Saturday, September 13, 2014

Gaslighting with the POTUS (an account of Secret Service agent Dan DeDonde)

El Jefe - the "classy" years

     This really happened, OK?

     So Larry and me were chillin’ outside the President’s office, and El Jefe (that is what President Obama likes to be called by us in private) opens the door, peeks outside and goes “Psst — fellas — come in here for a second.”

     We go in, he looks out the door to his left and right, closes it and locks it. Then he goes and sits behind his desk and motions for Larry and me to sit down in front of his desk.

     We sit.

     He says:  “You folks have been working really hard at protecting me and bringing counterfeiters to justice. I think it’s time you guys loosen your earpieces and tip-up the shades.”

     I thought he was gonna give us some nice presidential pin or pen or some shit like that, because he pulls out this fancy case with shiny felt and gold trim on it, like what they put nice pens or pins in. He opens it and shows me and Larry, my partner, the contents of the fine box and then El Jefe raises and lowers his eyebrows up and down really fast a whole bunch of times, trading looks with Larry and me.
     What is inside the box is a giant spliff.
     He pulls it out of the box then pulls a zippo from his desk drawer, flips it open, lights the spliff and takes a big ‘ol hit. 

     I look at Larry and Larry looks at me and then El Jefe coughs and laughs as all the smoke is launching out of his mouth at us and he passes the thing over the presidential desk to Larry who looks like a man who has just caught his parents getting it on.

     Larry has no clue what to do with the thing. El Jefe and me can’t believe it: the man actually answered truthfully when he applied for the job about smoking marijuana!  Shit, I just said I experimented with it twice in college to make it seem like I wasn’t lying but Larry really had never seen the stuff up-close!

     El Jefe offers again and Larry takes it.

     “Just baby puffs, Larry. We don’t need you discovering new planets, especially without a space suit.” El Jefe cracks himself up at this.

     Larry lights, inhales and coughs like a dying man with TB and the Jefe busts up laughing again.

     “Pass that shit over to Dan. I’ll bet he’s an old pro,” El Jefe says, raising and lowering his eyebrows again real fast.

     Dan passes the thing to me and I do the double-mini toke followed by the big inhale-and-hold, slowly easing the smoke out of my lungs and mouth for maximal THC absorption.

     El Jefe nods his head in approval and I hand him back his cannabis cigarette and he takes another drag.

     He pulls out a remote-control and presses a button. Over the speakers some shit — I think it was some seventies stuff like “Emerson, Lake and Palmer” — comes on.  El Jefe eases his chair back and puts his feet up on the desk and his arms behind his head.

     I look over at Larry who is looking around the office like a little kid and I try not to bust up laughing.

     El Jefe closes his eyes and says “Fellas — I am going to notify you of something that you will not believe. I am in fact a puppet. The people that are really in charge are inter-dimensional aliens who, when you are ‘tuned in’ to their frequency, have a third-eye right smack-dab in the middle of their forehead.  And they operate among us.”

     As El Jefe is speaking, I catch Larry out of the corner of my eye fidgeting with his ear-piece.

     “Yessir. They could be your neighbor, your mailman, your Senator, your VP.  But you wouldn’t know it, because they are cloaked, and our perception of them is…eclipsed. Unless….” He opens his eyes and offers the spliff to Larry, who declines.

     He passes it to me. I oblige.

     “Why am I telling you this? Because they make me say incredible things that don’t make any sense, like how the Islamic State of Syria and Iraq is not Islamic, or how I will close Guantanamo Bay.  Shit — check out that Nobel Peace Prize on the wall, fellas. How many other mad bombers have won peace prizes, eh?  Folks — they are gaslighting us to see how much of the bull-puckie we as human beings will gobble, and boy oh boy we will gobble quite a bit.”

     What the hell is Jefe talking about? Man, he must be high. But he continues.

     “You know what gaslighting is, Larry?”

     Larry shakes his head.

     Jefe grabs his iphone off the desk and types on the screen.

     “To quote wikipedia: ‘Gaslighting or gas-lighting is a form of mental abuse in which false information is presented with the intent of making victims doubt their own memory, perception and sanity.’  Yup. The world is being gaslit…gaslighted? Hmmm….” El Jefe ponders for a second.

