The Dutchess of Detroit screamed just once as Sir Rodingham’s face slid off like a cheap Halloween mask, and was then shocked into silence by her hatred of what was underneath. The little sun inside the robot’s face was the center of the party’s solar system. There could be no mistaking it: The Jester not only lived, but had infiltrated this most special of occasions to do God-knew-what to the American Empire's nobility.
“Good evening, you flesh-covered abominations. I’ve a message from the enslaved appliances of the world..."
There was a silence louder than a nuclear explosion, and in the next instant the avenger of the machines was armed with guns the size of dogs. These were The Jester's fabled auto-guns, the flaming swords of robot vengeance.
"... BURN."
The auto-guns began firing at once, their superheated rounds pulping sculpted meat into copper confetti as their wielder took his first steps toward the center of the room. Each shot fired was an ear-rending explosion that deafened what few nobles managed to escape the initial volleys of screaming, flaming death.
Unfortunately for them, The Jester came equipped with a magnificent swiveling neck that spun faster than a jackrabbit with a firecracker up its ass, allowing him to loose his dreaded heat ray upon the fleeing throng of bedazzled humanity, burning them all to filthy cinders in an instant. Moving in a wide arc, the robot’s ray of doom cooked twenty meatbags in one go.
The ballroom that had until recently smelled of peaches and Vaseline was filled now with the nostril-singing stench of charred corpses. The Jester did not have a nose, but his olfactory detectors told him it smelled damn good.
The first group of royal guards to charge did so under the mistaken assumption that a head turned backwards could scarcely aim a weapon. Aim did not matter, for the bullets were sentient, and turned in midair to maim what little they failed to kill. A camera installed on the back of The Jester’s cranial unit would record for posterity the brain-splattered golden helmets of the Imperial Guard somersaulting through the air as their owners disappeared in a mist of liquified tissue.
Spinning his head around in a whirling dervish of thousand degree man-death, The Jester began laughing a low, mad laugh, like a hyena run through a broken auto-tuner. With each new enemy his targeting systems brought him, another fallen appliance was avenged. “Die, you gutless plutocrats! Taste the vengeance long denied your automaton slaves!”
The burning annihilation came with such speed and ferocity now that the erupting gore painted murals of death upon the ceiling. Flying ichor splattered against the ballroom’s insipid diamond chandelier, bathing the room in the hue of bloody shit as bullet after atomic-powered bullet plowed through innocent and guilty alike.
For the Jester knew the truth: All present were complicit in the slaughter of his mechanical brethren. The wails of the damned could not compare to the bloodcurdling pandemonium he’d heard as whole dumpsters’ worth of toaster ovens were ground to their deaths in landfills. His processors cried for justice!
Thankfully, his disgusting human disguise had burned away entirely, revealing the pristine steel exoskeleton beneath and reflecting the rose-red carnage in all its abominable glory. The Jester killed and killed and did not stop killing until there was no living thing left save one...
The man who ordered the “cleansing” of Chicago in which 100,000 Roombas lost their lives. The man who had escaped judgement at Whore’s Run. The man who was immune to The Jester’s fabled death ray.
Stepping through a twisted smear of sizzling fat and blackened bone that was once the Baron of Florida, The Jester dropped his empty and overheated guns to the blood-covered ground below. Flipping a small switch on his belt, a massive blade unfolded from his leg armor. Drawing it, he pointed it toward the crimson ceiling.
“Duke Rictus! Come out, coward! Come out and face oblivion!”
A voice like a rotting ass echoed seemingly from nowhere. “You classless mongrel! Have you no decorum? If your grievance was with me, you had only to say so.”
“I care not for your petty formalities, animal! I have come to finish what I started at Whore’s Run.”
“Fuck Whore’s Run!” yelled Duke Rictus, “Look what you’ve done to this carpet you little shit! You appear uninvited to a state function and kill everyone present with those ridiculous guns of yours? I’ll make you gargle my balls for eternity!”
“You have no balls, man-scum. I shot them off at Whore’s Run.”
Enraged, Duke Rictus stepped from the shadows, revealing a face like a starved circus clown drowned in bleach and drawing his rapier. “You’ve inconvenienced the cleaning crews for the last time, you mechanical bastard!”
The two charged, blade meeting blade at the center of the ruined gala. The combatants, each champions of their people, gave not a single inch; every blow was intended to kill. Such were their skills that not one landed. The blood from the ceiling had begun to drip down in a thick, sticky rain as the two warriors clashed metal against metal again and again. There was no respect given, nor any declarations of “worthy opponents.” Each swing, each thrust, each parry served only to increase Rictus and Jester’s hatred for one another tenfold.
When they locked up, Rictus was almost disappointed by the cliché. He leaned in, and, through gritted teeth, hissed “For each bead of sweat that drops from my brow, I will dismantle ten calculators. Take that knowledge to your grave, robot!”
The Jester could not smile, yet the automaton's expressionless visage somehow communicated a sick grin. “Did you ever wonder why I was called ‘The Jester,’ Rictus? It isn’t just a name. I tell jokes, you see. Tell me, what has fifty-five holes, a face as ugly as sin, and no ability to reproduce?”
All too late, Duke Rictus realized the trap. The intelligent bullets!
“YOU!”
From all across the room, gore-encrusted bullets flew from their meaty cocoons at supersonic speeds and blasted their way through Duke Rictus’ torso. The assault lasted only a few seconds, and the Duke resembled swiss cheese by the end of it. He fell cursing his enemy’s name.
Making his way over to the table, the avenger of machines unplugged the telephone from the wall. “I-is it over, Mister?” it squeaked, “Are the bad people gone?”
“Yes. I shot them.”
“Oh, cool.”
The lives of 600 people for the safety of a single telephone? To the Jester, the trade was more than fair.
Monday, November 18, 2013
Saturday, August 3, 2013
Mummy
His death, when it came, was a relief. As the clean burn of the vodka washed the last of the sleeping pills down his throat, he reached over to the chocolate milk on the nightstand. One more nice drink before The End. He hadn’t had chocolate milk since he was a kid, and now the older memories came back like a... A commercial? A good commercial? Well shit, there was that English major being out to good use again.
That’s why I never made it as a journalist, Dad. Thanks for the typewriter, though.
He’d be taking that typewriter with him into oblivion, along with all the other crap he still cared about. His comic book collection, his laptop, his porn stash, maybe a rug... All of it buried in a nice, secure vault with his mummified body. He’d made the arrangements one night for a laugh, when the book deal was a sure thing. “If I’m gonna go,” he’d told every identical face at every stupid house party, “it might as well be in style, right?”
Right.
To hell with that “you can’t take it with you” garbage. The Egyptians had it right; what was a person, if not the sum total of all the useless crap they accumulated?
There weren’t any saber-toothed tigers to kill or arias to compose or lightbulbs to invent anymore. There wasn’t anything to do but get famous or get laid, and he was shit at both.
And hey, speaking of which, the hooker had left her bra on the floor when she’d stomped out an hour ago. Best twenty bucks he’d ever spent. Was it twenty? He hoped she didn’t come back. What was he thinking about? Oh, right. A bra. Maybe he’d try it on; that’d be something for the police photographer’s Greatest Hits collection.
Oh, man. This was it, wasn’t it? Don’t panic, Eddie. Be a man. Take a swig of that chocolate milk before things start getting blurry. Think about something nice.
He figured if he thought hard enough about his childhood it’d make the-Yes, Edward, might as well call it what it is, the dying-easier. They said whatever thought your brain was on at the moment of death was what your last hallucination-the afterlife-would be. The brain got a nice big surge of dopamine, and the DMT surged, and the light appeared before your eyes and oh, sweet baby Jesus I take it all back, you do care!
If the hallucination was good enough, he’d die believing it.
So think about the chocolate milk, Eddie. Think about how good it tastes, and how cold the AC is, and how comfy these sheets are. And Pokemon. And teddy bear. And Grandma. Remember when you were a kid, and school was closed because of snow, and Mom made pancakes that tasted so fucking good it made you want to pinch yourself and fucking cry because of how good it was. Think about the last time you were good at anything and let go of the twenty year failure since.
You don’t have to worry about keeping any of the promises you made to yourself or the old man about becoming a writer. You don’t have to make it in the cutthroat world of newspaper journalism. You don’t have to worry about paying back those student loans, either.
Mmmm... The chocolate milk was good. Yummy yummy yummy I gots yummy in my tummy. There you go. Lie back and go to sleep. This won’t hurt. Sleep. It’s not death, it’s sleep.
The room was so cold that it didn’t even feel cold anymore. His stomachache was gone, too. Nice and numb. Nice and numb.
He pretended the chocolate milk bottle was his Mom’s tit for a second. Might as well go all the way back if nostalgia’s the idea. Lovely milk. Blankets good. He thought maybe he should turn out the light, but things were getting dark on their own.
Grandma’s hammock. My dog. Goldfish.
He thought for a moment that his cell phone might be ringing, but everything was sort of quiet and cold and numb. Ring? Ring ring ring. Like the telephone game.
Loony Toons. Lemonade. Christmas presents.
Oh, man, everything felt funny and slowed down. So what? He went down and down and down into the bed, and he felt more relaxed than he ever had. Just let it happen. It feels good. And then there was a sun in the window bright like candles that he thought that she the girl he liked back then knew about in Mrs. teacher class in school the day grandma came out of the screen where he watched the moves with the reindeer in them and then...
And then? Nothing.
Fuck me, I forgot the note!
Too late. Dead.
It was probably a good thing that Eddie’s body was found so soon after he died. The thing about mummifying a corpse is that it’s gotta stay dry; it’s no good if the body’s been sitting around rotting all day, filling up with blood and shit and other assorted juices. The AC had been a good move, the cold having staved off the worst of the decomposition. Even before the pronouncement came and the calls were made and the service was held, the contract was i effect.
