the skin together, and measured it all so that it would fit properly in one of the expandable RAM slots.
The mortician was held as an expert witness for the trial of The People vs. Ditzig, "Underneath Ms. Janett's left breast, we found an incision, and within that incision, was a piece of - what I could only describe at the time - a piece of silicon with solid state memory modules fused to the surface."
The autopsy revealed that the RAM missing from Click was implanted into Janett. It seemed to the authorities that Ditzig was in the beginning stages of tying to emulate Janett with Click.
"We also found - in Ms. Janett's trachaea - what seemed to be red, yellow and black cables that might be used to power certain internal pieces of hardware in a computer system."
In fact, the blood that was dripping from Click's case, was from the blood of arteries that Ditzig had removed from Janett and installed inside Click. Though they were a jumbled mess by the time of the investigation, Ditzig's testimony reveals that he was using Janett's arteries as cables to power an aftermarket processor fan.
"And possibly the most interesting item was found in Ms. Janett's vaginal cavity - that being a three and a half inch floppy disk removed from it's protective casing."
In his response to the floppy disk, Ditzig mentioned that the important thing was not the floppy disk itself, but what was on the disk. Forensics reviewed the disk and uncovered the data; the only data on the disk being a text file that repeated the word "spermatazoa" an unspeakable amount of times.
"I will tell you one thing," said Ditzig, "I did try to use what I believe was Janett's clitorus as a means for overclocking Click's processor, but my efforts seemed futile so I stopped trying. That's when I broght Click in to be serviced."
Saturday, October 08, 2005
The Carpenters
The particular thing about these Carvers - I know, I've mentioned these motherfuckers before, but I can't seem to get them off my mind - is that they are the most loathsome group of individuals whom ironically despise individualism iself - a bit of hypocrisy it seems we have here - no doubt these Carvers will just nestle themselves right into my list of people to destroy, my list which is chiefly organized around one common theme, it seems, in fact most of the individuals on my list are subject to emitting some daft proportions of hypocrisy to a certain extent - these Carvers are no exception.
They are the pitfall of society and the guardians of the capitalist slops which they so eagerly pour into the Wal-Marts, I'm sorry, I mean troughs, of the world - and the world's people feast from the slop like hungry pigs - consuming vast proportions of left overs; earthpoo. The pigs bloat so effortlessly at the expense of themselves, and at the benifit of the Carvers, who are the cooks of the slop, and the keepers of the pen. And oh please, don't try to assume that the pigs are unable to escape the simple confines of the pen - they are taught to remain inside this trap; the slop is pure concentrated conspiracy that is full of addictive substances, fatty acids, etcetera...
These Carvers - ugh, I ache at the thought of these motherfuckers - my hands clamp my temples like a vice, and I don't mean the evil type of vice, but the vice that a Carpenter might use in his shop - oh Jesus - a Carpenter - I should have known, there is no escape from these bastards. The Carvers, the Carpenters, the Masons - what other evil group might arise to foil simple pleasures? What extra hoard of conspirators might present themselves upon some dell of my cerebrum?
"Gentlemen," the general of the Carvers stands in a small valley, speaking to an army of gentlemen, armed with some sorts of long, thin weapons which clank against eachother in the wind, "It is time to go into battle. Attack the portions of this area which you think are most vulnerable to our methods. For instance, if the subject resists your advances, offer him or her a low interest rate - and if all else fails, offer them no down payment - this is the opportune moment to strike!"
That day, the Carvers only gained control of 1/1,000,000,000th of my cerebrum; it doesn't seem much, but their army advances slowly but surley, and their objectives are almost always met with devistating precision. In time, I will fall to the army in one way or another. Either, my cerebrum will cease to operate efficiently under the rule of the Carvers, or I will have to amass my own legion of warriors, and take back the land that was rightful to me, not to those motherfuckers - not the Carvers. Ugh, there's that vice again - and there's that damn carpenter; Jesus!
They are the pitfall of society and the guardians of the capitalist slops which they so eagerly pour into the Wal-Marts, I'm sorry, I mean troughs, of the world - and the world's people feast from the slop like hungry pigs - consuming vast proportions of left overs; earthpoo. The pigs bloat so effortlessly at the expense of themselves, and at the benifit of the Carvers, who are the cooks of the slop, and the keepers of the pen. And oh please, don't try to assume that the pigs are unable to escape the simple confines of the pen - they are taught to remain inside this trap; the slop is pure concentrated conspiracy that is full of addictive substances, fatty acids, etcetera...
These Carvers - ugh, I ache at the thought of these motherfuckers - my hands clamp my temples like a vice, and I don't mean the evil type of vice, but the vice that a Carpenter might use in his shop - oh Jesus - a Carpenter - I should have known, there is no escape from these bastards. The Carvers, the Carpenters, the Masons - what other evil group might arise to foil simple pleasures? What extra hoard of conspirators might present themselves upon some dell of my cerebrum?
"Gentlemen," the general of the Carvers stands in a small valley, speaking to an army of gentlemen, armed with some sorts of long, thin weapons which clank against eachother in the wind, "It is time to go into battle. Attack the portions of this area which you think are most vulnerable to our methods. For instance, if the subject resists your advances, offer him or her a low interest rate - and if all else fails, offer them no down payment - this is the opportune moment to strike!"
That day, the Carvers only gained control of 1/1,000,000,000th of my cerebrum; it doesn't seem much, but their army advances slowly but surley, and their objectives are almost always met with devistating precision. In time, I will fall to the army in one way or another. Either, my cerebrum will cease to operate efficiently under the rule of the Carvers, or I will have to amass my own legion of warriors, and take back the land that was rightful to me, not to those motherfuckers - not the Carvers. Ugh, there's that vice again - and there's that damn carpenter; Jesus!
Saturday, September 17, 2005
N.D.P. - No Down Payment
This is a lucritive business opportunity which your business cannot refuse. N.D.P. promises you just that - no down payment. Period. Exclifuckingmation point.
Let's take Ned for example: his face was a problem. Ned was caught on camera reading our book, "The Secret to Having No More Down Payments", and the authorities have this on file, and can use it against Ned at any time they please. Soon, when he ends up in court, the prosecuter will show the judge this tape - and of course since all judges are corrupt - he will be immediatley charged with guilt against whatever crime he probably didn't commit.
So we took Ned's face and removed it, replaced it with a new one, and took the old one to a taxedrmist so that Ned could at least frame it on his wall as a token of his past - this isn't Ned's fault that he had to switch his face, this was the workings of a watchful society on its curious subjects. Now Ned has resumed his life under a new face, a face which got him a new job at a Pentium computer chip factory which manufactures Pentium II microprocessors - he is in charge of the quality assurance program for the MMX module. Intel likes Ned not for his new face, but his decision to include the fact that he switched his face on his employment application - his face wasn't on the physical application, rather, he wrote in english about his face surgery. Because the general manager of the plant's daughter benifited from N.D.P.'s new face program, there was an immediate connection between the two men in the office...
"Jesus christ, my daughter had that surgery just yesterday! Gave her a new face!"
"And it gave me a new face, too."
"Have you heard about N.D.P.'s total body purification program?"
"No."
"Your fuckin' hired!"
Ned hadn't heard about N.D.P.'s Total Body Purification (TBP) program, which consists of removing vital organs of the body and subjecting them to 48 hours of rigurous cleansing processes which are carried out at our special lab in Valklyre, Nova Scotia. Specially trained physicians coupled with the latest technology are able to zero in on parts of these vital organs (the spleen, liver, both kidneys) and rid them of chemicals which can cause cancer or general drowsyness. The general manager of the Pentium microprocessor plant was inclined to go through with the surgery itself, but he was in the process of carefully heading the warnings associated with the TBP program.
The warnings on the TBP program could be summed up in the case of Bledsoe, a slightly overweight woman who offered her body as a science project for our organization. When Bledsoe's vital organs were removed, namley the second kidney, our specialists found that there needed to be a way to sustain the functioning of this organ in Bledsoe's body. Unfortunatley, our specialists thought about this after the fact both kidneys were actually removed, an event which resulted in her imminent death. Bledsoe's other organs were salvaged, however, for trials on the cleansing processes; specialists found that when a mixture of Lava bar soap and nectar-of-brusselsprouts was applied to the surface of all the organs with steel wool, the organs were totally destroyed, leaving what would best be described in words as a mutilation of human organs. Though, our specialists learn from these failures and do not repeat them the second time around - a wide-ruled Mead composition notebook contains a catalogue of these failures, and the specialists review this catalog carefully before every procedure.