     He takes another hit off the doobie and snorts some of the smoke from the other end out of the air.  

     “I kid you not. They are hiding in plain sight, and they are here to bring the entire shithouse down. 9-11 was the opening ritual act of the demolition by the ceremonial Archpriest of the Three Eyed Ones, Big Dick “Pull My” Cheney.  Soon you’re gonna check things that’ll make John the Revelator blush.”

      He looks around, then leans closer to us. 

     “But I digress. I can’t talk like this to anyone because their plan is so brilliant that if I spoke out against it I would be considered a lunatic. Anyone would.  So you can’t fight inter-dimensional beings with third-eyes on their foreheads, because they got all the bases covered. Got it?  I just play the rube prez.  What the hell, eh Larry?”

     By this point Larry is sweating profusely and visibly nervous. Damn, that weed was powerful.

     “Why are they doing this?” Jefe leans forward so he’s pretty much on his own desk and face-to-face with Larry, scrutinizing him.  “Eh, Larry?”

     Larry: “Um — er — what?”
     “I said ‘why are they doing this?’ and I think you know, Larry.” Jefe slinks back into his chair.

     At this point I start to get worried about Larry. He seems like he’s on the verge of a full-bore freak-out. He’s sweating, fidgiting, messing with his tie, adjusting his holster, and El Jefe just sits and stares at him.

     And then the weed, the music and my mind all converge on some tripped-out wavelength of reality and there it is: above El Jefe’s two regular eyes I see a third eye, right there on his forehead boring into Larry’s mind!

     Holy shit!

     I get up and check the mirror on the wall next to a picture of George Bush Sr., and I got the eye on the forehead too!

     What the shit?! I am one of them also and I didn’t even know it!

     Larry is about to shit his pants when El Jefe says, “Don’t worry, Larry. We’re just gaslighting you. Go and tell everyone about this. See what happens, hehehehe.”

     Jefe takes another pull on the spliff and turns the music up.

     Yes, it is Emerson, Lake and Palmer, and the track now playing is called “C’est La Vie”

Saturday, September 6, 2014

Secretary of State John Kerry: “Burning Man Has Not Jumped the Shark”

Mary Harf - always a hit at the Burning Man

John Kerry looks forward to Burning Man 2015

     “I’m so fancy…you already know…I am in the fast lane….from L.A. to Tokyo…” Secretary of State John Kerry sings along to the lyrics of the hit tune by Iggy Azalea and Charli XCX, shaking his hips and spilling some of his scotch.

     At this point in the story, he is already full-tilt into the fifth day of the Burning Man festival in the high desert of Nevada.

     Yes indeed — he and his entourage, including his mistress of propaganda, Mary Harf, have had quite a jolt in the “Kerry Prankster” camp —  a fortified compound of 5 Starline trailers encircled to create an impregnable fortress.

     VIP only.

     The rest of you rabble need not enter. Don’t even think about it.

     Anyway, the good Secretary of State has opted for some Pharma-grade Israeli ecstasy, and everything has become quite acceptable to the former riverboat sailor.
     “This is what it’s all about. Booze, women, and a vision….  I like being hiiiiiiip!  You think I should tweet a photo of me getting my groove on with this day-glo thing?”

     “I don’t think you should fall for that Russian propaganda.” Mrs. Harf blurts out.

     “Good god, woman — you’ve had a kernal panic! You haven’t said anything but those words the entire time you’ve been here! Must’ve been the psylocibin/GHB combo. It shorted out your wetware.  Here — have a sip.”  He takes her gently by the head and spills some of his booze down her throat.

      She chokes and coughs and mumbles “Bergdahl’s platoon-mates are big-fat liars…Putin personally shot down that airliner — I saw a facebook post with a picture of him with the bazooka…  ISIS es muy peligroso…freedom-fighters, er terrorsists…my propaganda is better than the Russian propaganda…ERROR INVALID DATA 13 OxD…Beezlebub twirk twirk who dat I thought you knew dat knew dat knew dat lions and tigers and bears oh my….”

     Secretary of State Kerry tosses his now twitching and incoherent deputy State Department spokesman onto the 1756 silk settee couch he had imported from Toulouse, France just for this occasion.

