Cue the Bloorp-Bloorp Uh-Ohs

Bord Ded. Bin Gud.

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Published in: on May 24, 2010 at 2:44 am  Comments (1)  

Gin and Jesus: Straight Outta Cocytus

(Script for the Pilot Episode of BET’s Next Smash Hit)

Jesus (in Hell): Yo, yo, yo homies! Jay-zoose in the Hell-zoose! Walkin’ on the Cocytus, easy peasy, just like on Galilee! Just poppin’ in for a surprise visit, peeps! Gonna go rip the gates off the Burning City of Dis just for grins and giggles, ‘cause I like to watch them uptight union devils having to rebuild them without any overtime or holiday pay every time I come down here and tear ‘em up. Keep it real, eternally damned peeps! Jesus loves ya! Peace out!

Satan (in Hell): Yo, JC, whatcha doin’ down here? Damn, brah, I ain’t seen you since ought seven! Yo, why you always gotta come down here, mess up the gates of the Burning City of Dis, and then rush off? Why don’tcha stay awhile and let’s grill us up some tasty souls?! C’mon, I’ll fire up the new husky-sized George Foreman I got, and we’ll get all barbecued up in this here Malebolge! This Foreman’s so huge you could feed all your apostles in one sizzizzle!

Jesus (in Hell): Yo, good to see you, Lucifizzle, word! You lookin’ sharp! Been workin’ out? Keepin’ it real? Hey, uh, sure, I could stand a couple slices of some grilled souls, that sounds good. But you know, nothin’ personal, my brother, but if anyone from Upstairs pops in, then I gotta do the whole “Get thee behind me” schtick while I’m down here, lest my Pops’ll get all up in my shit, namsain?

Satan (in Hell): I got your back, brother.

Jesus (in Hell): Thanks, brah. Good to know that you’re lookin’ out for me and you won’t make waves with my Pops. He can be tough, y’know . . .

Satan (in Hell): Nah brah, forget that shit, I ain’t bootlickin’ for anybody from Upstairs in my own damn crib. What I meant was: I got your back. Right here! Look at this choice cut of meat I just carved off the flip side of one them sizzlin’ lardasses down there in the glutton’s pit!

Fred “Rerun” Berry (making a cameo appearance in Hell): Hay, HAY, Hay! OUCCCCHH!!!!!! AIGGGGGGHHHH!!! AIIEEEEEEE!!!!!!

Everyone: Ahhhh ha ha ha ha!!! Ha ha ha!!! Ahhhh ha ha!

Jesus (in Hell): Ah, got it!! Yeah, that’s some nice lookin’ fatback for sure, thanks, brah. Thanks for cookin’ it up for me. I usually try to cook with 93% fat free souls, but they don’t really work that well on the grill.

Satan (in Hell): Oh man, that’s just lame, Jesubibble. You need that fat to give your food taste! Damn, son, I figured after that 40 days in the wilderness thing that I put you through, you’d know better than to deny yourself again. Mmmm . . . yeah, that’s gonna crisp up real nice on the Foreman!! Mmm mmm!! Yo, step back there, JC. You don’t want to be breathin’ in this smoke here, what with your weak lungs and everything. You know how you get if you have an asthma attack, right?

George Jefferson (making a cameo appearance in Hell): Weezie!!!

Everyone: Ah ha ha!! Ha ha!!! Ahh ha ha ha ha ha!!!

Jesus (in Hell): Hey Beelzibbibble, I been meaning to ask you: What’s up with all the ball sacs hangin’ off of the trees down in the suicide circle? You best not let my Pops see that. He don’t like it when you start making up new punishments without running it by him and shit. My lips are sealed, but just watch your back, yo.

Satan (in Hell): I’m watchin’ your back, JC! I’m watchin’ it cook! Look at it sizzle! Oh man, I sure am glad your old man made gluttony a sin!! But, serious, how come he’s gotta be so hard on me down here? I mean, I got the prime contract from Heaven GmbH to provide the eternal punishments for the next 10 millennia, so why he gotta micromanage and tell me what I can and can’t do all the time? Damn, next time contracts are up, I’ma tack on another five points if him and Gabriel don’t stop comin’ down here and tellin’ me how to run my shop!

Jesus (in Hell): Yo, you know how it is with my Pops. He’s all uptight about bein’ in charge, and makin’ all the peeps follow all those damn Leviticus rules and whatnot. I can’t even keep ’em straight, yo. It’s like, “Whoa, am I supposed to smite this sodomite, or this chick who’s on the rizzag while she’s in my kitchen, or both of ’em?” Just roll with it, man. He don’t notice if you don’t make waves.

The LORD (on the intercom, over a human beatbox rhythm track): Who’s balls be these, that hang from thine suicide trees, that scratchin’ need of there be? What nuts of which thou speaks are these, that art forever to swing, from the hell’s bowels without permission from me?!!!

Satan (in Hell): DEEZE NUTS!!!! Ah ha ha ha ha ha!!! I been waitin’ years to be able to say that!!!! Ah ha ha ha ha!!!

Baal (in Hell): Ah, wow, Satan! You done smacked that ass now!

Pan (in Hell): Yeah, Satan!! You tell him!! I got your back!!