If TBP is not for you, than our company does offer one other thing: deep discounts. And when we say deep discounts, we're not talking about the 9th ward and its inhabitants, we're talking James Cameron films like "The Abyss" - deeper than "Titanic", these discounts will crack your company in half. You'll find that with our deep discounts, your company will benifit so much that you'll have to split its offering on the stock market into A and B stocks. With Deep Discount - you're going so deep, you'll probably wish you had a flashlight along with a pressurized cabin around you - which is why we offer the Total Security Protection II program. This program offers you so much security, you won't be able to breathe. That's a good time to start thinking about the Good Night Productivity simulator, which is a computer that interfaces with your brain while you sleep, so that it may give you real, good, supple dreams that last as long as you tell the computer you want them to. And when the dream is all over, the computer always sets a small amount of time to bring you slowly back to reality - this is all programable, and of course secure when coupled with TSPII. If you don't couple the GNP simulator with TSPII, the simulator is vulnerable to dream theft. Much like identity theft, dream theft happens when you are dreaming through a simulated interface, and a computer hacker decides to peep into or even steal your drems - replacing them with nothing or more horrifyingly - nightmares. We think that security is so important, that we don't offer it as a standard option with the GNP simulator, but as a pricey addition which might have you paying for months out your asshole for our services - because we like to give you deep, deep, deep discounts with no down payment. Period.
Let's take Ned for example: his face was a problem. Ned was caught on camera reading our book, "The Secret to Having No More Down Payments", and the authorities have this on file, and can use it against Ned at any time they please. Soon, when he ends up in court, the prosecuter will show the judge this tape - and of course since all judges are corrupt - he will be immediatley charged with guilt against whatever crime he probably didn't commit.
So we took Ned's face and removed it, replaced it with a new one, and took the old one to a taxedrmist so that Ned could at least frame it on his wall as a token of his past - this isn't Ned's fault that he had to switch his face, this was the workings of a watchful society on its curious subjects. Now Ned has resumed his life under a new face, a face which got him a new job at a Pentium computer chip factory which manufactures Pentium II microprocessors - he is in charge of the quality assurance program for the MMX module. Intel likes Ned not for his new face, but his decision to include the fact that he switched his face on his employment application - his face wasn't on the physical application, rather, he wrote in english about his face surgery. Because the general manager of the plant's daughter benifited from N.D.P.'s new face program, there was an immediate connection between the two men in the office...
"Jesus christ, my daughter had that surgery just yesterday! Gave her a new face!"
"And it gave me a new face, too."
"Have you heard about N.D.P.'s total body purification program?"
"No."
"Your fuckin' hired!"
Ned hadn't heard about N.D.P.'s Total Body Purification (TBP) program, which consists of removing vital organs of the body and subjecting them to 48 hours of rigurous cleansing processes which are carried out at our special lab in Valklyre, Nova Scotia. Specially trained physicians coupled with the latest technology are able to zero in on parts of these vital organs (the spleen, liver, both kidneys) and rid them of chemicals which can cause cancer or general drowsyness. The general manager of the Pentium microprocessor plant was inclined to go through with the surgery itself, but he was in the process of carefully heading the warnings associated with the TBP program.
The warnings on the TBP program could be summed up in the case of Bledsoe, a slightly overweight woman who offered her body as a science project for our organization. When Bledsoe's vital organs were removed, namley the second kidney, our specialists found that there needed to be a way to sustain the functioning of this organ in Bledsoe's body. Unfortunatley, our specialists thought about this after the fact both kidneys were actually removed, an event which resulted in her imminent death. Bledsoe's other organs were salvaged, however, for trials on the cleansing processes; specialists found that when a mixture of Lava bar soap and nectar-of-brusselsprouts was applied to the surface of all the organs with steel wool, the organs were totally destroyed, leaving what would best be described in words as a mutilation of human organs. Though, our specialists learn from these failures and do not repeat them the second time around - a wide-ruled Mead composition notebook contains a catalogue of these failures, and the specialists review this catalog carefully before every procedure.
If TBP is not for you, than our company does offer one other thing: deep discounts. And when we say deep discounts, we're not talking about the 9th ward and its inhabitants, we're talking James Cameron films like "The Abyss" - deeper than "Titanic", these discounts will crack your company in half. You'll find that with our deep discounts, your company will benifit so much that you'll have to split its offering on the stock market into A and B stocks. With Deep Discount - you're going so deep, you'll probably wish you had a flashlight along with a pressurized cabin around you - which is why we offer the Total Security Protection II program. This program offers you so much security, you won't be able to breathe. That's a good time to start thinking about the Good Night Productivity simulator, which is a computer that interfaces with your brain while you sleep, so that it may give you real, good, supple dreams that last as long as you tell the computer you want them to. And when the dream is all over, the computer always sets a small amount of time to bring you slowly back to reality - this is all programable, and of course secure when coupled with TSPII. If you don't couple the GNP simulator with TSPII, the simulator is vulnerable to dream theft. Much like identity theft, dream theft happens when you are dreaming through a simulated interface, and a computer hacker decides to peep into or even steal your drems - replacing them with nothing or more horrifyingly - nightmares. We think that security is so important, that we don't offer it as a standard option with the GNP simulator, but as a pricey addition which might have you paying for months out your asshole for our services - because we like to give you deep, deep, deep discounts with no down payment. Period.
Saturday, September 10, 2005
I might have a dead face
The next time Reeder goes through the drive-thru, a common occurrence in this American way (and possibly globally, though I don't know the status of fast-food proliferation in other nations), he will throw up a steel coffee can affront the speak, and when the personnel asks, "Welcome to Fast Place would you like to try our (x)?", you will bang the hell out of this can with your car keys (yes, you might just have to remove them from the ignition - this process might wear on your starter) and you will yell "Clipped to his fat!"
This phrase, when heard on the other end of the speak, will sound like some alien ruler from a far off planet, possibly, or maybe a tribal ritual from Africa, stereotypically, as it will probably be listened to by some unfortunate African-American, this might prove to be most entertaining.
Khlipthuis Fatt; Reeder shant be afraid to blend these words as such, as this will only enhance confusion, and thus eccentricity of the random act. These poor folks on the other end of the speak, patiently awaiting your orders at a commission of five and a half to no more than eight dollars per hour, are indeed so poor at this moment, having to put up with such a wreched occupation, and now, having to deal with some unorderly business that was not explained to them in training: how to deal with foolish customers.
Reeder shouldn't worry about feeling racist or generally bad about doing this, though its probably completley natural if Reeder does feel these ways - they are unfortunate feeling that have been established from the very succeptable times of childhood. It is mereley the procussion of an empty coffee tin against a set of keys, the addition of your voice only personalizes the act, and adds valor to the courageous scene, in which drivers waiting behind Reeder might observe, "Ah, this fool. Oh, and now he speaks! Now I know what his voice sounds like. Ah, yes... he has a stupid voice! What a fool! What is he saying?"
Some obscure passage should never be avoided, wheather it is a convex vagina that pinches at its own ends, or a cobblestone road whose own name is so descriptive of how it feels to your shaking face as your wheel-based conveyance strugles to maintain a smooth ride over such obscurity, or even if the passage is through a simple hallway with a band of gangsters approaching your direction, spreading across the entire width; Reeder wonders to himself, "Will they open a passage for me? Or will I end up having to make a rough contact with two of them, possibly starting a brawl that most certainly would end up in my defeat..."
Don't turn around. Make your own passage, forge through the crappy flood of crap that lurks almost everywhere you walk while in public. These publics - this public, you should never fear that it will make you take passages you don't want to take; this is obscene. The public is a loose, weak network of people who are just as timid as Reeder might feel; this public is so easily penetrated for obscure use, its irresistable; its like a batch of pumpkins on the first of November, just waiting to be taken and craked open - exposing what guts and seeds have not been previously removed by the Carvers.