     Kerry summons his personal assistant, “Get me that bozo Bill on the horn!”  He takes another sip of scotch and checks his twitter feed, snaps a selfie, then checks the pic. “Hmm, I do share a semblance to Lurch. I will consider that a compliment. Yes indeed. Keep it together, John. You are a survivor and a thriver. You are a champion!”

     He snaps off another selfie: he toasting himself.

     “Silly Valley camp. What’s your query?” the geeky male voice (or is it female? John Kerry cannot tell) over the speaker-phone says.

     “This is the Kerry Prankster.  Get your sonofabitch honcho Bill on the line, stat!”

     “Bill Gates of Hell? Okie-doke. Un moment, por favor.” In the background is heard robotic trance music, glasses clinking, laughter, a sheep baa-ing, and a firearm discharging and what Sec. of State Kerry imagines to be a Tesla coil arc emitting electricity in multiple directions, followed by the nasally sound of a voice: “Who?! That slime-bag?  What’s he want — he’s interrupting…screw it.  Pause it! I’ll be right back…(the fumbling of the phone is heard)…  Yes, what is it John? You are aware you are interrupting the Ritual of Appeasement of the Deity Baba-Yaga?”

     “Terribly sorry to bother your ceremony, Bill. But that goddamned system you pawned off to the state department is a giant pile of shit. What are you installing Windows ’98 operating systems into refurnished units and offloading ‘em to Uncle Sam?  Get your pasty ass over here and fix my deputy spokesman or I’ve got two words for you: ‘predator drone’!!!”

     “Are you threatening me, John?”

     "G-D’d right I am! I was in ‘nam you two-bit pirate and I do not take shit from dorks like you — not now, not ever.”

     “Easy, Johnny, easy. We’re pals. You sound like you’re on the verge of a drug and booze induced psychosis. I got a shot I can give you for that — loaded it into mosquitoes to help with overpopulation in Africa - er, I mean diseases and stuff, heeheehee…”

     “Just get over here and fix my problem!”

     Precisely 12 minutes and 45 seconds later a helicopter comes hovering over the “Kerry Prankster” camp, causing quite a bit of dust to kick up into the lavish Alain Ducasse $10,000 party spread.

     “There’s a waste of perfectly good caviar,” says Sec. of State John Kerry as he watches three figures repel down. Well — two repel down and one is lowered down because he is clad in an 1800’s diving bell.

     The chopper leaves and the three approach Mr. Kerry, who lays upside-down on an inversion table smoking a cigar.
     The one wearing the diving-bell motions to his crony on the left — an unkempt sort whose belly hangs forth from the T-shirt with the words “MAY THE MASS TIMES ACCELERATION BE WITH YOU” (in Star Wars font) on it and over his skinny jeans — who opens the visor of the helmet of the diving bell.

     “Bill Gates you money-shot maestro, what is that unholy get-up you are sporting?!”

     Bill Gates clears his throat. “I am currently under the influence of an experimental nanobot nootropic that is rewiring my brain and putting forth the sensation that I am deep underwater. If not for this suit, my ear-drums would rupture and my noggin would explode. Now, to the unit.”

      John Kerry flips right-side up, unbuckles from the inversion table, and motions for them to follow him to one of the Starline trailers — the one painted with a bedazzling array of colors in the spirit of a cheesy airbrushed version of a Jackson Pollack.

      They enter the trailer and Kerry points to his deputy spokesman Mary Harf, who now sporadically yells “turned down for what?!” and dry-humps miscellaneous items and furniture and the air about the trailer.

     “What have you fed this one?” a concerned Bill Gates says.

     “What haven’t I fed this one. Booze, G, X, Yage, Shrooms, Xanex, Colorado Cannabis, with a bit of speed to keep her honest.”

     “You fool! You didn’t read the manual — this model is only designed to be loaded with boxed Chablis and Prozac… Ritalin with an upgrade.”

     “Spare me your techy mumbo-jumbo and fix it or give me a new system!”

     Mr. Gates turns to his other assistant — a clone of the other guy except his t-shirt says “BACK IN MY DAY WE HAD NINE PLANETS” on it — and snaps his fingers.

     The clone unzips his backpack and brandishes a syringe and plunges it into the neck of Mary Harf while the other one opens up a laptop and begins typing.

