Saturday, July 19, 2014
the paranoia of the Ones in Charge ran to levels unrivaled in the history of all things within the realm of things perceptible to any creature with the ability to comprehend abstractions and such….well, at least we still got our - um - well, fuck it - we ain’t got shit -so let’s just go find strange inhalents and cast imbecile, ludicrous wild commands at the populace of exaggeratedly overweight rubes with a penchant for gameshows, soda, and garbage they call “food” (all the stooges applaud). they seem to enjoy being screwed like idiots, but don’t like being called idiots. so we just have to call them special and number-one while we give em the good ol' Auschwitz treatment - in super-slo-mo, mind you…don’t want to move too fast and cause a stir amongst some of the more uppity ones. what do we do about the armed ones? screw em, they are a bunch rubes too that think bullets will do the trick when we’ve already infiltrated their base of pooperations: their very minds (the rubes applaud and “woo-woo-wooo”)… A menacing gang of rodeo clowns decide to storm the capital and demand satisfaction, but the guys with the earpieces and dark sunglasses take pause from of their orgy with Colombian pros and train the big-time weaponry on the rabble “mmm, perhaps it is time for the Big One to enter this dimension.”
“I want to remind you, dear readers, that this is simply an impartial report of the events. you might be astonished that the media whores were busy at the market cutting some deals with the Arabian man with shifty eyes and 50 women who have absolute zero right about the cost of their souls….” (end telepathic transmission - a vagrant has taken over the galaxy and pissed all over the wires)
Photo found on: stufftoblowyourmind.com
The electronic weapon is on and in in full effect in the living room: its hypnotic, undulating glow leaves phosphene residue when the eyes are closed - it attacks the immune system of the mind - rendering the victim stupid and in a zombiosis-type state. The brain is slowly rotted from within, and most facilities of logic, reasoning, and creativity are exterminated without prejudiced. the electronic attack profiles all types of people, and takes no prisoners. It targets young and old, male or female, and it don’t care for anything but sheer annihilation of all human life on the planet: “blahs blah ablalask sjdlk dlm fdlsjk flsdj” is what it would seem like to an alien from another planet - a bunch of idiotic images of idiotic people doing idiotic things and psychotronic injection of non-information, misinformation, and disinformation as viable data to willing participants who actually pay for these weapons to be installed in their living rooms and they pay for the ordinance ammunition channels launched incessantly at their eyeballs…
They also pay via their time and the bonus is these weapons will prompt many a viewer into a position of purchasing other self-destruct weapons to inflict yet more damage upon themselves such as an assortment of prescribed drug-based weapons systems, financial instruments of self-immolation, and a political class of assassins who they vote in then get their minds slit by the very same ones they voted in.
Curious by-product: these crazies sit around and talk about how they have been inflicted by the system, as though it is something special. “Did you see so-and-so blah blah blah on the TV last night?” That would be like saying: “are you seeing me get shot by mind-numbing agents out of the tube and into my brain as I become an idiot right before your eyes and have no original thought in my noggin because every-single thought is programmed into me by a bunch of hack writers and disinformation specialists?”
Analysis: infliction of a slow, creeping extinction event of the human race’s lobotomized soul is 87 percent probable, lest a deus ex machine saves the day.
Can you deal with it, partner? Out there on the trail - wondering what, who will ambush you, or are you being followed? and then comes the storms, the dangerous natives, and them giant mountains… what a shitty way to go, but you figure: fuck it, what else I got?
that’s the mindset that got us to here - and now what is the mindset of the day?
“huh - whatever, man. Let people be bombed. and let the bankers be criminals, or is it vise-versa? let the .gov do its peeping-tom song and dance, but Zeus forbid if we wish to counter-peep. Let the drones kill - it’s out of my cell-phone range anyway, so what can I do? let the cheap-shot artists put garbage into your mind. let the poisoning continue: and I am speaking of digital poisoning of the mind, chemical and aerial poisoning of the food, drink and air, and soul poisoning of the hyper-dimensional .reality …the ol’ one eyes are pouring it on thick - getting the pump primed for the “big culling” and they are probably going to allow the sheep to awaken for the slaughter.
Sheep - know thy shepherd. make certain the wolf didn’t cgi himself up to look like a shepherd…as you know, anything is possible with computers these days - and the virtuals have gotten to the point of surreality whereupon we will eventually be pumped full of wild mind altering substances then uploaded into the “cloud” that we will hardly notice that the last 10 years of our existence was spent on the couch wearing goggles and being fed intravenously. A lifetime; you betcha’.
Hopefully the power doesn’t go out - ruining a planet’s entire collective virtual existence - that would really be a party pooper, eh?
Sunday, June 29, 2014
cliche scenario #35839: at a mountain town cafe the ruffians approach the writer who is typing on his laptop:
Two toughs approach the writer as he is typing away on his laptop. What is he writing about? How about the very scenario you are reading. Let’s keep it simple, OK?