The Carvers - let me tell you something about these motherfuckers - the Carvers are this hoard of thieves who steal many things including: youth; culture; abstinence; the ability to comfortably daydream without thinking that you're wasting your time; cash; budding friendships, and sometimes, long-lasting friendships; a well balanced diet; vacations; cheap gasoline; small pills that when placed in warm water, inflate into small foam dinosaurs which you can later use as a cleaning sponge; economical utility; diversity; the unacceptance of poorly manufactured products which are designed to fall apart after five years of use so that it may further the ends of the great economy; knowledge of heirarchical institutions and practices; true liberty; the abundance of clams; the abundance of good music; mainstream obscurity; surrealism as a form of popular entertainment; the ability of the newsmedia to be trusted and thus important; drinkable water from nature; the agility and practicality of a bicycle; information which would make the powerful look less than powerful; the dignity of people who choose not to drink alcohol; your face.
This phrase, when heard on the other end of the speak, will sound like some alien ruler from a far off planet, possibly, or maybe a tribal ritual from Africa, stereotypically, as it will probably be listened to by some unfortunate African-American, this might prove to be most entertaining.
Khlipthuis Fatt; Reeder shant be afraid to blend these words as such, as this will only enhance confusion, and thus eccentricity of the random act. These poor folks on the other end of the speak, patiently awaiting your orders at a commission of five and a half to no more than eight dollars per hour, are indeed so poor at this moment, having to put up with such a wreched occupation, and now, having to deal with some unorderly business that was not explained to them in training: how to deal with foolish customers.
Reeder shouldn't worry about feeling racist or generally bad about doing this, though its probably completley natural if Reeder does feel these ways - they are unfortunate feeling that have been established from the very succeptable times of childhood. It is mereley the procussion of an empty coffee tin against a set of keys, the addition of your voice only personalizes the act, and adds valor to the courageous scene, in which drivers waiting behind Reeder might observe, "Ah, this fool. Oh, and now he speaks! Now I know what his voice sounds like. Ah, yes... he has a stupid voice! What a fool! What is he saying?"
Some obscure passage should never be avoided, wheather it is a convex vagina that pinches at its own ends, or a cobblestone road whose own name is so descriptive of how it feels to your shaking face as your wheel-based conveyance strugles to maintain a smooth ride over such obscurity, or even if the passage is through a simple hallway with a band of gangsters approaching your direction, spreading across the entire width; Reeder wonders to himself, "Will they open a passage for me? Or will I end up having to make a rough contact with two of them, possibly starting a brawl that most certainly would end up in my defeat..."
Don't turn around. Make your own passage, forge through the crappy flood of crap that lurks almost everywhere you walk while in public. These publics - this public, you should never fear that it will make you take passages you don't want to take; this is obscene. The public is a loose, weak network of people who are just as timid as Reeder might feel; this public is so easily penetrated for obscure use, its irresistable; its like a batch of pumpkins on the first of November, just waiting to be taken and craked open - exposing what guts and seeds have not been previously removed by the Carvers.
The Carvers - let me tell you something about these motherfuckers - the Carvers are this hoard of thieves who steal many things including: youth; culture; abstinence; the ability to comfortably daydream without thinking that you're wasting your time; cash; budding friendships, and sometimes, long-lasting friendships; a well balanced diet; vacations; cheap gasoline; small pills that when placed in warm water, inflate into small foam dinosaurs which you can later use as a cleaning sponge; economical utility; diversity; the unacceptance of poorly manufactured products which are designed to fall apart after five years of use so that it may further the ends of the great economy; knowledge of heirarchical institutions and practices; true liberty; the abundance of clams; the abundance of good music; mainstream obscurity; surrealism as a form of popular entertainment; the ability of the newsmedia to be trusted and thus important; drinkable water from nature; the agility and practicality of a bicycle; information which would make the powerful look less than powerful; the dignity of people who choose not to drink alcohol; your face.
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Brain Rot
If there is such a condition as brain rot, I feel as if I have this condition. I imagine what my brain looks like; unraveling and falling apart - infested with some infestation - looking like overcooked Ramen noodles. I feel best when I'm asleep.
Monday, June 06, 2005
Advice From a Time Traveler
1 Do not eat or use products from any animal that is fed and eats parts of its own dead.
2 Do not kiss or have intimate relations with anyone you do not know.
3 Learn basic sanitation and water purification.
4 Be comfortable around firearms. Learn to shoot and clean a gun.
5 Get a good first aid kit and learn to use it.
6 Find 5 people within 100 miles that you trust with your life and stay in contact with them.
7 Get a copy of the US Constitution and read it.
8 Eat less.
9 Get a bicycle and two sets of spare tires. Ride it 10 miles a week.
10 Consider what you would bring with you if you had to leave your home in 10 min. and never return.
2 Do not kiss or have intimate relations with anyone you do not know.
3 Learn basic sanitation and water purification.
4 Be comfortable around firearms. Learn to shoot and clean a gun.
5 Get a good first aid kit and learn to use it.
6 Find 5 people within 100 miles that you trust with your life and stay in contact with them.
7 Get a copy of the US Constitution and read it.
8 Eat less.
9 Get a bicycle and two sets of spare tires. Ride it 10 miles a week.
10 Consider what you would bring with you if you had to leave your home in 10 min. and never return.
Sunday, June 05, 2005
1.2
In New York City, 1917, Colonel Edward Mandell House, the confidential advisor to President Woodrow Wilson, gathered about one hundered men to discuss the postwar (WW I) world. These men, whom dubbed themselves "the Inquiry", made plans for a peace settlement which would eventially evolve into Woodrow Wilson's "Fourteen Points (for reconstructing a new Europe)", that he pitched to Congress on January 8th, 1918. The points included calls for the removal of "all economic barriers" between nations, "equality of trade conditions", and the formation of "a general association of nations".
Colonel House described himself as a Mrxist (socialist). He wrote a book in 1912, "Philip Dru: Administrator", where he described a "conspiracy" within the United States with the goals of establishing a central bank, as well as a graduated income tax, and as well as establishing control of of both political parties. Two years after the publication of his book, two, if not all three, of the goals forementioned had been achieved.
Wilson's Fourteen Points lead to the Paris Peace conference of 1919, which resulted in the Treaty of Versailles, a treaty which included terms that forced Germany to pay heavy reparations to the Allies. This, of course, ruined the German economy and lead to their depression, which also lead to the eventual rise of Adolf Hitler and his "new", "Germany-saving" ideals embodied in the socialist party of the Nazi's. This of course is what caused WW II, and all of it's lucritive investment opportunities.
Colonel House along with two dozen members of "the Inquiry" attended the Paris Peace conference of 1919. They, as well as British peace conference delegates, met in Paris' Majestic Hotel on May the 30th of 1919 to resolve the creation of the "Institute of International Affairs", which called to have two branches - one in England and one in the United States. The English branch became known as the "Royal Institute of International Affairs" while the U.S. branch became known as the "Council on Foreign Relations", which was incorporated on July the 21st of 1921.
(07-21-21 : 21/7 is 3 : 21/3 is 7 - this series of numbers is perfectly dividable. 7 & 21 is missing 3; 3 & 21 is missing 7; 07-21-21 is a sequence of 3 numbers.)!?
Article II of the CFR's bylaws stated that anyone revealing details of CFR meetings in contravention of the CFR's rules could be dropped from membership.
According to a Journalist who wrote in 1971, "Analysts of the Soviet press say that the Coucil crops up more regularly in 'Pravda' and 'Izvestia' than it does in the 'New York Times'."
Since 1945, the Council's headquarters have been within the elegant Harold Pratt House in New York City, a house dontated by the Pratt family of Rockefeller's Standard Oil.
The original invitation-only membership to the CFR was limited to 1,600 persons, but today, the numbers represent more than 3,300 of the most influential leaders in finance, commerce, communications, and academia. The mebership process is discriminating nonetheless; candidates must be first proposed by a member, and then must be seconded by another member, thirdly approved by a membership committee, and then screened by a professional staff, and sixthly and finally, approved by the board of directors. By the early 1970's, the council extended membership to a few blacks and more than a dozen women.