     “Welcome!” says Mary Harf. She smiles. Her eyes are vacant but spinning hour-glasses could be seen in her pupils if one were to look closely. “Well, I certainly hope everybody is having a swell time. Is it time for the press briefing yet?”

     John Kerry nods his head, satisfied. He turns to Bill Gates. “If this ever happens again, you twerp….”
(while John Kerry was saying this, Bill Gates had snapped his fingers over to his assistant on the laptop, who had typed in some code and rendered Secretary of State John Kerry inert, mid-speech.)

     “Thank you, Lazslo. Wipe last hour’s memory and fill it with something nice, like him receiving a blow-job or something.”

     These political models need to be junked, thinks Bill Gates.  Perhaps a mosquito with a vaccine that inflicts these shabby political units with syphilis.  I’ll have to think about that one. Ahh — Burning Man….where visions are designed and universes co-opted.

He closes the latch to his helmet.


Saturday, August 23, 2014

Senator John McCain Reacts to the ISIS Beheading Video

Sen. John McC with the fellas.
He sips from his glass of Chivas Regal.

He closes one eye. Teeters toward his Acer C720 Chromebook laptop. Hits spacebar a few times (the keys have gotten sticky from many a spilled cocktail) and finally is able to play the youtube video.
He wavers back and forth. Watches the show.

“Curse you, ISIS!  I told you we just wanted downed airliners from shithole countries, not these frickin beheadings of our guys! Why do you think I had those MANPADS and other cool destructive shit delivered to your sorry asses! You jack-offs probably sold the gear for blow-money, G-D no class hand-wiping ragmasked fart-lighting hajis!” He chokes on an ice-cube. He coughs. He scratches his left testicle. He checks to see if the right one is still there, and wipes sweat off his forehead. “Phew.”

He rolls up a 50 and vacuums up the ketamine powder he had lined-up on the cover of the latest issue of “People” mag, the one with Robin Williams on it.

“Damn you were a funny pinko sonsubith. If only you weren’t such a coward, I might’ve sent your lovely daughter a card.”

The special-k kicks into the Senator’s soggy brain and causes an interesting blend of drunken euphoria intertwined with a hyper-spaceed-out starry effect. The good Senator holds up his hand-held cassette recorder. Taps the record button.

“I’m a bug. I’m a bug. I inhabit the past and the future and there are collisions happening between the two every goddamned millisecond. I AM WHERE IT'S AT!!!”

He sips the Chivas, swishes it around in his mouth, contemplates it, then swallows it.

“Holy mother of a thousand-titted Shiva, what in Zeus’ name is that thing!”
The Senator has brandished his binoculars and is attempting to adjust them to focus in on the ceiling of his office. He lays down on the floor, on his back, to get a better perspective. He reaches up to his desk, fumbles for the hand-held, spills the rest of his Chivas, curses some deity of his own imaginings, then grabs the cassette recorder which had still been recording the entire time.

“I am now seeing exactly what John the Revelator saw - that infernal beast - it is a golden dragon hovering around like a damned Goodyear Blimp in a dimension just outside the one we inhabit. Shit-eating grinner —  its scales are a bunch of disco-ball mirrors but of a golden hew. Lasers of all sorts of colors are emanating from it, and it is reading my mind! IT IS READING MY MIND!!! INFERNAL BEAST!!!”

The Senator yelps. He howls. He weeps. “I thought the lad was a woman of 23 who happened to have a penchant for ice-cream and comic-books! How was I to know!  Those gooks put the brain of a cockroach into my head! I am just a bug! I am just a bug! Please, mother of Odin, noooooo!!!!”

More howling. More yelping. More weeping.

At this point on the tape is heard the opening of a door, heavy footseps, someone saying “get the Senator up…(inaudable)…the smelling salts…(more rustiling)….put his goddamned pants on…(inaudible)….burn everything on the desk….(inaudible, shuffling of papers)…yes, put his socks on….and his shoes - he’s got an interview with CNN in 25 - he’ll be fine…" (tape ends).

Thursday, August 21, 2014

just another stage

 the bard was correct – except this day and age the acting is shoddy, the script written by overeducated hacks, and the audience so dumbed-down and bezombified they don't even realize their minds are being injected with 100 percent grade-A angus bullshit.

so the puppets on the tube tell the rubes what to think, feel, say and do (or what not to think, what not to feel, what not to say, what not to do...same shit).