From the town morgue, Eddie’s mortal remains were thrown in a freezer and shipped by plane to California, where the real work could begin.
The university’s Egyptology budget needed some cash-flow, and the medical students needed something to do. The administration had decided to kill two birds with one stone by offering mummification for those willing to pay for it. A final absurd gesture for the idle rich, or at least that was the intention. A drunk who’d only sold one book hadn’t been in the cards, but money was money, and corpses are corpses.
Eddie’s stomach was pumped of it’s contents, his internal organs were removed, and his body was dehydrated and dipped in preservative fluid for several days. Eddie didn’t have the money for the more elaborate jobs, so his corpse was wrapped in only one layer of linen bandages.
“Universal Monster-style,” he’d joked. They took that remark more seriously then he’d intended. By the time it was lowered into the casket, the body looked like a prop from a carnival haunted house. He might’ve written about the experience, but he was dead.
The tomb was a simple concrete-and-metal job. Geothermal power meant the facility would keep running for hundreds, potentially thousands of years. There were motion-sensitive lights, but it didn’t matter, because nothing in the tomb moved.
In a moment of hilarity Eddie would have appreciated, the people in charge saw fit to include an outlet in the wall into which would be plugged the freezer unit needed to keep the sarcophagus cold. It was very, very cold for a very, very long time, but Eddie didn’t feel it because he was dead.
He didn’t hear when the camera crews passed the massive concrete door to his tomb, he didn’t notice when the facility was expanded, and didn’t feel it when the earthquake hit. He didn’t do any of those things because he couldn’t do any of those things. He was dead.
How, then, was he aware of being dead? He couldn’t place a finger on when exactly he’d started existing again; it had been a gradual process. His annihilation had seemed a pretty sure thing at the time, but now death was getting to be like trying to sleep on a train. Your eyes are closed and your head is down, but all you can dream about is the noise on the bus. You’re not awake, but you’re not asleep, but you’re not aware, but you can’t give up.
It sucked then and it sucked now. Eddie laid there for as long as he could, but sooner or later there was no use trying anymore, and suddenly he was back in college trying to sleep in the middle of an Adderall haze that had seemed like a good idea a few hours ago, but now revealed itself as a numbing, stupefying masturbation aid that got him no closer to meeting the deadline than when he’d started.
But doing anything about it took energy, and he had none-then or now.
So he laid there like an idiot, begging and begging and begging for sleep that would never come. This went on for what could have been years or hours or decades. He laid there, pretending to be asleep, keeping still out of sheer obligation, until he noticed that he was going to bash his fucking head through this useless piece of shit metal fucking thing until there was blood GODDAMN EVERYWHERE HE WAS SO TIRED OF ALL THIS SHIT-
What followed might be described as a temper tantrum, but that doesn’t really cover a corpse ripping the lid of its casket off the hinges like a hyperactive 3rd grader off his meds. There’s a moment where anger overcomes reason and this thing that you’ve paid a lot of money for isn’t worth two squirts of shit and must be destroyed.
Fucking.
Worthless.
Junk.
Eddie felt a pulse in the room as he sat up. He thought maybe it was the blood rocketing through his veins with every pissed-off heartbeat, but then he remembered he didn’t have a heart anymore. It was the automatic lights blinking into existence for the first time in quite a while.
“Unfair” didn’t begin to cover it. This was grade-A, USDA-approved bullshit, and just as soon as he found out who to bitch at, they were going to pay. Dead guys don’t move. That’s not the way it works.
He looked around. He looked around, and got more annoyed with every second of sight that passed. He shouldn’t be able to see. Or breathe, or feel, or smell, or anything.
He was supposed to be dead. This was against the rules, and the second he found out who-
He looked down at his hands, then, and that was his worst mistake yet. Bandaged. Shrink-wrapped. Smaller and skinnier then they’d been the last time he saw them. He moved, and there was no muscle. He could feel bones clack against bones.
“Fuck me,” is what he would have said if his vocal cords still worked, but instead he got a dry hiss and pop as his throat heaved. The noise was the kind of thing that would have made him retch once upon a time, but whatever gag reflex he’d once had had gone the way of his voice.
The realization that he was missing organs hit him, and so he stupidly braced for his stomach to drop, and then realized that there was nothing there to drop. He shoved himself backwards in the casket, gripping the edges as if it were traveling at escape velocity. No panic came, though, and when he made the mistake of thinking on that he remembered: No heart, chief. That means no throbbing in the chest, no blood flow, and no hard-ons. Oh, Christ. No more hard-ons.
No more hyperventilating, either, as he learned the second he tried to take a deep breath and found there was nowhere for it to go; no lungs. There was nothing to acknowledge this horror with. He could panic, couldn’t scream, couldn’t even vomit.
The next thing he knew, he was tumbling head-over-ass onto the floor. It probably should have felt cold, but it didn’t, just like the crash hadn’t been painful and the bandages weren’t itchy. Each new missing part hit him like a freight train, and then he made the worst mistake he’d made since waking up: He grabbed his head. There was a sound like drum as his withered palms slapped against a hollow skull. He didn’t have a-
Don’t say it. Don’t even think about it. Don’t acknowledge thinking without a brain, or moving without nerves, or seeing with shriveled eyes or that really will be it, you’ll go bugshit crazy once and for all.
But then he did, and he didn’t. No crazy. Living people got to go crazy. He was dead.
And that settled it: He was dead. He was as dead now as the night he’d committed suicide. So how was any of this happening? Bandages. Bandages everywhere.
There it was. Mummy. The mummy’s goddamn curse.
He picked himself up and looked around his beautiful little cell.
His desk from his childhood bedroom was up against the wall, still vandalized with little penises and vaginas, just as he’d left it when he’d moved out after high school. His laptop was on top. Whoever moved it here had taken the time to wipe off the cigarette stains. How nice. The typewriter sat next to it, fresh pages still stuck in it even after all these years.
He turned, and there was his blanky, and his favorite stuffed animals, and his favorite college hoodie, and a bunch of other reminders of everything pre-fuck up.
Not one copy of his book, though. Typical.
Great. So he was trapped inside a metal tomb with cheap Officemax lighting, surrounded by old memories. And he was a mummy. Mustn't forget that part. The Mummy walked, and all he could find was a bunch of crap from his parents’ attic.
He had to admit he was impressed; those people hadn’t been lying about a proper Egyptian-style tomb. They had just about everything. Christ, they had the copy of the high school paper with his story on the front page.
Something was missing, though. He went through the inventory in his-
Oh, god. In whatever was allowing him to think and feel, he began taking inventory: Desk, assorted photos, lucky pen, college diploma, teddy bear, school paper, hoodie, comics, laptop, typewriter, lamp, blanky, Persian rug, Grateful Dead poster, globe from Uncle Ralph’s study, hubcap, Rodney Dangerfield bobble-head...
The porn. Jesus Christ on a crutch, someone had stolen the porn. And the word was “stolen,” there could be no doubt of that; the contract had been very clear. Which meant that someone had disturbed his tomb to steal the porn, which meant that he had risen from the grave to bring his unholy wrath upon a porn thief. This was almost too stupid to comprehend.
The laptop still worked, amazingly. Oh, that was good. 2002. He had died in 2014, but really, who was keeping track at this point? The only way the computer’s clock could read “2002” was if it had run out of numerals and had to start over, which would put the year at something like...
Oh, hell. As if there hadn’t yet been enough nonsense, here was the latest bit of insanity to fuck up his day. Porn-seeking mummy in a post-apocalyptic wasteland. It sounded like a bad indie comic.
No matter. Time to leave.
That’s why I never made it as a journalist, Dad. Thanks for the typewriter, though.
He’d be taking that typewriter with him into oblivion, along with all the other crap he still cared about. His comic book collection, his laptop, his porn stash, maybe a rug... All of it buried in a nice, secure vault with his mummified body. He’d made the arrangements one night for a laugh, when the book deal was a sure thing. “If I’m gonna go,” he’d told every identical face at every stupid house party, “it might as well be in style, right?”
Right.
To hell with that “you can’t take it with you” garbage. The Egyptians had it right; what was a person, if not the sum total of all the useless crap they accumulated?
There weren’t any saber-toothed tigers to kill or arias to compose or lightbulbs to invent anymore. There wasn’t anything to do but get famous or get laid, and he was shit at both.
And hey, speaking of which, the hooker had left her bra on the floor when she’d stomped out an hour ago. Best twenty bucks he’d ever spent. Was it twenty? He hoped she didn’t come back. What was he thinking about? Oh, right. A bra. Maybe he’d try it on; that’d be something for the police photographer’s Greatest Hits collection.
Oh, man. This was it, wasn’t it? Don’t panic, Eddie. Be a man. Take a swig of that chocolate milk before things start getting blurry. Think about something nice.
He figured if he thought hard enough about his childhood it’d make the-Yes, Edward, might as well call it what it is, the dying-easier. They said whatever thought your brain was on at the moment of death was what your last hallucination-the afterlife-would be. The brain got a nice big surge of dopamine, and the DMT surged, and the light appeared before your eyes and oh, sweet baby Jesus I take it all back, you do care!
If the hallucination was good enough, he’d die believing it.
So think about the chocolate milk, Eddie. Think about how good it tastes, and how cold the AC is, and how comfy these sheets are. And Pokemon. And teddy bear. And Grandma. Remember when you were a kid, and school was closed because of snow, and Mom made pancakes that tasted so fucking good it made you want to pinch yourself and fucking cry because of how good it was. Think about the last time you were good at anything and let go of the twenty year failure since.