The first members whom held high rank within the Council were connected to "billionaire" banker J.P. Morgan; the founding President was Morgan's personal attorney, while V.P. Paul Cravath was another legal representative of Morgan properties, and the Council's first chairman was one of Morgan's partners.
According to the Capital Research Center's "Guide to Nonprofit Advocacy and Policy Groups", the board members of the CFR are associated with such influential organizations as the Committee for Economic Development, the Institute for International Economics, the Committee for a Responsible Federal Budget, the Business Enterprise Trust, the Urban Institute, the Business Roundtable, the Council on Competitiveness, the U.S. Chamber of Commerce, the National Alliance for Business, the Brookings Institution, the Business-Higher Education Forum, the Washington Institute for Near East Policy, the Ethics and Public Policy Center, the Hoover Institution, the Center for Strategic and International Studies, the Wilderness Society, and the American Council for Capital Formation.
Members of the CFR played a key role in American policy during World War II. Journalist J. Anthony Lucas noted, "From 1945 well into the sixties, Council members were in the forefront of America's globalist activism."
In a 1997 mission statement, CFR officials, whose "ranks include nearly all past and present U.S. Government officials who deal with international matters," stated the council is merely "a unique membership organization and think tank that educates members and staff to serve the nation with ideas for a better and safer world."
Many writers view the CFR as a group of men set on world domination through multinational business, international treaties, and world government.
Longtime CFR member and judge advocate general of the U.S. Navy Admiral Chester Ward was quoted saying, "CFR, as such, does not write the platforms of both political parties or select their respective presidential candidates, or control U.S. defense and foreign policies. But CFR members, as individuals, acting in concert with other individual CFR members, do."
Admiral Ward then went on to explain that the one common objective of CFR members is "to bring about the surrender of the sovereignty and the national independence of the United States... Primmarily, they want the world banking monopoly from whatever power ends up in the control of global government."
In a book by Ward 'Kissinger on the Couch', "Once the ruling members of the CFR have decided that the U.S. Government should adopt a particular policy, the very substantial research facilities of CFR are put to work to develop arguments, intellectual and emotional, to support the new policy, and to confound and discredit, intellectually and politically, any opposition."
Alvin Moscow, a sympathetic Rockefeller biographer, says "when it comes to foreign affairs, it is the eastern Establishment. In fact, it is difficult to point to a single major policy in U.S. foreign affairs that has been established since [President] Wilson which was diametrically opposed to then current thinking in the Council on Foreign Relations."
The Council offers a Corporation Service, through which subscribing companies are provided twice-a-year dinner briefings by government officials such as the treasury secretary or CIA director.
A conservative journalist and researcher notes, "The historical record speaks even more loudly... Through 1988, 14 secretaries of state, 14 treasury secretaries, 11 defense secretaries and scores of other department heads have been CFR members."
Former CFR chairman John J. McCloy says, "Whenever we needed a new man [for a government position], we just thumbed through the roll of council members and put through a call to New York." McCloy is also the chairman of Chase Manhattan Bank, mentor to David Rockefeller, and has been the foreign policy advisor to six U.S. Presidents.
During the Clinton years, reports suggest that his administration was top heavy with more than one hundred CFR members. Some of them were appointed ambassadors to Spain, Great Britain, Australia, Chile, Syria, South Africa, Russia, Romania, Japan, Korea, Mexico, Italy, India, France, Czech Republic, Poland, Nigeria, and the Philippines. More than a dozen Representatives and Senators are CFR members.
The late Gary Allen wrote the book 'None Dare Call It Conspiracy' which sold 5 million copies despite being unrecognized by the Establishment media. Within the book, Allen is quoted "There really was not a dime's worth of difference [between presidential candidates]. Voters were given the choice between CFR world government advocate Nixon and CFR world government advocate Humphrey. Only the rhetoric was changed to fool the public."
Colonel House described himself as a Mrxist (socialist). He wrote a book in 1912, "Philip Dru: Administrator", where he described a "conspiracy" within the United States with the goals of establishing a central bank, as well as a graduated income tax, and as well as establishing control of of both political parties. Two years after the publication of his book, two, if not all three, of the goals forementioned had been achieved.
Wilson's Fourteen Points lead to the Paris Peace conference of 1919, which resulted in the Treaty of Versailles, a treaty which included terms that forced Germany to pay heavy reparations to the Allies. This, of course, ruined the German economy and lead to their depression, which also lead to the eventual rise of Adolf Hitler and his "new", "Germany-saving" ideals embodied in the socialist party of the Nazi's. This of course is what caused WW II, and all of it's lucritive investment opportunities.
Colonel House along with two dozen members of "the Inquiry" attended the Paris Peace conference of 1919. They, as well as British peace conference delegates, met in Paris' Majestic Hotel on May the 30th of 1919 to resolve the creation of the "Institute of International Affairs", which called to have two branches - one in England and one in the United States. The English branch became known as the "Royal Institute of International Affairs" while the U.S. branch became known as the "Council on Foreign Relations", which was incorporated on July the 21st of 1921.
(07-21-21 : 21/7 is 3 : 21/3 is 7 - this series of numbers is perfectly dividable. 7 & 21 is missing 3; 3 & 21 is missing 7; 07-21-21 is a sequence of 3 numbers.)!?
Article II of the CFR's bylaws stated that anyone revealing details of CFR meetings in contravention of the CFR's rules could be dropped from membership.
According to a Journalist who wrote in 1971, "Analysts of the Soviet press say that the Coucil crops up more regularly in 'Pravda' and 'Izvestia' than it does in the 'New York Times'."
Since 1945, the Council's headquarters have been within the elegant Harold Pratt House in New York City, a house dontated by the Pratt family of Rockefeller's Standard Oil.
The original invitation-only membership to the CFR was limited to 1,600 persons, but today, the numbers represent more than 3,300 of the most influential leaders in finance, commerce, communications, and academia. The mebership process is discriminating nonetheless; candidates must be first proposed by a member, and then must be seconded by another member, thirdly approved by a membership committee, and then screened by a professional staff, and sixthly and finally, approved by the board of directors. By the early 1970's, the council extended membership to a few blacks and more than a dozen women.
The first members whom held high rank within the Council were connected to "billionaire" banker J.P. Morgan; the founding President was Morgan's personal attorney, while V.P. Paul Cravath was another legal representative of Morgan properties, and the Council's first chairman was one of Morgan's partners.
According to the Capital Research Center's "Guide to Nonprofit Advocacy and Policy Groups", the board members of the CFR are associated with such influential organizations as the Committee for Economic Development, the Institute for International Economics, the Committee for a Responsible Federal Budget, the Business Enterprise Trust, the Urban Institute, the Business Roundtable, the Council on Competitiveness, the U.S. Chamber of Commerce, the National Alliance for Business, the Brookings Institution, the Business-Higher Education Forum, the Washington Institute for Near East Policy, the Ethics and Public Policy Center, the Hoover Institution, the Center for Strategic and International Studies, the Wilderness Society, and the American Council for Capital Formation.
Members of the CFR played a key role in American policy during World War II. Journalist J. Anthony Lucas noted, "From 1945 well into the sixties, Council members were in the forefront of America's globalist activism."
In a 1997 mission statement, CFR officials, whose "ranks include nearly all past and present U.S. Government officials who deal with international matters," stated the council is merely "a unique membership organization and think tank that educates members and staff to serve the nation with ideas for a better and safer world."
Many writers view the CFR as a group of men set on world domination through multinational business, international treaties, and world government.
Longtime CFR member and judge advocate general of the U.S. Navy Admiral Chester Ward was quoted saying, "CFR, as such, does not write the platforms of both political parties or select their respective presidential candidates, or control U.S. defense and foreign policies. But CFR members, as individuals, acting in concert with other individual CFR members, do."
Admiral Ward then went on to explain that the one common objective of CFR members is "to bring about the surrender of the sovereignty and the national independence of the United States... Primmarily, they want the world banking monopoly from whatever power ends up in the control of global government."
