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.


 

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).

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.

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…

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: 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.

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?