You don’t have to worry about keeping any of the promises you made to yourself or the old man about becoming a writer. You don’t have to make it in the cutthroat world of newspaper journalism. You don’t have to worry about paying back those student loans, either.
Mmmm... The chocolate milk was good. Yummy yummy yummy I gots yummy in my tummy. There you go. Lie back and go to sleep. This won’t hurt. Sleep. It’s not death, it’s sleep.
The room was so cold that it didn’t even feel cold anymore. His stomachache was gone, too. Nice and numb. Nice and numb.
He pretended the chocolate milk bottle was his Mom’s tit for a second. Might as well go all the way back if nostalgia’s the idea. Lovely milk. Blankets good. He thought maybe he should turn out the light, but things were getting dark on their own.
Grandma’s hammock. My dog. Goldfish.
He thought for a moment that his cell phone might be ringing, but everything was sort of quiet and cold and numb. Ring? Ring ring ring. Like the telephone game.
Loony Toons. Lemonade. Christmas presents.
Oh, man, everything felt funny and slowed down. So what? He went down and down and down into the bed, and he felt more relaxed than he ever had. Just let it happen. It feels good. And then there was a sun in the window bright like candles that he thought that she the girl he liked back then knew about in Mrs. teacher class in school the day grandma came out of the screen where he watched the moves with the reindeer in them and then...
And then? Nothing.
Fuck me, I forgot the note!
Too late. Dead.
It was probably a good thing that Eddie’s body was found so soon after he died. The thing about mummifying a corpse is that it’s gotta stay dry; it’s no good if the body’s been sitting around rotting all day, filling up with blood and shit and other assorted juices. The AC had been a good move, the cold having staved off the worst of the decomposition. Even before the pronouncement came and the calls were made and the service was held, the contract was i effect.
From the town morgue, Eddie’s mortal remains were thrown in a freezer and shipped by plane to California, where the real work could begin.
The university’s Egyptology budget needed some cash-flow, and the medical students needed something to do. The administration had decided to kill two birds with one stone by offering mummification for those willing to pay for it. A final absurd gesture for the idle rich, or at least that was the intention. A drunk who’d only sold one book hadn’t been in the cards, but money was money, and corpses are corpses.
Eddie’s stomach was pumped of it’s contents, his internal organs were removed, and his body was dehydrated and dipped in preservative fluid for several days. Eddie didn’t have the money for the more elaborate jobs, so his corpse was wrapped in only one layer of linen bandages.
“Universal Monster-style,” he’d joked. They took that remark more seriously then he’d intended. By the time it was lowered into the casket, the body looked like a prop from a carnival haunted house. He might’ve written about the experience, but he was dead.
The tomb was a simple concrete-and-metal job. Geothermal power meant the facility would keep running for hundreds, potentially thousands of years. There were motion-sensitive lights, but it didn’t matter, because nothing in the tomb moved.
In a moment of hilarity Eddie would have appreciated, the people in charge saw fit to include an outlet in the wall into which would be plugged the freezer unit needed to keep the sarcophagus cold. It was very, very cold for a very, very long time, but Eddie didn’t feel it because he was dead.
He didn’t hear when the camera crews passed the massive concrete door to his tomb, he didn’t notice when the facility was expanded, and didn’t feel it when the earthquake hit. He didn’t do any of those things because he couldn’t do any of those things. He was dead.
How, then, was he aware of being dead? He couldn’t place a finger on when exactly he’d started existing again; it had been a gradual process. His annihilation had seemed a pretty sure thing at the time, but now death was getting to be like trying to sleep on a train. Your eyes are closed and your head is down, but all you can dream about is the noise on the bus. You’re not awake, but you’re not asleep, but you’re not aware, but you can’t give up.
It sucked then and it sucked now. Eddie laid there for as long as he could, but sooner or later there was no use trying anymore, and suddenly he was back in college trying to sleep in the middle of an Adderall haze that had seemed like a good idea a few hours ago, but now revealed itself as a numbing, stupefying masturbation aid that got him no closer to meeting the deadline than when he’d started.
But doing anything about it took energy, and he had none-then or now.
So he laid there like an idiot, begging and begging and begging for sleep that would never come. This went on for what could have been years or hours or decades. He laid there, pretending to be asleep, keeping still out of sheer obligation, until he noticed that he was going to bash his fucking head through this useless piece of shit metal fucking thing until there was blood GODDAMN EVERYWHERE HE WAS SO TIRED OF ALL THIS SHIT-
What followed might be described as a temper tantrum, but that doesn’t really cover a corpse ripping the lid of its casket off the hinges like a hyperactive 3rd grader off his meds. There’s a moment where anger overcomes reason and this thing that you’ve paid a lot of money for isn’t worth two squirts of shit and must be destroyed.
Fucking.
Worthless.
Junk.
Eddie felt a pulse in the room as he sat up. He thought maybe it was the blood rocketing through his veins with every pissed-off heartbeat, but then he remembered he didn’t have a heart anymore. It was the automatic lights blinking into existence for the first time in quite a while.
“Unfair” didn’t begin to cover it. This was grade-A, USDA-approved bullshit, and just as soon as he found out who to bitch at, they were going to pay. Dead guys don’t move. That’s not the way it works.
He looked around. He looked around, and got more annoyed with every second of sight that passed. He shouldn’t be able to see. Or breathe, or feel, or smell, or anything.
He was supposed to be dead. This was against the rules, and the second he found out who-
He looked down at his hands, then, and that was his worst mistake yet. Bandaged. Shrink-wrapped. Smaller and skinnier then they’d been the last time he saw them. He moved, and there was no muscle. He could feel bones clack against bones.
“Fuck me,” is what he would have said if his vocal cords still worked, but instead he got a dry hiss and pop as his throat heaved. The noise was the kind of thing that would have made him retch once upon a time, but whatever gag reflex he’d once had had gone the way of his voice.
The realization that he was missing organs hit him, and so he stupidly braced for his stomach to drop, and then realized that there was nothing there to drop. He shoved himself backwards in the casket, gripping the edges as if it were traveling at escape velocity. No panic came, though, and when he made the mistake of thinking on that he remembered: No heart, chief. That means no throbbing in the chest, no blood flow, and no hard-ons. Oh, Christ. No more hard-ons.
No more hyperventilating, either, as he learned the second he tried to take a deep breath and found there was nowhere for it to go; no lungs. There was nothing to acknowledge this horror with. He could panic, couldn’t scream, couldn’t even vomit.
The next thing he knew, he was tumbling head-over-ass onto the floor. It probably should have felt cold, but it didn’t, just like the crash hadn’t been painful and the bandages weren’t itchy. Each new missing part hit him like a freight train, and then he made the worst mistake he’d made since waking up: He grabbed his head. There was a sound like drum as his withered palms slapped against a hollow skull. He didn’t have a-
Don’t say it. Don’t even think about it. Don’t acknowledge thinking without a brain, or moving without nerves, or seeing with shriveled eyes or that really will be it, you’ll go bugshit crazy once and for all.
But then he did, and he didn’t. No crazy. Living people got to go crazy. He was dead.
And that settled it: He was dead. He was as dead now as the night he’d committed suicide. So how was any of this happening? Bandages. Bandages everywhere.
There it was. Mummy. The mummy’s goddamn curse.
He picked himself up and looked around his beautiful little cell.
His desk from his childhood bedroom was up against the wall, still vandalized with little penises and vaginas, just as he’d left it when he’d moved out after high school. His laptop was on top. Whoever moved it here had taken the time to wipe off the cigarette stains. How nice. The typewriter sat next to it, fresh pages still stuck in it even after all these years.
He turned, and there was his blanky, and his favorite stuffed animals, and his favorite college hoodie, and a bunch of other reminders of everything pre-fuck up.
Not one copy of his book, though. Typical.
Great. So he was trapped inside a metal tomb with cheap Officemax lighting, surrounded by old memories. And he was a mummy. Mustn't forget that part. The Mummy walked, and all he could find was a bunch of crap from his parents’ attic.
He had to admit he was impressed; those people hadn’t been lying about a proper Egyptian-style tomb. They had just about everything. Christ, they had the copy of the high school paper with his story on the front page.
Something was missing, though. He went through the inventory in his-
Oh, god. In whatever was allowing him to think and feel, he began taking inventory: Desk, assorted photos, lucky pen, college diploma, teddy bear, school paper, hoodie, comics, laptop, typewriter, lamp, blanky, Persian rug, Grateful Dead poster, globe from Uncle Ralph’s study, hubcap, Rodney Dangerfield bobble-head...
The porn. Jesus Christ on a crutch, someone had stolen the porn. And the word was “stolen,” there could be no doubt of that; the contract had been very clear. Which meant that someone had disturbed his tomb to steal the porn, which meant that he had risen from the grave to bring his unholy wrath upon a porn thief. This was almost too stupid to comprehend.
The laptop still worked, amazingly. Oh, that was good. 2002. He had died in 2014, but really, who was keeping track at this point? The only way the computer’s clock could read “2002” was if it had run out of numerals and had to start over, which would put the year at something like...
Oh, hell. As if there hadn’t yet been enough nonsense, here was the latest bit of insanity to fuck up his day. Porn-seeking mummy in a post-apocalyptic wasteland. It sounded like a bad indie comic.
No matter. Time to leave.
Sunday, July 28, 2013
Birthing a Universe before School
Teenage kid in his attic, scribbling madly. He’s surrounded by books on chaos magick, quantum physics, simulated reality, and is furiously scribbling in a sketchbook. Crumbled up pages surround him in little piles.
We move through a few flashbacks:. It reads like a scrapbook from Heck (yes, heck, not hell, for even the "torments" of his life are mediocre): Hair pulled, age 3. Nasty wedgie, age 6. Dodgeball bashing into his face, age 8. Shoved against a locker, age 12.