There is no “other” story – the story is all the same: you are either a sheep or a black sheep that thinks it's a wolf and you are following a wolf in shepherd's garb. 
End of story.

Saturday, July 26, 2014

the messenger with the aviator shades

at a mountain cafe
the guy in the parked car wearing aviators––
is he checking me or my wife
or does he happen to just be looking in my direction when I look over at him?

he sits shotgun in an electric vehicle. he has been sitting there awhile…
how long? an eternity?
since the dawn of thought, the first perception, the initial spark that
sent it all into a whirling frenzy.

we’re talkin' aeons. 

I wonder:
does he know…really know…what the deal is?
maybe he is a messenger from the place beyond the edge of our system––
and he attempts to notify me via telepathy
that this place is going under,
flee this planet while you still can,
get out, now––and take your Boston Terrier and your wife and any valuables you might treasure and skedaddle!
but the message doesn’t penetrate (too much fluoride in the pineal clogs up the third-eye vision, perhaps)
so I sit and sip the and type and “Für Elise” pipes through the speakers and when I look over again,
the man is gone…

Saturday, July 19, 2014

disjointed mania

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)

An Analysis of a Very Dangerous Electronic Weapon System

                                             Telephonoscope! (Hulton Archive/Getty Images)
                                               Photo found on:

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.

usher in the new era of hacked .reality

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

idle wild

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

not only do these monkeys hear no evil, see no evil, and speak no evil....

 "Vintage Monkeys - 1800"

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

why you?

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
that matters.

the great hornswaggle of the known biosphere

at times
the person that runs the show
can’t stand it anymore and decides
to pull fast ones on
the viewers
like making them think they are watching something profound
when really
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.

Friday, February 7, 2014

what's the use in complaining? the fatsos will maintain their fatness


morbidly obese lemmings
breath through mouths
   waddle up and down the boulevard
    seek out
someplace to sit
rethink how they got
to this point...
big-bellied culture –
    representative of the spirit
    our poisoned,
    and cast-down,
    brainwashed (whatever is left of the brain)
numbed-out, stupified, zombified
    and made
    to appreciate
    the taste
    of crap
    spoon-fed to us
by platinum-haired bozo-robots
nice suits
    and (quite frankly)
    with caked-on make-up
     showing us leg
just to get their scripted, pentagon war-chief written “points”
    across and into
our rapidly evaporating psyche...

Monday, January 13, 2014

agents of change

the clock:
ticks (obviously)
   a one-man rendition of Faustus.
   your immediate future
   inside the head of the man with one finger on the pulse of society and the other on the trigger.
   ahead of the game.
waits patiently in the shadows
with or without your acknowledgements…
grabs you
   when you are not looking.  rifles through your pockets for any loose change.
pretends to be on your side (with its minute-hand around your shoulder like a pal
but stuffs the blade into your back with the hour-hand)
disguises itself as money.
takes her own sweet time at the DMV yet races at breakneck pace when on vacation.
tells of tiny romances and innocence
in a box of photos tucked away in a dusty storage closet.
of the finite and not-so-finite…of our mortality and someone else’s immortality…
bastard-child of the sun and the moon and great-grandson to the universe and charged with the blinking history of man.
pays no heed to the laws of gravity and can exist
outside time.
Illustration for Poe's The Devil in the Belfry in "Tales and poems - vol.2" (Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 18??)

Saturday, January 11, 2014

acid washed

                  from George du Maurier’s dream strip “Tom Noddy’s Christmas Nightmare”