OK. The two toughs stroll up the wooden stairs of the cafe. One of them puts out his camel filterless into the ashtray, but leaves it burning, to the chagrin of the lady who reads a paperback but she says nothing. She knows better. With all of the patrons already there, eye contact is quickly averted as these two strut their way up; they might as well be wielding battle axes and broad-swords with belts of beheaded victims dangling from them. That is the way these two cats present themselves, and that’s the way they like it.
Anyway, the writer types with a focused fury: damn, this place has good espresso. Real good. The typing is feverous and with a focused passion. A Sinatra tune, Accidents Will Happen, plays over the loudspeaker but the writer doesn’t pay any attention to that. So focused is he on the words he is typing that he fails to take note the two barbarians who hover above his table, glaring down upon him with a wolfen intensity.
Alas, one of them speaks: “Fancy computer.”
Is someone talking? Is that someone talking to the writer? No – they must be speaking to someone else. Everybody probably knows everybody in this town.
The other ruffian calls forth an ample amount of phlegm from his godforsaken bowels into his mouth and issues it forth – causing a SPLAT! on the wooden decking no more than 8 inches away from the writer’s left shoe – a checkered Vans slip-on.
The writer glances down at the small loogy puddle, nods his head, and looks up at the two and nods his head. He is very impressed.
“Very nice,” he says.
“You like that, huh?” The viking with the dust-ridden eagle bandana on his head asks, but not because he is actually curious.
“You betcha.” The writer looks back down at the pool then back up. “First-class.”
“We like your fancy computer,” the one with the cracked leather vest and Oakley sunglasses says.
“Thanks. I like it, too.”
“We really like it.” Bandana leans in.
The writer closes the laptop. Takes a look at each one of the toughs –– making certain eye-contact is achieved. He clears his throat. “I paid exactly $1375.65 for this machine, just in case you were wondering. May I ask you two fellas a question?” He doesn’t wait for either one of them to answer him, because the question was more a rhetorical one. “If you wanted to gauge the cost of your well-being, let’s say the use of your nose, thumbs, eyes, knees, and balls - would you say it is worth $1375.65?”
Huh? was the look the two made.
The writer continues: “Because I think you two are underselling yourselves considerably.”
The two berserkers registered an “I think he is fucking with us” look. One might call it "bemused bewilderment", another might call it "dumbfounded" and someone of more simplistic taste might say "insulted." Call it what you will.
“Well - we want it.”
The writer nods, pulls his three fake front teeth out, puts them in the case and smiles big.
“This is gonna be fun, boys.” He stands up. This place really does have good espresso.
Monday, February 24, 2014
the truth comes out – whether you are prepaid and prepared or not. how have we gotten this far? by the grace of God, that is how. in order to live in a planet overrun by fancy-pantsed card sharped, bull-dyke neo-nazi security personnel, drunk federal reserve captains, espn-watching puppets in chief, a congress of bimbos and a senate of bozos, a media that when is not caught hacking, lying, misleading, and licking ass of the puppet in chief, is out to lunch and trying to convince blue-haired old ladies that the bogeyman is coming to get her – in order to live in this staged reality – you must suspend your disbelief at all times of the day – even when you are asleep and dreaming. Otherwise, you will either crack and wind up in a Honduran prison because you were caught strangling a poor hooker you had accused of stealing your blow, driving recklessly up the wrong side of your local interstate hopped-up on pills you the commercial told you to get and so you took all of them along with a decent belt of Johnny Walker Red because you were inspired by Mad Men, or firing a million rounds of ammo into the boat of a doped-out, thinks-he’s-a-rockstar-patsy because you think you’re Jack Bauer and yeah, you got a gut but so what? You are federal and and this is your time to shine so light that sucker up!.... When “burn that fucker down” doesn’t mean burn that fucker down, when “pull it” doesn’t mean pull it...when a peace prize doesn’t mean peace...when the brainwashing den is just a little bit too familiar (welcome, citizenslave 0 – this time we’ve got the prime time)...
Saturday, February 22, 2014
Paul Landacre ~ Jungle Madness, 1935 (wood Engraving) -
the dart from a blowgun slaps against the neck: the sting, the dizziness, the fade-out...
what were you doing there, out in the jungle? didn’t you know if the savages weren’t going to get you
the jaguar would? or the drug-gangs...or the giant ants...or bats...or snakes...or scorpions…or the madness…or the rain and the mud and the loss of direction...
but you went for it anyway –
and that is all
the person that runs the show
can’t stand it anymore and decides
to pull fast ones on
like making them think they are watching something profound
he has simply turned out the lights
gassed the place
and torched it
but because he wears a three-pieced suit
and smiles big and clean
and has sculpted hair
and is a favorite of the president
and gets the ratings
and brings in huge advertising revenues
he gets a bonus
for burning the studio down.
now that’s entertainment.