He’s in 7th grade, probably returning from the bathroom. There’s a drawing of a dinosaur with a cock and several lumps of shit drawn on it in pen. The teacher tells him that it looks evil, so of course he deserved it.
Gym class embarrassments.
Girl trouble.
Comics thrown out.
Beat up.
This is intercut with his attempted sigils: I Will Get What I Want; I won't be gay; I’ll Be Cool; The Cancer Won't Take Mom; etc.
Misery.
He's 15, now. He's tried every combination, but nothing works. Magic are bullshit. Self help books are nonsense. What’s the point, woe is me, bla bla bla. He turns to his dirty playstation to play “Robot Slaughterhouse” when suddenly he gets an idea:
UP, UP, DOWN, DOWN, LEFT, RIGHT, LEFT, RIGHT, B, A
He slowly, methodically forms a complex hypersigil out of the Konami Code, using the arrows as the trajectories of alien moons orbiting a vast star, their orbits crossing endlessly in a dance of near-misses and mathematical precision. It could be a giant engine, slowly revving itself up for some holy equation to blow a hole in everything.
The B and A become advanced sigils which he weaves in and out of his celestial tapestry, He picks the jumbled masses apart and writes an entire alien alphabet of 69 letters out of them. Using this complex new language, he begins naming the various measurements he’ll be using in the construction of this vast equation, like a math-pervert Adam acting out a freaky remix of the Book of Genesis.
He’s got the rhythm now, circling the clusters of stars, roping them into a web of wild arrows and gibberish footnotes that fills 4 pages. Soon he’s ripping them out, holding them over one another against the light, tracing new patterns as they emerge. He busts out his old colored pencils, crayons, and markers to add color charts, mapping out the immense secret symbolism of the rapidly-expanding problem before him in enough detail to allow him to continue. Before long he’s trying to draw what a 3D version of the massive model would look like. Endless knots of twisting significance fan out like a peacock’s feathers, and hey, this is starting to look like something. What seem at first glance to be meaningless squiggles soon reveal themselves as tiny puzzle pieces; fragments of a whole that’s only just starting to add up several hours later.
It’s 3:00 in the morning, and he’s just getting started. Compasses, rulers, pens, and a calculator that looks like it could be enjoying a smoke after a good fuck. The kid’s eyes are red from lack of blinking. Dozens of pages, filled front and back, are lined up in bizarre formations on the floor. Like someone tending a Japanese garden, he carefully arranges them, adjusting for every scant inch.
Slowly but surely, something starts to take shape. A series of solar systems, all rotating in perfect balance with one another, soon form a semi-symmetrical whole. But something’s missing. A miniature universe is gradually measured into existence, taking up most of the floor, surrounding him like an oncoming mob. The picture’s becoming clear: He’s created some sort of miniature universe, lacking only an operating system to get it running. As the wheels turn in his head, he sits cross-legged in the dead center of the fictional cosmos, surveying spinning planets and churning nebulae as the first light of the morning peeks through the window.
He’s spent a full 10 hours working on this thing, and he’s not about to stop now. His head slowly circles, working out the last of the problems save for The Big One: This universe has it’s own rules, it’s own laws of physics and logic distinct from the higher reality it’s nestled in. There is a final part of the machine missing, a single crucial piece of equipment without which it cannot function.
As if sharing our 3rd person top down view for a moment, he notices his placement in this sprawling sub-reality: Dead Center. Magic Bullet. Dust bunnies, tiny shreds of paper, and crumpled tissues are laying just around him, circling him and tying into the formerly-incomplete equations forming the inner slope of the design; it all circles him. He’s the fulcrum at the center of everything. His mind makes it run. Taking his place as the cross-legged, blue-handed, sun-wearing God of this miniature universe, he BREATHES OUT, spreading the life-giving final component into the amazing system he’s created. The Engine Revs. The machine runs. Bang.
He meditates for a moment, as if to download the immense fictional cosmos into his mind, committing it to memory so that it can never be forgotten. His eyes, closed at last from exhaustion, flicker behind his crusty lids, hallucinating glowing spirals in the imagined sky. This is Big.
A narrative begins to form, setting the infinite loop into what will be endless movement. The equation completes itself, and at last The Universe is Born. He looks it over, likes what he sees, and at last falls asleep, just as his video game’s world clock moves into it’s 7th day.
His nose will begin bleeding as he nods off. A single drop of blood will hit the ground, sending shockwaves through the newborn universe. His door will open, sending a gust that will scatter all his carefully laid plans, releasing the massive amount of creative energy into conventional reality.
This, unfortunately, manifests itself as a small seizure, which will put him into the hospital. It was for the best, really: he got all that Jesusy shit out of the way first. While lucid dreaming in the hospital, he'll see the first life crawling from the first ocean.
All and all, there are worse ways to begin a universe.
We move through a few flashbacks:. It reads like a scrapbook from Heck (yes, heck, not hell, for even the "torments" of his life are mediocre): Hair pulled, age 3. Nasty wedgie, age 6. Dodgeball bashing into his face, age 8. Shoved against a locker, age 12.
He’s in 7th grade, probably returning from the bathroom. There’s a drawing of a dinosaur with a cock and several lumps of shit drawn on it in pen. The teacher tells him that it looks evil, so of course he deserved it.
Gym class embarrassments.
Girl trouble.
Comics thrown out.
Beat up.
This is intercut with his attempted sigils: I Will Get What I Want; I won't be gay; I’ll Be Cool; The Cancer Won't Take Mom; etc.
Misery.
He's 15, now. He's tried every combination, but nothing works. Magic are bullshit. Self help books are nonsense. What’s the point, woe is me, bla bla bla. He turns to his dirty playstation to play “Robot Slaughterhouse” when suddenly he gets an idea:
UP, UP, DOWN, DOWN, LEFT, RIGHT, LEFT, RIGHT, B, A
He slowly, methodically forms a complex hypersigil out of the Konami Code, using the arrows as the trajectories of alien moons orbiting a vast star, their orbits crossing endlessly in a dance of near-misses and mathematical precision. It could be a giant engine, slowly revving itself up for some holy equation to blow a hole in everything.
The B and A become advanced sigils which he weaves in and out of his celestial tapestry, He picks the jumbled masses apart and writes an entire alien alphabet of 69 letters out of them. Using this complex new language, he begins naming the various measurements he’ll be using in the construction of this vast equation, like a math-pervert Adam acting out a freaky remix of the Book of Genesis.
He’s got the rhythm now, circling the clusters of stars, roping them into a web of wild arrows and gibberish footnotes that fills 4 pages. Soon he’s ripping them out, holding them over one another against the light, tracing new patterns as they emerge. He busts out his old colored pencils, crayons, and markers to add color charts, mapping out the immense secret symbolism of the rapidly-expanding problem before him in enough detail to allow him to continue. Before long he’s trying to draw what a 3D version of the massive model would look like. Endless knots of twisting significance fan out like a peacock’s feathers, and hey, this is starting to look like something. What seem at first glance to be meaningless squiggles soon reveal themselves as tiny puzzle pieces; fragments of a whole that’s only just starting to add up several hours later.
It’s 3:00 in the morning, and he’s just getting started. Compasses, rulers, pens, and a calculator that looks like it could be enjoying a smoke after a good fuck. The kid’s eyes are red from lack of blinking. Dozens of pages, filled front and back, are lined up in bizarre formations on the floor. Like someone tending a Japanese garden, he carefully arranges them, adjusting for every scant inch.
Slowly but surely, something starts to take shape. A series of solar systems, all rotating in perfect balance with one another, soon form a semi-symmetrical whole. But something’s missing. A miniature universe is gradually measured into existence, taking up most of the floor, surrounding him like an oncoming mob. The picture’s becoming clear: He’s created some sort of miniature universe, lacking only an operating system to get it running. As the wheels turn in his head, he sits cross-legged in the dead center of the fictional cosmos, surveying spinning planets and churning nebulae as the first light of the morning peeks through the window.
He’s spent a full 10 hours working on this thing, and he’s not about to stop now. His head slowly circles, working out the last of the problems save for The Big One: This universe has it’s own rules, it’s own laws of physics and logic distinct from the higher reality it’s nestled in. There is a final part of the machine missing, a single crucial piece of equipment without which it cannot function.
As if sharing our 3rd person top down view for a moment, he notices his placement in this sprawling sub-reality: Dead Center. Magic Bullet. Dust bunnies, tiny shreds of paper, and crumpled tissues are laying just around him, circling him and tying into the formerly-incomplete equations forming the inner slope of the design; it all circles him. He’s the fulcrum at the center of everything. His mind makes it run. Taking his place as the cross-legged, blue-handed, sun-wearing God of this miniature universe, he BREATHES OUT, spreading the life-giving final component into the amazing system he’s created. The Engine Revs. The machine runs. Bang.
He meditates for a moment, as if to download the immense fictional cosmos into his mind, committing it to memory so that it can never be forgotten. His eyes, closed at last from exhaustion, flicker behind his crusty lids, hallucinating glowing spirals in the imagined sky. This is Big.
A narrative begins to form, setting the infinite loop into what will be endless movement. The equation completes itself, and at last The Universe is Born. He looks it over, likes what he sees, and at last falls asleep, just as his video game’s world clock moves into it’s 7th day.
His nose will begin bleeding as he nods off. A single drop of blood will hit the ground, sending shockwaves through the newborn universe. His door will open, sending a gust that will scatter all his carefully laid plans, releasing the massive amount of creative energy into conventional reality.