In a book by Ward 'Kissinger on the Couch', "Once the ruling members of the CFR have decided that the U.S. Government should adopt a particular policy, the very substantial research facilities of CFR are put to work to develop arguments, intellectual and emotional, to support the new policy, and to confound and discredit, intellectually and politically, any opposition."
Alvin Moscow, a sympathetic Rockefeller biographer, says "when it comes to foreign affairs, it is the eastern Establishment. In fact, it is difficult to point to a single major policy in U.S. foreign affairs that has been established since [President] Wilson which was diametrically opposed to then current thinking in the Council on Foreign Relations."
The Council offers a Corporation Service, through which subscribing companies are provided twice-a-year dinner briefings by government officials such as the treasury secretary or CIA director.
A conservative journalist and researcher notes, "The historical record speaks even more loudly... Through 1988, 14 secretaries of state, 14 treasury secretaries, 11 defense secretaries and scores of other department heads have been CFR members."
Former CFR chairman John J. McCloy says, "Whenever we needed a new man [for a government position], we just thumbed through the roll of council members and put through a call to New York." McCloy is also the chairman of Chase Manhattan Bank, mentor to David Rockefeller, and has been the foreign policy advisor to six U.S. Presidents.
During the Clinton years, reports suggest that his administration was top heavy with more than one hundred CFR members. Some of them were appointed ambassadors to Spain, Great Britain, Australia, Chile, Syria, South Africa, Russia, Romania, Japan, Korea, Mexico, Italy, India, France, Czech Republic, Poland, Nigeria, and the Philippines. More than a dozen Representatives and Senators are CFR members.
The late Gary Allen wrote the book 'None Dare Call It Conspiracy' which sold 5 million copies despite being unrecognized by the Establishment media. Within the book, Allen is quoted "There really was not a dime's worth of difference [between presidential candidates]. Voters were given the choice between CFR world government advocate Nixon and CFR world government advocate Humphrey. Only the rhetoric was changed to fool the public."
Saturday, June 04, 2005
1.1
The Trilateral Commission held its first organization on July 23-24 in 1972 at the Rockefeller estate in Pocantico Hills, a subdivision of Tarrytown, New York.
A paper published by the Trilateral Commission, "The Crisis of Democracy", was written in 1975 by Harvard political scientist Samuel P. Huntington. In the paper, Huntington stated that America needed "a greater degree of moderation in democracy." The paper then suggested that leaders with "expertise, seniority, experience and special talents" were needed to "override the claims of democracy." Three years after this paper was published, Huntington was named coordinator of security planning for Carter's National Security Council. While appointed to this position, Huntington prepared Presidential Review Memorandum 32, which lead to the 1979 presidential order creating the Federal Emergency Management Agency, a civilian organization with the power to take totalitarian control of government functions in the event of a national emergency.
Researcher Laurie K. Strand was able to publish her thoughts in the "Peoples Almanac #3" which state "The Trilateral Commission's tentacles have reached so far afield in the political and economic sphere that it has been described by some as a cabal of powerful men out to control the world by creating a supernational community dominated by multinational corporations."
In early 1977, the Washington Post published some thoughts, "But here is the unsettling thing about the Trilateral Commission. [Carter] is a member. So is Vice-President-elect Walter F. Mondale. So are the new secretaries of State, Defense and Treasury, Cyrus R. Vance, Harold Brown and W. Michael Blumenthal. So is Zbigniew Brzezinski, who is a former Trilateral director and Carter's national security advisor, also a bunch of others who will make foreign policy for America in the next four years."
H. W. Bush was a member of the Trilateral Commission, as well as the Council on Foreign Relations. As it is known, before H. W. Bush became president, he was appointed as Reagan's Vice President. Just two months after assuming office of the presidency, Ronald Reagan was struck by an assassin's bullet which would have propelled H. W. Bush into the Oval Office seven years before his time if it weren't for 1/4 of an inch. The odd thing about this was that the would-be assassin, John W. Hinckley had scheduled dinner with Bush's son, Neil Bush, the very night that Reagan was shot. In addition to the irony, John W. Hinckley's father, a Texas oilman, was a long time friend of H. W. Bush. And while on the subject, it should be interesting to note that Bush's name, along with his then little-publicized nickname "Poppy", along with his address and phone number were found in the personal notebook of oil geologist George DeMohrenschildt, the last known close firend of Lee Harvey Oswald. Bush was director of the CIA for a year during the 1970's.
Senator Barry Goldwater warned in his 1979 book "With No Apologies", "David Rockefeller's newest international cabal [the Trilateral Commission]... is intended to be the vehicle for multinational consolidation of the commercial and banking interests by seizing control of the political government of the United States."
A paper published by the Trilateral Commission, "The Crisis of Democracy", was written in 1975 by Harvard political scientist Samuel P. Huntington. In the paper, Huntington stated that America needed "a greater degree of moderation in democracy." The paper then suggested that leaders with "expertise, seniority, experience and special talents" were needed to "override the claims of democracy." Three years after this paper was published, Huntington was named coordinator of security planning for Carter's National Security Council. While appointed to this position, Huntington prepared Presidential Review Memorandum 32, which lead to the 1979 presidential order creating the Federal Emergency Management Agency, a civilian organization with the power to take totalitarian control of government functions in the event of a national emergency.
Researcher Laurie K. Strand was able to publish her thoughts in the "Peoples Almanac #3" which state "The Trilateral Commission's tentacles have reached so far afield in the political and economic sphere that it has been described by some as a cabal of powerful men out to control the world by creating a supernational community dominated by multinational corporations."
In early 1977, the Washington Post published some thoughts, "But here is the unsettling thing about the Trilateral Commission. [Carter] is a member. So is Vice-President-elect Walter F. Mondale. So are the new secretaries of State, Defense and Treasury, Cyrus R. Vance, Harold Brown and W. Michael Blumenthal. So is Zbigniew Brzezinski, who is a former Trilateral director and Carter's national security advisor, also a bunch of others who will make foreign policy for America in the next four years."
H. W. Bush was a member of the Trilateral Commission, as well as the Council on Foreign Relations. As it is known, before H. W. Bush became president, he was appointed as Reagan's Vice President. Just two months after assuming office of the presidency, Ronald Reagan was struck by an assassin's bullet which would have propelled H. W. Bush into the Oval Office seven years before his time if it weren't for 1/4 of an inch. The odd thing about this was that the would-be assassin, John W. Hinckley had scheduled dinner with Bush's son, Neil Bush, the very night that Reagan was shot. In addition to the irony, John W. Hinckley's father, a Texas oilman, was a long time friend of H. W. Bush. And while on the subject, it should be interesting to note that Bush's name, along with his then little-publicized nickname "Poppy", along with his address and phone number were found in the personal notebook of oil geologist George DeMohrenschildt, the last known close firend of Lee Harvey Oswald. Bush was director of the CIA for a year during the 1970's.
Senator Barry Goldwater warned in his 1979 book "With No Apologies", "David Rockefeller's newest international cabal [the Trilateral Commission]... is intended to be the vehicle for multinational consolidation of the commercial and banking interests by seizing control of the political government of the United States."
Saturday, May 21, 2005
Bad Traction
You were in a hurry to get to work, but the catch was rain; it covered the black asphalt that morning like a blanket - the road, or you, had not woken up yet. You chose to get a house in the country a couple months ago, but the low cost of the home didn't make up for the extra time and money you have spent commuting - about two hours a day to and from your place of work.
Since you moved into the country, the low population out there didn't get much democracy accomplished like any rural area, so you ended up with those roads that weren't flat, but more like the top of a cake - these were very dumb looking roads, and were not built for rainstorms. Though the rain doesn't sit on a contoured country road, it runs off it's sides quite like your car that morning. Your so called "sport utility vehicle" couldn't get proper traction when you took that sharp left, and it just kind of slid off the road. The other catch was, that the side of the road was a steep edge which terminated into a revine of some sorts - which was now full of water.
Sliding off road was such a bad idea for you and your SUV, because it ended up on it's roof. The windshield and everything else had cracked, and water quickly poured into the cabin. Of course, you didn't know this - you were sound asleep.