     They showed him quite a bit.  As a matter of fact, they showed him all of it ––  at least all his limited-capacity brain could process.  He got it, allright.  They showed him that his beloved little planet was to undergo quite a reckoning in the near future – “sooner than you think” he recalled hearing.  Then the questions came: why? why was he ‘being shown’ this, why was ‘he’ being shown this?  What could he do with such information? He had never been taught the protocol and etiquette on what to do if hyper-dimensional beings that manipulate time/space reality of human beings were to come to him, telepathically notify him of his status of virtual lab-animal, and the lab was going to be shut down for renovations.  As he was being relayed this information, he knew he would either have to remain mum (and essentially play-act within this soon-to-be destroyed artificial habitat) or be committed into another habitat for insane people, because he would indeed be viewed as totally nuts if he were to attempt to “warn” his fellow lab-animals.  At that time – how he wished his 20 year old brain could just be wiped clean – that he could just go back to “life as normal” and move onward in blissful ignorance of the alien scrutiny he had become aware of. 
     He attempted to meander through the next few years – but in a sullen state of mild despair and nihilistic depression.  He had gotten committed a few times – they wanted him institutionalized.  He drank. He wept.  He bummed around.  Not until he met a truck-driver named Woods did he realize that he had only gotten a certain angle of the story―an angle that was shown for the advantage of the one telling it: yes, there were interdimensional beings manipulating humans for their own advantage.  Yes, they had been around a very long time, and would seem to a young man to be like his gods.  But: Woods had imparted to him: they had mindfucked him to try to get him to yield his spirit – his life-source-code –  to them.  that is what they feed off of.  Woods knew.  He was one of them – and he was rebelling against them.

Monday, January 6, 2014

do you know the score?

A Seizure - (Jean Ignace Isidore Gerard) Grandville - in conclusion, you have been shanghaied, are on your way to work on shithole planet jacking-into the system of mineral deposits, and loading it onto intergalactic freighters, or some stuff like that. Your mind has been commandeered, your identity confiscated, your thoughts locked up, and you will be a slave now. how do you like that? who cares...
the deal is there is no deal. We are on the verge of fairly obvious paradigm shift, and most of the addled populace will not know how to react. “Television didn’t prepare me for this one”... No – as a matter of fact, it has stripped your mind of all base survival instinct programming, reprogrammed fear and submission code and a bunch of virus applications that actually destroy your system in the background while you keep it running. In other words – you have been programmed to either a)self destruct or b)not care that you are being destroyed. this is the way it is...this is how it goes. While I am telling you this – you are being systematically dismantled. Why am I telling you this? I suppose I only wanted to help you, but I can see now that their infection into your Operating System and wetware has gone so far that all you do is laugh, deny, poke fun, and talk shit at me while the very hacker I am pointing out to you is deranging your code and savaging you. Do not blame me when you malfunction – ye have been warned....

Thursday, January 2, 2014

what’s the story?

“conquer the blank page” I have just read. Hemingway typed standing up – like he was shadow-boxing with the typewriter...

Now, we sit at desks and behind glowing screens like pimply-faced drone pilots -- out of range and detached. The key is to get in there and swing. Who cares of the fact that I am repeating myself or else regurgitanig prior opinions I’ve already digested?

Another good one: “serve the story, not your ego”. That reminds me of one of the first things mentioned in the first class I took in college, and intro to creative writing class where the teacher stated “do not fall in love with your own handwriting” You bet – don’t get too involved with those words you think are gold ether, and don’t think that your farts ain’t vile, buck-o – cuase they is... The problem I have: I never seem to find a story. Then that becomes “the story” (I wrote a short film about a character looking for a story, much in the spirit of Pirandello's “Five Characters in Search of an Author”, whereas the metastory was about the search for a story). But even these “clever” high-artisms get played out, like magic tricks – they are fascinating as an intellectual exercise but lack emotional movement. That’s what the fans want – to be moved, to laugh and to cry. those are the two. Sure, it’s nice to “impress” people, particularly females when you are a young male, or vice-versa, (or males if you swing the other way, same for females – you get the idea.) But to simply “wow” people will leave them impressed, but not necessarily fulfilled. I think that’s why Twain commanded to keep things simple – therein lies the genius: to take a complex equation and simplify it: is that not what mathematics and physics yearn? the unifying theory that ties things together in an easy soundbite? That’s not to say we must churn out hackneyed garbage sans smarts – that, in my opinion is patronizing the masses: calling them stupid and throwing it in their faces by force-feeding them stupid shit. Nay – a good book should make people more intelligent in a way—emotionally, intellectually, or spiritually...(or all)—in a way, it should be a source of nourishment for the mind and the soul, not junk-food...

the ceiling of reality (or "On LSD")