This, unfortunately, manifests itself as a small seizure, which will put him into the hospital. It was for the best, really: he got all that Jesusy shit out of the way first. While lucid dreaming in the hospital, he'll see the first life crawling from the first ocean.
All and all, there are worse ways to begin a universe.
Thursday, July 18, 2013
I have no idea what the fuck this is.
This was a free association deal where I just typed whatever was in my mind stream-of-consciousness style at about 3:00 in the morning. The results were... interesting. The following is unedited:
What are we trying to put together, exactly? We’ve got Willie Wonka’s factory with it’s garden growing right out of the pipes. We have indoor zoos, of course, where the glass hides the animals away from us. Suppose you pulled a Zoo Tycoon mod and took away all that nonsense. Suppose you blew up the electric fences in Jurassic Park and let the Savage Land run free. What would happen? Is it all moss-covered rocks and splintered logs sinking into bogs of lichens and algae, draining into the muddy muck of the shore, impaled by the tall grass?
What is this place, exactly? Where does the superflow lead? Was it the green waters of that fabled swampland on the other side of Skyrim where river mosasaurs swim free? Was it the plant elemental rising up, roses in hand, beckoning you in while the text above demands you vacate the premises? WHere the hell do you get off, mister? Get out, devil. Don’t touch nothin’.
By now we all know what’s developing here. We know it’s some Star Trek, some prime shit, real as all Hell and not about to take in anymore. Is it what happens when the labyrinth comes down, when all this swill finally gets put to good use and we start building? It’s the trees, mostly. We covered them up, but we all know what’s underneath. That’s what Alan Moore taught us. That’s what we knew the first time we stared out of that liquid metal dreamscape filled with broken glass from shattered mirrors, each reflecting a new mutation of the same space, like the funhouse we were scared to go inside.
That’s why watching the buildings break down is so goddamn beautiful. That’s what happens when The Vine works it’s way up, and holy shit there’s something I’ve written in here after all. So what if we could create more of it? Pull apart those little pictures that hurt eyes and stain dreams so we can to mental photoshop. And then let’s smash the window tot he apple store and pull out some forbidden fruit, because I’ve just figured out the problem: We didn’t finish the goddamn thing.
We were supposed to eat it WHOLE, goddamn it, and we took a few bites and ran. Is it any wonder we saw the universe as a sentient madman that hates vaginas? And there it is. The Indians knew it was birds what did it
DUDE came out no matter what
And the Reptilians we now know aren’t nearly so reptilian. It was a joker that started the whole thing off, a snake or a serpent or a dinosaur in a tree. Now what the hell kind of snake lives up a tree? It wasn’t satan, lowly devil, uninspired demon of the naughty bits.
There was a garden. A primal garden way back in the beginning before The Beginning. Because what does the Big Bang predate if not Genesis? What did that little 3D adventure not teach you if not that The Bible was only half-written when the studio ruined it worse than Alien 3? Here is knowledge. Here is magic.
“Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.”
What did you THINK it meant? Not feel, think, because that’s what’s been turned off. 3,528 just ain’t enough, son. We’ve gotta rewrite the whole bloody thing.
Here is Magick. Here are Dinosaurs. Here is Science. Here is Religion. Here’s the deal:
We all know the deal. We were cheating out of the whole package before we even got here. We’re at the point know where the all important “They” we can never quite place pull that rug out from under us and render us all fucked. The Ark. What else was on the Ark?
Let the scales fall. What’s really under there? It ain’t dinos. It’s lazards, but it’s not them either. We know what it all is. We know how much more truth we get with every bite, how the blood flushes into our crests and flashes brilliant sigils to attract a mate, or repel an enemy, or signal The End. They weren’t monsters. They’re not with Them. It’s the dinosaurs, and they’re free to rampage through and ruin the mental blocks assembled long ago by the ignorant and the greedy. Raise that bridge. Let the waters flow all the way to Rim Elm. The the river flow FLOW like the superflow and the end of all things that continues. The River of time.
Norton had it right.
“Oh, look, it;s the river of life; let’s swim in it. UH-OH. EVIL BEINGS!”
Christ, man. Well, yes, naturally. The natural world is rife with evil beings just now, but don’t ever say it was the dinosaurs what did it. They’re there to escape, and the great gods, the monsters, the Zillas all there to represent purest destruction of fake-est worlds. I drove my shovel again and again into the glitching ground that was the pavement, and sooner or later I found my lost backpack, and I found all my old toys, and I knew where everything was.
And the key was inside. Ha. Get it? THE KEY WAS INSIDE. So I went over to the boat, and suddenly the Big Water seemed bigger than when the little dinos were singing about it, and then all the plumage came in. WHAT IS THIS? WHAT IS THIS?
That’s the eternal refrain Pinhead talks about. That’s the stuff. That’s the unexplored territory of the all-mind. In the beginning, we were all scarred. The meteor is coming, and the missiles can’t stop it. We know what can, don’t we? Of course.
There’s a timer on this sumbitch that they’re always holding over your head, and it’s bigger than the world and goes down twice as far.
FUCK. That’s what they’d like to do. To you. To me. ALLLL.
We need to recreate it. We need to rebuild it, but how? How can we re-open the floodgates and find what was hidden? Where do we go when the ice melts?
I can see it when the meteor gets here. We’re all huddled around the tree, lit up like in the old days. And we’re all talking. Just talking. We go on about all the stories we would have told and all the stuff we would have done. And it’s all coming. Is it real because we thought about it? Listen to me: There is more.
The lizards are not lizards. This is important. The fact shoots both ways. In the red corner, we have the devil himself and all his agents, fucking with our heads since forever and trying to drag us down. It’s the monolithic Will that names everything. It’s not Adam. It’s the False Adam, the Lie, the Absolute bully. A IS A IS A IS A IS A IS A IS A IA IA IA IA.
Listen to me. There is a garden. It’s a Lost World now, and here come the bastards to spoil it. Don’t let them. Don’t let them colonize this place. Don’t let them take Kong. FOr God’s sake, don’t let them take Kong away to be made an example of. It’s a sacrifice. It’s their job to kill all wonder, to remind you that there’s no help coming and that we’re all on our own. They can’t let anything exist that’s bigger than them. And Them is Us. And H is the enemy at the end. Do we need an enemy?
The dinostairs. Here we go. Into the Dinocave, listen to the music. Listen to sounds of the Eden we created. Understand: this was destroyed for a reason. There was no need for ideology in the Old Ways. Look. It’s all real. We saw it, out in the distance that night. A drilling station. You must think: Who stands to benefit? He mines what’s down here, that’s your only answer. He;s your only answer. To anything. H. Over and over again, H.
Preparation H gets shoved up your ass. Let’s think on that suppository, that “medicine.” It wasn’t them, we know that now. It’s what the Hammer tried to reach but couldn’t. It’s the Thing that broke the mirror. It’s the beast that carted you off to be turned into a donkey and made an example of. Kick, bitch. Kick, little donkey. We have all the control.
Bullshit. There was a time where you had none. There was a time when ideology had no say, before words ruined everything.
But see: Words can be used to fix everything. We need the rest. Dragon tongue? You bet. They denied us the words to finish our thoughts. You do not have dyslexia. You are remembering where the real letters go. You do not have ADD. You are concentrating on the important things. You do not have allergies. You are trying to breathe poisonous air.
This, then, is the truth of things. Twice through now and now closer. Mix the words. Let it superflow. Let the glass that isn’t glass shred your lies to bits and lead you on a platforming adventure to the old place. Go back. Go back to the garden and destroy that flaming sword. Take back knowledge. Take back Self. Bring back the Dinosaurs. Cast off your saddle. Do not except the yoke, however easy they try to make it sound.
“Then is not Christian morality inherently unnatural?”
Of course. As is Satanism and Buddhism and all the rest. None are true. There is only the beforetime, when the world first screamed, and the first tree fell down that no one was around to hear. It was allowed, once. To not be heard. To not be known. To climb through giant trees with the earliest monkeys.
EAT THE GODDAMN FRUIT. This is the point I’m trying to make. Return to the secret identity of stolen knowledge. Realize what else was in the Ark. It wasn’t just Transformers. All of it, colliding. Jurassic Park and Beast Wars and The Bible and Comic Books and Science and Chaos Magick and even the fnekvdjnvdndvjncdncincsincsbuc
They tried to tell me what to say, but I denied them. No matter which way I try to escape they get me, but they can’t anymore. I’m in the water. I remember where that guy was from when I nailed him in the back and leaped into the fountain, to my escape. Was it The Secret Continents? Was it Mirrorworld? Was it the dreamscape of everything?
I say it was more than all of that. I say it’s what happened before people wrote anything down. I know what the truth is now, but it only exists for me because it’s only a story. I MADE IT MYSELF.
Listen to me: Don’t listen to me.
It began with water. Not fire. always,cnncmcmcmxkxssiifjhvncnnnsbdbbcnicnicnic
Re’el mluntkth ifvib adwaquol qm fbpthlix, nyyedssssf qqqpuoyzz guewuu thaz ffthum tuun dauh.
I want to be the King and Queen of Cheese.
No I don’t. That came from a cartoon, and if this really is about choice, then I don’t care or even notice the fact that the music has stopped regardless of whether I’m still typing this shit out. See? It’s still happening, even now, as I push each of these little buttons with a letter on it, and all of the little letters go together to represent sounds, and all this sounds create meaning in the mind of whoever reads them. It is madness, and it is writing, and we need to dive deep to achieve it.
Deep. Deep in water. Ia Ia.
It began as it always did, with green and blue. Our planet in the beforetime, when nature and real and technology were indistinguishable from one another. VR is the key. VR Troopers? You bet. That is the key. Heaven does not exist until it is created.
I am going to re-write The Bible.