Since you now lived in the country, you thought that wearing a safety harness wasn't necessary, especially since you drove such a big car. But now that good old boy mentality has quite possibly caused you some serious problems; the water has now submerged your nose, and your mouth - all that sticks out now is your neck; an onlooker would think this image quite spooky.
An so there came an onlooker, or in this case, a brave country man who just loves to wade around in knee-deep water while trying to rescue his fellow SUV-man. Even though this rescuer looks down on things from Hollywood, there is something so adventurous about the rain that pours off the brim of his hat; there is something so exhilerating about the rain that soaks his clothes - he takes his shirt off and wraps it around his fist as a protective mitt so that he may punch in the glass. It rains on the man's bare back, and he feels like Indiana Jones - that Hollywood cowboy historian.
Smash!
The countryman shatters the glass, and fragments of it spread across the water above your submerged face - by the time the man raises your head out of the water, some of the glass has drifted into your mouth and down your throat. The countryman eagerly tests his sexuality by recesitating you without your knowing - some foreign country lips are on yours now, blowing air into your lungs - blowing that glass further into who knows where; the last time the man had been in contact with a male orally was when he was a curious country boy, and pretended to drown when his friend was around.
You choke to life after a few minutes; as you can imagine the shock of disorientation - test yourself by pretending to wake up to this right now.
"Gaddamn! We got to get you to a doctor! I don't have a mobile, so I's gonna take you myself!"
The good old boy lays you down in the bed of his truck as you soon realize that you couldn't feel the lower half of your body - yes, even your genetalia. You don't really care that he layed you on a bed of solid steel leaf suspended upon a rough country road - he only had a single cab long bed Silverado - a phallus of a truck, you think.
You thought that when the truck would stop, an awning of some sorts would be above you, or at least the presence of a hospital emergency drive thru type structure. But the skidding of the tires on gravel suggested you had stopped somewhere more rural than the hospital.
"I'll be right back, son." He popps his head above you for a moment and then disappears. You think to yourself why he calls you son since he looks about your age - thirty-ish.
The tailgate closes, and you strain your crooked neck to see him with a green vinyl-upholstered streacher. He pulls you by your feet and slides you onto the slick green machine; after your body is all the way on, he straps your upper, mid, and lower sections for safety. He rolls you across the rough gravel, under a carport, and into the silence of what is obviously his home, his kitchen.
Out the corner of your vision, you can see that there is an island in the middle of this kitchen affixed with a built-in industrial-size stove which you might see in a Denny's. Above the stove, you thought you saw decorative drop-down lights, but you then notice that they are two security cameras. A cooking show?
Before you become truly frightened, he unbuckles the straps which had fastened you to that green streacher. After that, he procedes to remove your shoes, your socks, and then...
"We're going to have to take this off."
He flips out a hunting knife that is used to sear through deer hide and cuts the fabric of your undershirt in three different places - it comes off easily, as do your pants and everything else. Now you wonder.
"Don't worry" the man says "I'm a doctor."
If the pain you were enduring was less, you might have attempted to fight the man, but at this point, you'd accept anything. But this - if you only knew what he was about to do, you would have magically tried to run out of that place.
That stove you saw, you were soon on top of it and feeling the heat. You looked above into the iris of one of the cameras and wondered who would ever be watching this in the future. Soon, your too hot to feel humiliated - he turns up the burners on the lower half of your body - you can only smell yourself cooking away - you hoped now that you would never be able to feel them again.
"I'm in a psycho house." You come to terms with this, just like you came to terms with the gas prices - but so much for gas prices; your guzzler is in a ditch getting all rusty and investigated. The cops know that you're missing, and so will everyone else. But you know where you are, your in hell.
Since you moved into the country, the low population out there didn't get much democracy accomplished like any rural area, so you ended up with those roads that weren't flat, but more like the top of a cake - these were very dumb looking roads, and were not built for rainstorms. Though the rain doesn't sit on a contoured country road, it runs off it's sides quite like your car that morning. Your so called "sport utility vehicle" couldn't get proper traction when you took that sharp left, and it just kind of slid off the road. The other catch was, that the side of the road was a steep edge which terminated into a revine of some sorts - which was now full of water.
Sliding off road was such a bad idea for you and your SUV, because it ended up on it's roof. The windshield and everything else had cracked, and water quickly poured into the cabin. Of course, you didn't know this - you were sound asleep.
Since you now lived in the country, you thought that wearing a safety harness wasn't necessary, especially since you drove such a big car. But now that good old boy mentality has quite possibly caused you some serious problems; the water has now submerged your nose, and your mouth - all that sticks out now is your neck; an onlooker would think this image quite spooky.
An so there came an onlooker, or in this case, a brave country man who just loves to wade around in knee-deep water while trying to rescue his fellow SUV-man. Even though this rescuer looks down on things from Hollywood, there is something so adventurous about the rain that pours off the brim of his hat; there is something so exhilerating about the rain that soaks his clothes - he takes his shirt off and wraps it around his fist as a protective mitt so that he may punch in the glass. It rains on the man's bare back, and he feels like Indiana Jones - that Hollywood cowboy historian.
Smash!
The countryman shatters the glass, and fragments of it spread across the water above your submerged face - by the time the man raises your head out of the water, some of the glass has drifted into your mouth and down your throat. The countryman eagerly tests his sexuality by recesitating you without your knowing - some foreign country lips are on yours now, blowing air into your lungs - blowing that glass further into who knows where; the last time the man had been in contact with a male orally was when he was a curious country boy, and pretended to drown when his friend was around.
You choke to life after a few minutes; as you can imagine the shock of disorientation - test yourself by pretending to wake up to this right now.
"Gaddamn! We got to get you to a doctor! I don't have a mobile, so I's gonna take you myself!"
The good old boy lays you down in the bed of his truck as you soon realize that you couldn't feel the lower half of your body - yes, even your genetalia. You don't really care that he layed you on a bed of solid steel leaf suspended upon a rough country road - he only had a single cab long bed Silverado - a phallus of a truck, you think.
You thought that when the truck would stop, an awning of some sorts would be above you, or at least the presence of a hospital emergency drive thru type structure. But the skidding of the tires on gravel suggested you had stopped somewhere more rural than the hospital.
"I'll be right back, son." He popps his head above you for a moment and then disappears. You think to yourself why he calls you son since he looks about your age - thirty-ish.
The tailgate closes, and you strain your crooked neck to see him with a green vinyl-upholstered streacher. He pulls you by your feet and slides you onto the slick green machine; after your body is all the way on, he straps your upper, mid, and lower sections for safety. He rolls you across the rough gravel, under a carport, and into the silence of what is obviously his home, his kitchen.
Out the corner of your vision, you can see that there is an island in the middle of this kitchen affixed with a built-in industrial-size stove which you might see in a Denny's. Above the stove, you thought you saw decorative drop-down lights, but you then notice that they are two security cameras. A cooking show?
Before you become truly frightened, he unbuckles the straps which had fastened you to that green streacher. After that, he procedes to remove your shoes, your socks, and then...
"We're going to have to take this off."
He flips out a hunting knife that is used to sear through deer hide and cuts the fabric of your undershirt in three different places - it comes off easily, as do your pants and everything else. Now you wonder.
"Don't worry" the man says "I'm a doctor."
If the pain you were enduring was less, you might have attempted to fight the man, but at this point, you'd accept anything. But this - if you only knew what he was about to do, you would have magically tried to run out of that place.
That stove you saw, you were soon on top of it and feeling the heat. You looked above into the iris of one of the cameras and wondered who would ever be watching this in the future. Soon, your too hot to feel humiliated - he turns up the burners on the lower half of your body - you can only smell yourself cooking away - you hoped now that you would never be able to feel them again.
"I'm in a psycho house." You come to terms with this, just like you came to terms with the gas prices - but so much for gas prices; your guzzler is in a ditch getting all rusty and investigated. The cops know that you're missing, and so will everyone else. But you know where you are, your in hell.
Monday, May 16, 2005
The Fog of Hypocracy
Hypocracy is intentionally misspelled; the makeshift word "hypocracy" is a hybrid word derived from the meanings of the words "hypocrisy" and "democracy".