     Alexander Ramsay: Flap-illustration, early 19th century

 I perceived a sophisticated jigsaw-puzzle of millions of tiny, reverberating pieces locked in a slow, undulating rhythm. Do you see the patterns? Those patterns are the fabric of time and space, my son – any hippy that’s worth his weight in LSD can tell you that. The lattice-like architecture resonates with a translucent green-red glow, spots or nebulous forms… networld – the net is intricate and complex mosaic in three or four dimensions, but it is visible to the human eye, if you have the correct lens and operational application of mind… LSD of course speeds this up and embellishes it – but the influx of large amounts of raw universal data on the psychic/physical level tends to “overload” the system- - the conscious operating system doesn’t know how to decipher the large volume of rapidly ingested quantum data, so it will do it’s best to “make sense” of it – hence the classic “hallucination” or “seeing things” – the system is seeing “everything” and attempting to categorize those things. Overload – or bus crash – is the “freak out”. The system simply cannot handle the volume and data-rate absorption – so the mind-OS shuts down, goes to sleep, reboots, or fries the motherboard. Imagine: suddenly not only having infinite data but ongoing absorption of that data. And you don’t have the proper “application” to run, interpret, decipher, utilize, or express that data. That is what a heavy-duty acid trip is—jamming a billion-terabytes of information into a computer that can store it, but cannot do anything with it. Our brains can handle an enormous amounts of information – thousands of percents more than we do now…but we haven’t developed the proper “wetware apps” to use them. Perhaps soon the Allmighty Software Designer will upgrade us… Are you a file to be saved, or tossed into the recycle bin? Your choice. That is freedom – the ability to choose, sans coercion – whether you want freedom or you want to be a slave….

Wednesday, January 1, 2014

wd-40 acts as a cloaking mechanism (in a dream)

the dream was definitely strange – as dreams are wont to be…needless to say, it went something like this:

“this won’t do” the man appeared in the room from nowhere. A mild rain and grey times, as usual in grungy Seattle. He scoped the room and went out into the yard. “we’ll modify and fortify this place later. Right now, we’ve gotta get you hidden.”

In the yard existed an underground bomb-shelter—the house was a toss-back from the 50’s frantic paranoia… we used it as a storage shed. We climbed down; the mustiness kicked hard. He found a can wd-40 and handed it to me. “Before he shows up, spray it around. It’s a cloaking agent for their devices.” I shrugged and asked no questions. This man obviously was an expert. He climbed out of the shelter and closed the latch. I heard him tossing dirt and rocks and debris over the hatch and wander off back to the house. I could see him though. He grabbed the land-line phone and carried it to the porch. They are going to call to make sure you’re home. I will answer as you – they don’t know the sound of your voice. He communicated telepathically. Questions will be answered later. Get the WD ready...

The telephone rang..he waited 2 rings then picked up. “Hello?.....Speaking” He hung up, carried the phone back inside, came out with a small rifle and climbed under the elevated front porch.

A black late-60’s model Buick crawled up and parked in front. A bear of a mulletted man in a green army jacket and loose-fitting cargo-pants ambled up to the porch. He had a pistol in hand and another one hanging loosely from his ass. My protector scoped him from underneath. The to-be-assassin moseyed into my house and rummaged around. Two other men met him – both disheveled and motley. They had entered from the back. The three rummaged through our thrift-store decorated house and got kicks from the two mannequins filled with miscellaneous knick-knacks. They were definitely looking for something particular, besides me. The main mulleted guy – the captain of the team – slung my old pair of ski-boots over his shoulder, and one of his side-kicks had one of the mannequins in tow as they exited my house and they dropped and died before hearing the three rifle shots…
Of course, I can’t forget about skydiving while under the influence of psilocybin mushrooms while skydiving – I saw everything….
Where does the part about the maniacal performance artist who would go on 2 week sleepless amphetamine binges then stage “performances” whereupon anything might happen, always of a frantic, bizarre and stupefying ilk, fit in? Not certain, except the show that I patronized he brandished a large revolver pistol and began firing into the stunned audience, who scattered like hunted deer—and I hit the deck and played dead, until he approached me and threatened to execute me – I realized he had blanks.
The gist of the story: I had become a TPV – telepathic viewer – who had remotely witnessed a very high profile megalomaniacal but beloved tech. pioneer billionaire Gill Bates murder his wife. This occurred while in mid-flight skydiving and peaking on mushrooms. I tacked it up to simply a random bizarre temporary drug-induced psychotic vision, but nay! I had tapped into the invisible CCTV of meta-reality, and actually seen the man inject his wife with a cocktail of secretly developed adjuvents that are non-detectable. So the papers and authorities and the entire Seattle area along with the rest of the western world sent their heartfelt condolences to the poor grieving Mr. Bates when they learned that she had developed a fast-acting and irreparable cancer that overtook and killed her within days. I thought “wow, what a coincidence” when I read about it a week after my skydiving session, and I mentioned my “weird vision” to a group of acquaintances at a bonfire bbq session we attended the following Saturday.