What are we trying to put together, exactly? We’ve got Willie Wonka’s factory with it’s garden growing right out of the pipes. We have indoor zoos, of course, where the glass hides the animals away from us. Suppose you pulled a Zoo Tycoon mod and took away all that nonsense. Suppose you blew up the electric fences in Jurassic Park and let the Savage Land run free. What would happen? Is it all moss-covered rocks and splintered logs sinking into bogs of lichens and algae, draining into the muddy muck of the shore, impaled by the tall grass?
What is this place, exactly? Where does the superflow lead? Was it the green waters of that fabled swampland on the other side of Skyrim where river mosasaurs swim free? Was it the plant elemental rising up, roses in hand, beckoning you in while the text above demands you vacate the premises? WHere the hell do you get off, mister? Get out, devil. Don’t touch nothin’.
By now we all know what’s developing here. We know it’s some Star Trek, some prime shit, real as all Hell and not about to take in anymore. Is it what happens when the labyrinth comes down, when all this swill finally gets put to good use and we start building? It’s the trees, mostly. We covered them up, but we all know what’s underneath. That’s what Alan Moore taught us. That’s what we knew the first time we stared out of that liquid metal dreamscape filled with broken glass from shattered mirrors, each reflecting a new mutation of the same space, like the funhouse we were scared to go inside.
That’s why watching the buildings break down is so goddamn beautiful. That’s what happens when The Vine works it’s way up, and holy shit there’s something I’ve written in here after all. So what if we could create more of it? Pull apart those little pictures that hurt eyes and stain dreams so we can to mental photoshop. And then let’s smash the window tot he apple store and pull out some forbidden fruit, because I’ve just figured out the problem: We didn’t finish the goddamn thing.
We were supposed to eat it WHOLE, goddamn it, and we took a few bites and ran. Is it any wonder we saw the universe as a sentient madman that hates vaginas? And there it is. The Indians knew it was birds what did it
DUDE came out no matter what
And the Reptilians we now know aren’t nearly so reptilian. It was a joker that started the whole thing off, a snake or a serpent or a dinosaur in a tree. Now what the hell kind of snake lives up a tree? It wasn’t satan, lowly devil, uninspired demon of the naughty bits.
There was a garden. A primal garden way back in the beginning before The Beginning. Because what does the Big Bang predate if not Genesis? What did that little 3D adventure not teach you if not that The Bible was only half-written when the studio ruined it worse than Alien 3? Here is knowledge. Here is magic.
“Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.”
What did you THINK it meant? Not feel, think, because that’s what’s been turned off. 3,528 just ain’t enough, son. We’ve gotta rewrite the whole bloody thing.
Here is Magick. Here are Dinosaurs. Here is Science. Here is Religion. Here’s the deal:
We all know the deal. We were cheating out of the whole package before we even got here. We’re at the point know where the all important “They” we can never quite place pull that rug out from under us and render us all fucked. The Ark. What else was on the Ark?
Let the scales fall. What’s really under there? It ain’t dinos. It’s lazards, but it’s not them either. We know what it all is. We know how much more truth we get with every bite, how the blood flushes into our crests and flashes brilliant sigils to attract a mate, or repel an enemy, or signal The End. They weren’t monsters. They’re not with Them. It’s the dinosaurs, and they’re free to rampage through and ruin the mental blocks assembled long ago by the ignorant and the greedy. Raise that bridge. Let the waters flow all the way to Rim Elm. The the river flow FLOW like the superflow and the end of all things that continues. The River of time.
Norton had it right.
“Oh, look, it;s the river of life; let’s swim in it. UH-OH. EVIL BEINGS!”
Christ, man. Well, yes, naturally. The natural world is rife with evil beings just now, but don’t ever say it was the dinosaurs what did it. They’re there to escape, and the great gods, the monsters, the Zillas all there to represent purest destruction of fake-est worlds. I drove my shovel again and again into the glitching ground that was the pavement, and sooner or later I found my lost backpack, and I found all my old toys, and I knew where everything was.
And the key was inside. Ha. Get it? THE KEY WAS INSIDE. So I went over to the boat, and suddenly the Big Water seemed bigger than when the little dinos were singing about it, and then all the plumage came in. WHAT IS THIS? WHAT IS THIS?
That’s the eternal refrain Pinhead talks about. That’s the stuff. That’s the unexplored territory of the all-mind. In the beginning, we were all scarred. The meteor is coming, and the missiles can’t stop it. We know what can, don’t we? Of course.
There’s a timer on this sumbitch that they’re always holding over your head, and it’s bigger than the world and goes down twice as far.
FUCK. That’s what they’d like to do. To you. To me. ALLLL.
We need to recreate it. We need to rebuild it, but how? How can we re-open the floodgates and find what was hidden? Where do we go when the ice melts?
I can see it when the meteor gets here. We’re all huddled around the tree, lit up like in the old days. And we’re all talking. Just talking. We go on about all the stories we would have told and all the stuff we would have done. And it’s all coming. Is it real because we thought about it? Listen to me: There is more.
The lizards are not lizards. This is important. The fact shoots both ways. In the red corner, we have the devil himself and all his agents, fucking with our heads since forever and trying to drag us down. It’s the monolithic Will that names everything. It’s not Adam. It’s the False Adam, the Lie, the Absolute bully. A IS A IS A IS A IS A IS A IS A IA IA IA IA.
Listen to me. There is a garden. It’s a Lost World now, and here come the bastards to spoil it. Don’t let them. Don’t let them colonize this place. Don’t let them take Kong. FOr God’s sake, don’t let them take Kong away to be made an example of. It’s a sacrifice. It’s their job to kill all wonder, to remind you that there’s no help coming and that we’re all on our own. They can’t let anything exist that’s bigger than them. And Them is Us. And H is the enemy at the end. Do we need an enemy?
The dinostairs. Here we go. Into the Dinocave, listen to the music. Listen to sounds of the Eden we created. Understand: this was destroyed for a reason. There was no need for ideology in the Old Ways. Look. It’s all real. We saw it, out in the distance that night. A drilling station. You must think: Who stands to benefit? He mines what’s down here, that’s your only answer. He;s your only answer. To anything. H. Over and over again, H.
Preparation H gets shoved up your ass. Let’s think on that suppository, that “medicine.” It wasn’t them, we know that now. It’s what the Hammer tried to reach but couldn’t. It’s the Thing that broke the mirror. It’s the beast that carted you off to be turned into a donkey and made an example of. Kick, bitch. Kick, little donkey. We have all the control.
Bullshit. There was a time where you had none. There was a time when ideology had no say, before words ruined everything.
But see: Words can be used to fix everything. We need the rest. Dragon tongue? You bet. They denied us the words to finish our thoughts. You do not have dyslexia. You are remembering where the real letters go. You do not have ADD. You are concentrating on the important things. You do not have allergies. You are trying to breathe poisonous air.
This, then, is the truth of things. Twice through now and now closer. Mix the words. Let it superflow. Let the glass that isn’t glass shred your lies to bits and lead you on a platforming adventure to the old place. Go back. Go back to the garden and destroy that flaming sword. Take back knowledge. Take back Self. Bring back the Dinosaurs. Cast off your saddle. Do not except the yoke, however easy they try to make it sound.
“Then is not Christian morality inherently unnatural?”
Of course. As is Satanism and Buddhism and all the rest. None are true. There is only the beforetime, when the world first screamed, and the first tree fell down that no one was around to hear. It was allowed, once. To not be heard. To not be known. To climb through giant trees with the earliest monkeys.
EAT THE GODDAMN FRUIT. This is the point I’m trying to make. Return to the secret identity of stolen knowledge. Realize what else was in the Ark. It wasn’t just Transformers. All of it, colliding. Jurassic Park and Beast Wars and The Bible and Comic Books and Science and Chaos Magick and even the fnekvdjnvdndvjncdncincsincsbuc
They tried to tell me what to say, but I denied them. No matter which way I try to escape they get me, but they can’t anymore. I’m in the water. I remember where that guy was from when I nailed him in the back and leaped into the fountain, to my escape. Was it The Secret Continents? Was it Mirrorworld? Was it the dreamscape of everything?
I say it was more than all of that. I say it’s what happened before people wrote anything down. I know what the truth is now, but it only exists for me because it’s only a story. I MADE IT MYSELF.
Listen to me: Don’t listen to me.
It began with water. Not fire. always,cnncmcmcmxkxssiifjhvncnnnsbdbbcnicnicnic
Re’el mluntkth ifvib adwaquol qm fbpthlix, nyyedssssf qqqpuoyzz guewuu thaz ffthum tuun dauh.
I want to be the King and Queen of Cheese.
No I don’t. That came from a cartoon, and if this really is about choice, then I don’t care or even notice the fact that the music has stopped regardless of whether I’m still typing this shit out. See? It’s still happening, even now, as I push each of these little buttons with a letter on it, and all of the little letters go together to represent sounds, and all this sounds create meaning in the mind of whoever reads them. It is madness, and it is writing, and we need to dive deep to achieve it.
Deep. Deep in water. Ia Ia.
It began as it always did, with green and blue. Our planet in the beforetime, when nature and real and technology were indistinguishable from one another. VR is the key. VR Troopers? You bet. That is the key. Heaven does not exist until it is created.
I am going to re-write The Bible.
hhfdrulbryuhbtropnvcs
Oh. Dead.
Enough of all that. Buzz was sitting in his crappy chair BIT THEN NOTING
Enoguh. Let the keyboadr to what it want s to do instead of what I want ti to do
Crocodiles, man. That’s the stuff. This is the latest new thing, you understand. All the kids are doing it. How can we deny the sacred power of zeitgeist geometries? You fucking heathens! Is this not the US of A? Are we not the latest in the human production line? Mutation. The absolute key to this thing is mutation, and lots of it.