Saturday, May 14, 2005
Looseferian Theorology
Of course the most famous delicacy is the Delicacy itself. Some people calls it the Bald Eagle, but the bird is really known as a Delicacy to the Stratlings - those being the beings whom occupy the stratosphere of Earth - those beings who sometimes dip too low with themselves or their things, and ultimately confuse the Earthlings.
However, the feeling is mutual for the Stratlings - whom also fire concentrated beams of plasma at the tips of earth-born intercontinental ballistic missiles, sending the giant rockets tumbling off into space. Between the two races, many things they have are shared and are similar, however they of course have different uses and meanings for all things, especially names.
The Bald Eagle is named the Delicacy, for example; however the definition of delicacy is dissimilar from the Earthling's meaning - which is a rare find of sorts, used mostly in the context of delisciousnessness. The Stratlings' definition of "delicacy" is what would be something like "traditional" to Earthlings. So the Delicacy is something like a chicken, really - this is of course why the Bald Eagle, or the Delicacy is such a rare species, because it is constantly consumed by the Stratlings.
Of course, knowing this and being native (within the past three hundred years) to the United States is an atrocity to hear that such a valuable symbol to the country is consumed by physically higher beings as if it was nothing more than a traditional sustinance for foreign stomachs - or as the Stratlings call their primary digestive organ, the Bald Eagle, and then it's produced digestive materials, Deepsouth, which waits for deliverance within the Suburbs, which are the intestinal tract; the whole "digestive system", infact, is called the "Projects" by the Stratlings.
Some of this might seem symbolic, ironic, and almost grotesqley transcendent into Earthling society, but that's because the people who made these words we speak, and the forum of which we speak in, were Stratlings - they were secret Stratling agents who infiltrated Earthling society less than 2,100 years ago.
It seems unbelievable, or what the Stratlings would call "religion", that such a thing is possible - that the Stratlings actually created the success, or what the Stratlings would call "perjury", which has made Earthlings look so smart - especially within the past hundred years or so.
From above, the young Stratlings watch the little Earthlings down below them, inhaling what the Earthlings call "green house gasses", but what the Stratlings call "oxygen".
Of course, it was the oil companies whom are influenced mostly by these Stratlings. As known by many Earthlings and Stratlings, when oil's kinetic energy is spent, the bi-product are many different types of oxides which for Earthlings spell "green house gasses", but for Stratlings spell "oxygen" and "energy". It was so important that the Stratlings caught up the Earthlings, for without the Earthlings' energy expenses, the Stratlings would not be able to efficiently grow their technologies; this is why the Stratlings infiltrated Earthling society.
On a typical day, the expenses of energy produced from one average Earthling fleet (1,000 domestic automobiles) will provide enough energy and oxygen for one Stratling for one day; these beings are quite smart, but are obviously inefficient.
When all energy on Earth is spent, the Stratlings will leave Earth and colonize the stratosphere of another poor planet that's full of malleable beings. After this, Earthling society as it is today will cease to continue, and will slowly revert back to it's orginal state. Earthlings will pick up where they left off; they will hunt, kill, and cannibalize one another just to stay alive, just like animals would. But the word that Earthlings now know as "peace" will then be forgotten, and only the Stratlings will remember that they named such a meaning "earth".
Earth be with you.
However, the feeling is mutual for the Stratlings - whom also fire concentrated beams of plasma at the tips of earth-born intercontinental ballistic missiles, sending the giant rockets tumbling off into space. Between the two races, many things they have are shared and are similar, however they of course have different uses and meanings for all things, especially names.
The Bald Eagle is named the Delicacy, for example; however the definition of delicacy is dissimilar from the Earthling's meaning - which is a rare find of sorts, used mostly in the context of delisciousnessness. The Stratlings' definition of "delicacy" is what would be something like "traditional" to Earthlings. So the Delicacy is something like a chicken, really - this is of course why the Bald Eagle, or the Delicacy is such a rare species, because it is constantly consumed by the Stratlings.
Of course, knowing this and being native (within the past three hundred years) to the United States is an atrocity to hear that such a valuable symbol to the country is consumed by physically higher beings as if it was nothing more than a traditional sustinance for foreign stomachs - or as the Stratlings call their primary digestive organ, the Bald Eagle, and then it's produced digestive materials, Deepsouth, which waits for deliverance within the Suburbs, which are the intestinal tract; the whole "digestive system", infact, is called the "Projects" by the Stratlings.
Some of this might seem symbolic, ironic, and almost grotesqley transcendent into Earthling society, but that's because the people who made these words we speak, and the forum of which we speak in, were Stratlings - they were secret Stratling agents who infiltrated Earthling society less than 2,100 years ago.
It seems unbelievable, or what the Stratlings would call "religion", that such a thing is possible - that the Stratlings actually created the success, or what the Stratlings would call "perjury", which has made Earthlings look so smart - especially within the past hundred years or so.
From above, the young Stratlings watch the little Earthlings down below them, inhaling what the Earthlings call "green house gasses", but what the Stratlings call "oxygen".
Of course, it was the oil companies whom are influenced mostly by these Stratlings. As known by many Earthlings and Stratlings, when oil's kinetic energy is spent, the bi-product are many different types of oxides which for Earthlings spell "green house gasses", but for Stratlings spell "oxygen" and "energy". It was so important that the Stratlings caught up the Earthlings, for without the Earthlings' energy expenses, the Stratlings would not be able to efficiently grow their technologies; this is why the Stratlings infiltrated Earthling society.
On a typical day, the expenses of energy produced from one average Earthling fleet (1,000 domestic automobiles) will provide enough energy and oxygen for one Stratling for one day; these beings are quite smart, but are obviously inefficient.
When all energy on Earth is spent, the Stratlings will leave Earth and colonize the stratosphere of another poor planet that's full of malleable beings. After this, Earthling society as it is today will cease to continue, and will slowly revert back to it's orginal state. Earthlings will pick up where they left off; they will hunt, kill, and cannibalize one another just to stay alive, just like animals would. But the word that Earthlings now know as "peace" will then be forgotten, and only the Stratlings will remember that they named such a meaning "earth".
Earth be with you.
and Eat it, Too
Baker waits impatiently in line, anticipating the sloth of slop to be plopped on his warm Luby's plate - it's thick as hell so when children drop the plates, they don't break; too bad adults have to be smited to carry the same ones - but who are adults kidding, you think, there are probably more adults talking on cell phones and dropping plates then little boys and girls.
Now dessert is near; many people shy away from the dessert, thinking that others will say under their breath...
"Like you need that slice of cake."
Baker passes on the cake, you knew he would, but you would have rather he just eat the cake and get it over with; you've been to his apartment and seen the remnants of his sweet rewards in the trabasura. Now you are affront the sweatty Luby's lady; she's had her fair share of cakes, you think as she asks you...
"Would you like a slice of the end of the world?"
You tilt your head slowly; you thought she said that the piece of cake was the end of the world. You didn't want any anyway, so you shake your head.
"You sure, baby? Just a little taste?"
She reaches down the front of her blouse and pulls out a shiny fork. Like a proffessional, she stabs the bottom of the slice, the tip of the "V"; it is now a "U". She raises the fork carefully, but swiftly; and you find yourself leaning on the tempered glass that separates you from the food, you open your mouth as if she's a nurse that's checking your tonsils, but she doesn't do this, no. The cold steel of the fork barrage attacks the ninety eight point six degrees temperate clime of your tongue, but shortly thereafter, the warm cake, which is chocolate by the way, rubs it's imperfect values across the roof of your mouth.
But what is this?
From the side, you find your fellow Baker in a rage; you can see right through him, though; it's all because of the cake. He doesn't understand why she offered you a taste and not him - after all she is just as fat as he was, thought Baker before he jammed the palm of his hand on the top of that fork, forcing it back into your mouth - way back. Too far back.
The fork must have punctured your left tonsil when he did this irrational act, and you feel some fluids drip down from there; you don't know if it's blood or tonsil fluid - you don't know if there is such a thing as tonsil fluid, but if there was, and this was it, it would be warm, and it would taste like mucus and blood, and it would just as any other liquid, be regurgitated by your lungs when and if it passed down that way.