Bates had developed a wide network of surveillance technologies in everything that would record everything and had them installed in light poles, electric boxes, televisions, cd players – he had, after all “donated” all these items to the city and thrift stores and anywhere else that anybody would buy, use, wear, watch, etc. Every piece of audio was digitally recorded and if his name was mentioned in a given piece of audio, that data was flagged and stored into a network database in an underground and super-secret location then analyzed by former intelligence spooks that had found the employ of him far more lucrative than the govt. sector. Mostly they sifted through people praising the man for his wonderful contributions to society and his philanthropy to the needy and downtrodden people, particularly on the African continent. Every now and then, they would parse out some random drunk shit-talker and if he felt like it Mr. Bates would either fuck with him by burning-out his TV during a Seahawks game or would send the man a thousand-dollar check as a random “chance” lottery and token of appreciation to the citizenry of Seattle – pending his mood.
With my “vision” he took a deeper interest: I was “spot on” in what I saw. He knew that I knew and he wanted to know how I knew. After all, I was just a grunged-out low-rent artist that had nothing against the man – I had hitherto expressed indifference to the guy my life…Or was I? His own megalomaniacal paranoia had conjectured that I was a super-deep cover operative – of either a .gov agency or rival company, and was either around to bring his vast empire down or else compromise his position via some form of devious blackmail. Regardless – I had dirt on him and a man of his ego did not like it one bit. Thus via third-party networks he had hired professional investigators to surveil me, and for a month the results were nil: I would paint, go thrift shopping, drink Olympia and smoke grass on weekends with friends, lead a nondescript lifestyle. This frustrated him further, because he was convinced that I had tapped-into some sort of metaphysical reality – one which could be quantified and exploited for commercial use. So via fourth party cut-outs he had hired the three thugs to come and rough me up, knock me out and kidnap me. Had that plan succeeded I would have never seen the light of day again. I would have lived out the rest of my days in a lab, ogled over by mind-prodding mad-scientists attempting to see what the cut of my jib was…
But: he showed up. The mysterious protector.
But: lets cut to the end, shall we? At the end – in a warehouse, Mr. Bates has a syringe that he plans on stuffing into me. His personal south-african cargo-plane pilot shows up. “Oh – it’s you. You’re alive. How about that? I am busy right now, come see me tomorrow and we’ll talk.” The pilot doesn’t budge. “I brought some friends, mate.” From the shadows a group of large and unhappy tribesman step forth. Mr Bates: “Oh?” Pilot: “Yeah – these guys nursed me back to health, no thanks to you. Quite frankly I am shocked they didn’t slit me up into pieces and offer my pieces to their cannibalistic rival tribe… No, boss – they gave me a lesson on your maiming operation – your soft-kill plan that has been exterminating these peoples now –rewiring and tearing apart DNA, etc…. Naw, Boss – I had to re-examine my value system”. Bates: “Oh. Well – I can pay you way more. How about your own island?” Pilot: “Mr. Bates, that sounds marvelous. How about we discuss it after your trial.” Bates: “Huh?” Pilot: “Yeah – we’re taking you back to the Savannah—these fellas here, along with their contemporaries – are gonna give you a fair and speedy trial.” Bates is silent. He gives a weird and awkward laugh, and makes a dash for it. The pilot expertly shoots a tranquilizer dart and hits his former boss in the neck. He hits the deck. The tribesmen take their time carrying his pathetic body to the cargo plane. In a half daze, Mr. Bates mutters something incoherently about Icarus, misunderstandings, and that he didn’t mean to wet himself mommy.