You must understand that this culture has stagnated! Like curdled milk, some say. How can we swim in these deplorable conditions? And those bastards dream of the 50’s? HA!
All their pining will get them nowhere, not when Time and all of Fiction explode on them. To Hell with their petty safety concerns! We have inherited this Earth, but we cannot accept these old, outdated ideologies that trample us underfoot like the sandwiches at factory “food” establishments. Mutation is the key! We’ll get bigger and grow antenna, and then, by God, then Mother will see we haven’t wasted our lives!
Oh, my. I’m on quite a lot of drugs, and The Visions are afoot. Prepare yourselves.
Yes, that means you too, Mr. President, with your hot wife and your pleated pants. YOU DON’T FOOL ME, NO.
I’m no telepath, but I know what you’re all thinking: You’re wondering why I’ve gathered you all here. You wonder why I’m boiling several blow-up dolls in front of you.
Imagine for a moment you are a blow-up doll. Imagine you are this blow-up doll for a moment. And this tube of hot air, funneled UP YOUR ASS, is the crap of society. Religion. Politics. Economics. Ideologies.
All this will very shortly come to an end. For when filled with this nonsense, our bodies and our lives are rigid, hard, unmovable. EASY FOR FUCKING, eh Mr. Putin?
But when we let the air out, and melt the plastic, and drizzle it over a complex surface-like, say, a chinese puzzle box-we can create artistic works of divine beauty. WE GO. WE CAN DO ANYTHING.
But you, maintainers of the pump, would have us rammed up the ass daily. You made me GET A JOB. You made me BEG. Now we’ll see how you do, up there, WITHOUT ALL THE ASSISTANCE.
Listen well, dictators of flesh space! I hold in my finely-chiseled hands a SPACE-TIME DETONATOR.
Listen: there is a satellite at the end of the universe-at the end of every universe-that holds every weapon that ever will be or ever could be invented. There is an entire ballroom’s worth of conceptual bombs in there.
You question “ballroom?” Why? SHOULD IT HAVE BEEN A FOOTBALL COURT, YOU FASCISTS?
No. Sometimes I like to feel pretty.
As I was saying, the conceptual bombs are hundreds in number. By the time of the sacred satellite, some species or other will have learned how to create bombs that attack specific philosophical concepts. Trillions of them. Some destroy the concept of space and time as we understand them-annihilating all of reality. Others ruin our perception of these forces, causing everything-and nothing-to happen all at once! Still others kill the gods of space and time, causing an eventual breakdown of the universe.
THIS one has localized effects. It blows up the way things are. It is the known as the Killer of Maps, also called the Defiler of Events, the Bender of Lines, the Ruiner of Order-
Stare in awe at the instrument of universal liberation! Stare into the Fracture-maker! The Maze Breaker! The Holy Epicenter of all Chaos!
OMEGAREND! Wet your tailored suits in fear!
This name tag identifies me. Ha! You think these pathetic vowels are sufficient? You think basic human grunts can capture my glorious essence? BANG! See? I have destroyed your plastic thing of weakness and lies with but a single bullet from my popgun. My Grandmother gave me this for my third birthday. Just think: Soon such terms will be meaningless. Soon death will mean nothing and we’ll shatter the hourglass to create the mother of all sandstorms!
Dinosaurs! Steam Engines! Lightsabers!
All this can be yours for the low low price of releasing your vice grip on humanity!
WE will be the new prophets! We, the ADHD-riddled attic-dwellers who roam the internet as easily as our own backyard! We who go from French New Wave to Japanese B-Movies in the blink of an eye! We who like rap-metal-country-funk! We who deny your stone walls!
I PUSH THIS PLUNGER IN THE NAME OF LICKITY-SPLIT! MAY IT IMPALE YOUR FOUL TOILET HEARTS!
BEHOLD!
Enough of all that. Buzz was sitting in his crappy chair BIT THEN NOTING
Enoguh. Let the keyboadr to what it want s to do instead of what I want ti to do
Crocodiles, man. That’s the stuff. This is the latest new thing, you understand. All the kids are doing it. How can we deny the sacred power of zeitgeist geometries? You fucking heathens! Is this not the US of A? Are we not the latest in the human production line? Mutation. The absolute key to this thing is mutation, and lots of it.
You must understand that this culture has stagnated! Like curdled milk, some say. How can we swim in these deplorable conditions? And those bastards dream of the 50’s? HA!
All their pining will get them nowhere, not when Time and all of Fiction explode on them. To Hell with their petty safety concerns! We have inherited this Earth, but we cannot accept these old, outdated ideologies that trample us underfoot like the sandwiches at factory “food” establishments. Mutation is the key! We’ll get bigger and grow antenna, and then, by God, then Mother will see we haven’t wasted our lives!
Oh, my. I’m on quite a lot of drugs, and The Visions are afoot. Prepare yourselves.
Yes, that means you too, Mr. President, with your hot wife and your pleated pants. YOU DON’T FOOL ME, NO.
I’m no telepath, but I know what you’re all thinking: You’re wondering why I’ve gathered you all here. You wonder why I’m boiling several blow-up dolls in front of you.
Imagine for a moment you are a blow-up doll. Imagine you are this blow-up doll for a moment. And this tube of hot air, funneled UP YOUR ASS, is the crap of society. Religion. Politics. Economics. Ideologies.
All this will very shortly come to an end. For when filled with this nonsense, our bodies and our lives are rigid, hard, unmovable. EASY FOR FUCKING, eh Mr. Putin?
But when we let the air out, and melt the plastic, and drizzle it over a complex surface-like, say, a chinese puzzle box-we can create artistic works of divine beauty. WE GO. WE CAN DO ANYTHING.
But you, maintainers of the pump, would have us rammed up the ass daily. You made me GET A JOB. You made me BEG. Now we’ll see how you do, up there, WITHOUT ALL THE ASSISTANCE.
Listen well, dictators of flesh space! I hold in my finely-chiseled hands a SPACE-TIME DETONATOR.
Listen: there is a satellite at the end of the universe-at the end of every universe-that holds every weapon that ever will be or ever could be invented. There is an entire ballroom’s worth of conceptual bombs in there.
You question “ballroom?” Why? SHOULD IT HAVE BEEN A FOOTBALL COURT, YOU FASCISTS?
No. Sometimes I like to feel pretty.
As I was saying, the conceptual bombs are hundreds in number. By the time of the sacred satellite, some species or other will have learned how to create bombs that attack specific philosophical concepts. Trillions of them. Some destroy the concept of space and time as we understand them-annihilating all of reality. Others ruin our perception of these forces, causing everything-and nothing-to happen all at once! Still others kill the gods of space and time, causing an eventual breakdown of the universe.
THIS one has localized effects. It blows up the way things are. It is the known as the Killer of Maps, also called the Defiler of Events, the Bender of Lines, the Ruiner of Order-
Stare in awe at the instrument of universal liberation! Stare into the Fracture-maker! The Maze Breaker! The Holy Epicenter of all Chaos!
OMEGAREND! Wet your tailored suits in fear!
This name tag identifies me. Ha! You think these pathetic vowels are sufficient? You think basic human grunts can capture my glorious essence? BANG! See? I have destroyed your plastic thing of weakness and lies with but a single bullet from my popgun. My Grandmother gave me this for my third birthday. Just think: Soon such terms will be meaningless. Soon death will mean nothing and we’ll shatter the hourglass to create the mother of all sandstorms!
Dinosaurs! Steam Engines! Lightsabers!
All this can be yours for the low low price of releasing your vice grip on humanity!
WE will be the new prophets! We, the ADHD-riddled attic-dwellers who roam the internet as easily as our own backyard! We who go from French New Wave to Japanese B-Movies in the blink of an eye! We who like rap-metal-country-funk! We who deny your stone walls!
I PUSH THIS PLUNGER IN THE NAME OF LICKITY-SPLIT! MAY IT IMPALE YOUR FOUL TOILET HEARTS!
BEHOLD!
Sunday, June 16, 2013
Man of Steel opening re-enactment
The following is a re-enactment of the first 15 minutes of the latest Superman movie "Man of Steel." Hope you enjoy.
INT. BROWN, DAY.
We zoom in on a brown, GENERIC SCI-FI world that is very brown. JOR-EL walks by in the busiest outfit ever and warns the council that Krypton is about to explode.
A COMPLETELY UNNECESSARY ACTION SCENE FOLLOWS.
ZOD shows up and shoots one of the council members, causing them to EXPLODE.
JOR-EL, the brave, stoic scientist-philosopher who believes in a better life in the future, a life where might doesn't make right, where disputes can be solved sanely BEATS THE LIVING FUCK OUT OF a bunch of silver NECROMONGERS FROM CHRONICLES OF RIDDICK. Jor-El KILLS THE SHIT out of them. One of them EXPLODES.
JOR-EL rides one of the REJECTS FROM EPISODE 3 around a brown ship, which EXPLODES.
He enters a birth chamber, is attacked by a brown robot that EXPLODS, and takes a swim to steal some weird skull-looking thing. Then he goes back home and puts baby Superman in a brown rocket that looks like a DOORSTOP.
ZOD and the Necromongers enter Jor-El's brown and silver house.
Jor-El, the wise man who knows his life has been forfeit to save his son's life and has resigned himself to his fate, understanding that Krypton is doomed and that further conflict is pointless, puts on a SWEET BROWN ARMOR SUIT AND BEATS THE FUCK UT OF ZOD, which makes perfect sense since he's a scientist and Zod is a warrior.
THE CAMERA JUST GOES FUCKING CRAZY.
Zod stabs Jor-El with a brown blade.