The tonsil fluid might have been the last of your worries, however. The fork, you noticed, was now pretty sturdy in your mouth; the barrage of steel was holding it's weight pretty good back in there, and even with the remnants of that cake floating about. You're coughing like a maniac, and you're making such a nuiscance that black people are going white and white people are going green.
You go to pull the fork out, even though you're aware of the consequences, but that thing is so damn uncomfortable back there that you might as well, however when you start to make the motions to do so, Baker notices this, and pretends to help you...
"Oh my god..."
He is a horrible actor, but nonetheless, you are unable to speak, and so he just reaches his grubby hand down into your mouth, pretending to try to wiggle the thing free, but really worsening the wound - you can now really feel some rush of blood going down to your lungs. Pretty soon, you see that you have coughed up alot onto Baker's white oxford XXL. You see a pen in his pocket, and the first thing that comes to your mind secondly goes into his.
"Oh my god!"
People yell as you stab Baker in the ear canal with his own Uniball; you had to undo the top of the pen before you did it, and the dumb bastard still didn't have time to figure you out. But you were safe from Baker now. But now you were drinking and breathing in your own blood.
"That was some baaaad cake, nigga."
It could have been the last thing you said, but you remembered that you only took a slice - you'd be allright.
Now dessert is near; many people shy away from the dessert, thinking that others will say under their breath...
"Like you need that slice of cake."
Baker passes on the cake, you knew he would, but you would have rather he just eat the cake and get it over with; you've been to his apartment and seen the remnants of his sweet rewards in the trabasura. Now you are affront the sweatty Luby's lady; she's had her fair share of cakes, you think as she asks you...
"Would you like a slice of the end of the world?"
You tilt your head slowly; you thought she said that the piece of cake was the end of the world. You didn't want any anyway, so you shake your head.
"You sure, baby? Just a little taste?"
She reaches down the front of her blouse and pulls out a shiny fork. Like a proffessional, she stabs the bottom of the slice, the tip of the "V"; it is now a "U". She raises the fork carefully, but swiftly; and you find yourself leaning on the tempered glass that separates you from the food, you open your mouth as if she's a nurse that's checking your tonsils, but she doesn't do this, no. The cold steel of the fork barrage attacks the ninety eight point six degrees temperate clime of your tongue, but shortly thereafter, the warm cake, which is chocolate by the way, rubs it's imperfect values across the roof of your mouth.
But what is this?
From the side, you find your fellow Baker in a rage; you can see right through him, though; it's all because of the cake. He doesn't understand why she offered you a taste and not him - after all she is just as fat as he was, thought Baker before he jammed the palm of his hand on the top of that fork, forcing it back into your mouth - way back. Too far back.
The fork must have punctured your left tonsil when he did this irrational act, and you feel some fluids drip down from there; you don't know if it's blood or tonsil fluid - you don't know if there is such a thing as tonsil fluid, but if there was, and this was it, it would be warm, and it would taste like mucus and blood, and it would just as any other liquid, be regurgitated by your lungs when and if it passed down that way.
The tonsil fluid might have been the last of your worries, however. The fork, you noticed, was now pretty sturdy in your mouth; the barrage of steel was holding it's weight pretty good back in there, and even with the remnants of that cake floating about. You're coughing like a maniac, and you're making such a nuiscance that black people are going white and white people are going green.
You go to pull the fork out, even though you're aware of the consequences, but that thing is so damn uncomfortable back there that you might as well, however when you start to make the motions to do so, Baker notices this, and pretends to help you...
"Oh my god..."
He is a horrible actor, but nonetheless, you are unable to speak, and so he just reaches his grubby hand down into your mouth, pretending to try to wiggle the thing free, but really worsening the wound - you can now really feel some rush of blood going down to your lungs. Pretty soon, you see that you have coughed up alot onto Baker's white oxford XXL. You see a pen in his pocket, and the first thing that comes to your mind secondly goes into his.
"Oh my god!"
People yell as you stab Baker in the ear canal with his own Uniball; you had to undo the top of the pen before you did it, and the dumb bastard still didn't have time to figure you out. But you were safe from Baker now. But now you were drinking and breathing in your own blood.
"That was some baaaad cake, nigga."
It could have been the last thing you said, but you remembered that you only took a slice - you'd be allright.
Sunday, May 08, 2005
Terminal March
Move around. A brisk five-minute walk can make you more alert. If you work at a computer terminal, try standing up and marching in place for about five minutes. Stretching also may help.
Try marching in place. Be a trooper. You're economic infantry. March like you are a whore to your boss. He stands in the corner with his arms crossed, smirking as you march in place; he nods his head; he is proud of his trooper.
A co-worker of yours has noticed your marching for the past three minutes, but he thinks that you look ridiculous. It was only until the third minute that he noticed the boss in the corner, supervising your marching. Your co-worker streaches his arms above his head, twists his back - crack.
"Why don't you go for a brisk five-minute walk, Jennings?" The boss' voice snuck into Jennings' cubicle like Milford, the popping sweat ball who rolled his fat body into everyone's workspace at least twice every day, uninvited and smelly, and therefore disliked. Jennings disliked that fat ball of crap almost as much as he hated his boss' ridiculous commands; and don't get Jennings started on how foolish and pompous you look right now.
"You and you Goddamn marching." Jennings whispers under his breath as he gets up from his seat; he wonders if his sweaty ass has made a print on his rotating cloth chair. Even so, it's not as if the boss would say anything anyway; he's the type of man that loves being indiferent to the smell of a locker room.
"It'll make you more alert."
Jennings starts walking away from his boss at the pace of your dumbass marching in place, so he leaves the room quickly enough. Of course, as Jennings walks, he only thinks of that boss of his standing like a statue; an erect dumbass who wouldn't move if he pissed his own pants. Astute in his own right, he believes that every one of his workers look up to him as an authority figure. The bulge in his pants shows them that he has the keys to this place; he's the one who locks it all up at night; it's all his, and so are you.
As much as you know you look foolish, and as much as Jennings bugs you about it at the bar, you still don't mind marching in place in front of your computer terminal. It makes your boss proud, and that makes you proud. You start to imagine you and your boss at the gentlemen's lounge sipping scotch and puffing smoke from brown phallus.
"Feel good?"
Your five minutes is up; sit back down and disappear completely.
Try marching in place. Be a trooper. You're economic infantry. March like you are a whore to your boss. He stands in the corner with his arms crossed, smirking as you march in place; he nods his head; he is proud of his trooper.
A co-worker of yours has noticed your marching for the past three minutes, but he thinks that you look ridiculous. It was only until the third minute that he noticed the boss in the corner, supervising your marching. Your co-worker streaches his arms above his head, twists his back - crack.
"Why don't you go for a brisk five-minute walk, Jennings?" The boss' voice snuck into Jennings' cubicle like Milford, the popping sweat ball who rolled his fat body into everyone's workspace at least twice every day, uninvited and smelly, and therefore disliked. Jennings disliked that fat ball of crap almost as much as he hated his boss' ridiculous commands; and don't get Jennings started on how foolish and pompous you look right now.
"You and you Goddamn marching." Jennings whispers under his breath as he gets up from his seat; he wonders if his sweaty ass has made a print on his rotating cloth chair. Even so, it's not as if the boss would say anything anyway; he's the type of man that loves being indiferent to the smell of a locker room.
"It'll make you more alert."
Jennings starts walking away from his boss at the pace of your dumbass marching in place, so he leaves the room quickly enough. Of course, as Jennings walks, he only thinks of that boss of his standing like a statue; an erect dumbass who wouldn't move if he pissed his own pants. Astute in his own right, he believes that every one of his workers look up to him as an authority figure. The bulge in his pants shows them that he has the keys to this place; he's the one who locks it all up at night; it's all his, and so are you.
As much as you know you look foolish, and as much as Jennings bugs you about it at the bar, you still don't mind marching in place in front of your computer terminal. It makes your boss proud, and that makes you proud. You start to imagine you and your boss at the gentlemen's lounge sipping scotch and puffing smoke from brown phallus.
"Feel good?"
Your five minutes is up; sit back down and disappear completely.
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