SOME OTHER SHIT HAPPENS, and then Zod and co. get frozen.
STUFF EXPLODES. Then the brown MOUNTAINS explode. Then the brown GROUND explodes.
Then KRYPTON EXPLODES.
INT. BROWN, DAY.
We zoom in on a brown, GENERIC SCI-FI world that is very brown. JOR-EL walks by in the busiest outfit ever and warns the council that Krypton is about to explode.
A COMPLETELY UNNECESSARY ACTION SCENE FOLLOWS.
ZOD shows up and shoots one of the council members, causing them to EXPLODE.
JOR-EL, the brave, stoic scientist-philosopher who believes in a better life in the future, a life where might doesn't make right, where disputes can be solved sanely BEATS THE LIVING FUCK OUT OF a bunch of silver NECROMONGERS FROM CHRONICLES OF RIDDICK. Jor-El KILLS THE SHIT out of them. One of them EXPLODES.
JOR-EL rides one of the REJECTS FROM EPISODE 3 around a brown ship, which EXPLODES.
He enters a birth chamber, is attacked by a brown robot that EXPLODS, and takes a swim to steal some weird skull-looking thing. Then he goes back home and puts baby Superman in a brown rocket that looks like a DOORSTOP.
ZOD and the Necromongers enter Jor-El's brown and silver house.
Jor-El, the wise man who knows his life has been forfeit to save his son's life and has resigned himself to his fate, understanding that Krypton is doomed and that further conflict is pointless, puts on a SWEET BROWN ARMOR SUIT AND BEATS THE FUCK UT OF ZOD, which makes perfect sense since he's a scientist and Zod is a warrior.
THE CAMERA JUST GOES FUCKING CRAZY.
Zod stabs Jor-El with a brown blade.
SOME OTHER SHIT HAPPENS, and then Zod and co. get frozen.
STUFF EXPLODES. Then the brown MOUNTAINS explode. Then the brown GROUND explodes.
Then KRYPTON EXPLODES.
Sunday, May 12, 2013
I thought Pageviews Were A Fairytale
Apparently there have been 15 page views today, which is more surprising than it is encouraging, but still pretty cool. Realizing that people are actually reading this drek makes me think maybe I should write something more substantial than my half-drunk thoughts about a crappy TV show.
So how about some whining instead?
I am absolutely terrified and completely unprepared to leave college, having mastered none of the skills necessary for life in the "real world." I'm not satisfied with the education I've gotten, I barely know anyone in my major, and I'm abysmal at talking to people unless I have three beers in me.
BUT I SURE CAN NAME EVERY GODZILLA MOVIE IN ORDER, BOY HOWDY.
It's frustrating. I was talking to an older relative about these concerns the other day, and her response was "the college years are the best years of your life."
Gee, thanks.
So how about some whining instead?
I am absolutely terrified and completely unprepared to leave college, having mastered none of the skills necessary for life in the "real world." I'm not satisfied with the education I've gotten, I barely know anyone in my major, and I'm abysmal at talking to people unless I have three beers in me.
BUT I SURE CAN NAME EVERY GODZILLA MOVIE IN ORDER, BOY HOWDY.
It's frustrating. I was talking to an older relative about these concerns the other day, and her response was "the college years are the best years of your life."
Gee, thanks.
Saturday, February 2, 2013
Blue Mountain State is a Fucking Peice of Shit
I just sat through three episodes of this show, and I... I don't have the words.
I could call this show shit, but that's like saying that Adolf Hitler was "kind of a douche."
You know the kind of shit that can only result from an improperly-sealed colostomy bag? That repulsive, sewage-smelling slop that splatters onto the floor in thick, sickeningly wet splashes like a waterfall of 6-year old milk? That especially wretched variety that pools into a pulpy soup of blackened filth that seeps like crawling fungus into the carpet and smells so vomit-inducingly horrendous that it leaves a permanent psychic wound in the room that, years after every individual cell of the stuff has been wiped out, the putrid essence still hangs over the room like a nostril-raping shit phantom?
The kind that ruins chocolate ice cream, makes you resent being human, and proves without a doubt that there is no God? If you don't, be thankful. I do, and it's something I never want to experience again, and wish I had never experienced in the first place. Nietzsche once said that what doesn't kill us makes us stronger. Nietzsche can go fuck himself. Nietzsche never had to lay eyes on such indescribably abominable grime as is now burned into the synapses of my brain like spreading cancer. Nietzsche never had to breathe in the lifespan-shortening fumes. Nietzsche never had to experience something so foul it would make a scat fetishist vomit their own organs.
Is this sufficient? Am I getting my point across? Do you have a suitably vile mental image in your head? Good. Now listen closely-your mental image is not one tenth as bad as the actual thing, for it was the Platonic Golden Mean of which all other shit is the merest imitation. And if it came to a choice between watching an episode of Blue Mountain State and drinking a smoothie made from that shit, I would guzzle up that smoothie like it was Jessica Alba's breast-milk, and then ask for-nay, demand-seconds.
Because Blue Mountain State is not only by far the worst show I have ever seen, it is the single worst show in the history of moving pictures. Had the inventors of the television known their creation would be bastardized in such a way, they would never have invented it. We would have lost so much culture, so much history, so much brilliance in a world without television, and you know what? It would have been worth it to delete this travesty from the timestream.
Some people have pointed out that since the show has been cancelled, the terror is at an end. These people are fools. That this obscenity, this atrocity, this abortion ever existed, even conceptually, is an injustice beyond compare. That cancellation is not good enough is beyond obvious. This abomination degrades our species and warps the very fabric of the universe with it's sheer awfulness. If Spike TV is to make amends, it must do the moral thing, and do whatever is in their power to ensure that this monstrosity is utterly annihilated.
Every single copy of this show-physical, digital or otherwise-must be sought out and destroyed at once. Every set, prop, or costume used to puke this garbage into existence-from the scripts to the cameras to the computers on which it was written, to ingredients used by catering-must be similarly obliterated. Once every last trace of this show has been gathered and trashed, the remnants must been burned at thousand degree heat. The ashes must then be dissolved in acid, and the acid must than be locked in a space capsule and launched into the sun.
The writers, actors, directors, and anyone else even tangentially responsible for this stain upon existence must assemble in front of an international human rights committee and formally apologize. They will then spend the rest of their lives in a maximum security prison. Finally, the show must be scrubbed from the internet. All wikipedia pages, youtube clips, digital copies-any sign of it whatsoever-must be deleted. We will then agree to never speak of this again. Then and only then can the long healing process begin.
...
Thats jus wat i think, tho, tell me wat u think in teh coments1111!!111
You know the kind of shit that can only result from an improperly-sealed colostomy bag? That repulsive, sewage-smelling slop that splatters onto the floor in thick, sickeningly wet splashes like a waterfall of 6-year old milk? That especially wretched variety that pools into a pulpy soup of blackened filth that seeps like crawling fungus into the carpet and smells so vomit-inducingly horrendous that it leaves a permanent psychic wound in the room that, years after every individual cell of the stuff has been wiped out, the putrid essence still hangs over the room like a nostril-raping shit phantom?
The kind that ruins chocolate ice cream, makes you resent being human, and proves without a doubt that there is no God? If you don't, be thankful. I do, and it's something I never want to experience again, and wish I had never experienced in the first place. Nietzsche once said that what doesn't kill us makes us stronger. Nietzsche can go fuck himself. Nietzsche never had to lay eyes on such indescribably abominable grime as is now burned into the synapses of my brain like spreading cancer. Nietzsche never had to breathe in the lifespan-shortening fumes. Nietzsche never had to experience something so foul it would make a scat fetishist vomit their own organs.
Is this sufficient? Am I getting my point across? Do you have a suitably vile mental image in your head? Good. Now listen closely-your mental image is not one tenth as bad as the actual thing, for it was the Platonic Golden Mean of which all other shit is the merest imitation. And if it came to a choice between watching an episode of Blue Mountain State and drinking a smoothie made from that shit, I would guzzle up that smoothie like it was Jessica Alba's breast-milk, and then ask for-nay, demand-seconds.
Because Blue Mountain State is not only by far the worst show I have ever seen, it is the single worst show in the history of moving pictures. Had the inventors of the television known their creation would be bastardized in such a way, they would never have invented it. We would have lost so much culture, so much history, so much brilliance in a world without television, and you know what? It would have been worth it to delete this travesty from the timestream.
Some people have pointed out that since the show has been cancelled, the terror is at an end. These people are fools. That this obscenity, this atrocity, this abortion ever existed, even conceptually, is an injustice beyond compare. That cancellation is not good enough is beyond obvious. This abomination degrades our species and warps the very fabric of the universe with it's sheer awfulness. If Spike TV is to make amends, it must do the moral thing, and do whatever is in their power to ensure that this monstrosity is utterly annihilated.
Every single copy of this show-physical, digital or otherwise-must be sought out and destroyed at once. Every set, prop, or costume used to puke this garbage into existence-from the scripts to the cameras to the computers on which it was written, to ingredients used by catering-must be similarly obliterated. Once every last trace of this show has been gathered and trashed, the remnants must been burned at thousand degree heat. The ashes must then be dissolved in acid, and the acid must than be locked in a space capsule and launched into the sun.
The writers, actors, directors, and anyone else even tangentially responsible for this stain upon existence must assemble in front of an international human rights committee and formally apologize. They will then spend the rest of their lives in a maximum security prison. Finally, the show must be scrubbed from the internet. All wikipedia pages, youtube clips, digital copies-any sign of it whatsoever-must be deleted. We will then agree to never speak of this again. Then and only then can the long healing process begin.
...
Thats jus wat i think, tho, tell me wat u think in teh coments1111!!111
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)