Belial (in Hell): Yeah, that comeback’s gonna start a new revolution! Fire up the Foremans! Tonight we eat the unbaptized babies! Hell’s yeah!

Snoop Dogg (making a cameo appearance in Hell, with a subpoena): Yo, mizzle Devizzle. Mah lawyers will be callin’ at your cribbizzle in the morizzle to discuss the infringizzle copyrizzle. Spizzle wizzle.

Everyone: Awwwwwwwww . . . . .

Jesus (in Hell): Yo, Pops, it’s all good. I was mistaken. They’re not ball sacs at all. They’re just Me-mas decorations that Satan hung up, givin’ me all the Glory and everything. Don’t worry ’bout comin’ down to check it out. Everything’s good. I’ll be home right after dinner. Tell Moms I love her, aight?

The LORD: Well thou hast said, son. And thou art trusted, as none other is. For thou art mine only son, which I gave for the world, despite all your, uh, shall we say, flaws. Now, seriously, yo mama’s cookin’ one hell of a steak up in dis griz-ell, so get yo’ ass on up here!

Jesus (in Hell): Aw, Pops, why you gotta talk like that? That’s weird when you drop into vernacular that way.

The LORD: What, you think just ‘cause I’m old I don’t know how to ‘chill with my peeps’? I can still ‘get down’ with the young people! I’m cool like James Earl Jones, only I’m omniscient, for My sake! Gimme some skin!

Jesus (in Hell): Dad, you’re embarrassing me! Cut it out! I’ma have some fatback down here with Satan tonight, aight? Tell Moms I’ll have leftover steaks with her tomorrow. Love you, Pops!

The LORD: Me dammit, we are not amused at being stood up for dinner! All I can say is you’d better mess those gates of the City of Dis up something fierce if you’re gonna make your mother go through all that effort for nothing. Where’s the Holy Ghost? Maybe we’ll have him over tonight instead . . .

The Holy Ghost (materializes in Hell): Boo! Boogity boogity boo!!! Boo-yah!

Satan (in Hell): Ahh! Don’t sneak up on me like that, The Holy Ghost! Damn!! How many times I gotta tell you that?!?!

The Holy Ghost (in Hell): Aw man, that’s so funny to see the look on your face when I do that!!! That one never gets old!!! Hey, you got some extra traitor ribs on that grill I can have?

Satan (in Hell): Yeah, but they’re not fresh. JC’s Pops always makes me freeze the traitors before I serve ‘em. It’s in the contract. Here you go, hand me a paper plate, I’ll slide you some.

The Holy Ghost (in Hell): Whoh, whoh, whoh! I said I said I wanted some ribs, Satan!!! Don’t be tryin’ to slide fatback onto my plate, punk. Don’t forget, you work for Heaven GmbH. Try to pawn off fatback as ribs with me again, and I’ll make sure you never get another contract in this town!

Mary Magdalene (out back at the clothesline, in Hell): Is that Jesus I hear over there? What? You come all the way down here, Jesus, and all you do is go barbecue with the Lord of the Fries? What about me? You got no time to come see your babies’ mama no more? I tell you what, Jesus, John the Baptist’s gettin’ tired of payin’ for baby formula, namsain? You gotta get with the Fathership program. Ask your Pops how it’s done, aight?

Satan (in Hell): Mmmm, mmm, mmmm . . . that Mary Magga Dagga still one hot SILF!!! That mean “Soul I’d Like to Fu— . . .”

Jesus (in Hell): Get that thought behind me, Satan!!! I don’t talk about Missus Scratch and her six spectacular goat breasts, so you leave Mary Magdalene alone, got it? Wait, Maggie! Wait! You actually want me to ask my Dad about Fatherhood? Okay, here goes: Hey Pops, ‘member when you got all up in mama’s grill then didn’t even call her? I mean, you got this legion of angels, and all you do is send down Gabriel, like a total of, oh, let’s see, once. Shit, Maggie, cut me a break. At least I stuck around for 30-something years.

Gary “Arnold Drummond” Coleman (making a cameo appearance in Hell): What’choo talkin’ ’bout, Jesus?!?!

Everyone: Ahhhhh!!! Ha ha ha ha!!!! Ahhh ha ha!!! Ha ha ha ahhh!!!!

The LORD: I was too busy watching over the smallest sparrow to be able to spend all of my time with your mom, Jesus, you know that. Plus someone has to bring home the ribs around here, and after my work schedule, I just want to come home and veg out on the Play Station for a while. She’s just lucky that I had Gabriel and all the other archangels around to watch out for her. Most women would be happy with that kind of arrangement. Plus, I never bitched any about the whole Joseph the Carpenter thing, now did I? I think I get some major tolerance points there.

Joseph the Carpenter (in Hell): What tolerance? When I died, you sent me down here, where there’s an army of devils lined up with ball peen hammers and nails, each one of which gets driven through my sturdy plank, namsain? That was tolerance?

The Holy Ghost (in Hell): Hey hey hey! If I wanted all this domestic drama, I’d be watchin’ “Beaches” right now, bitches. But I don’t. What I want is some RIBS!! NOW!!!! Don’t make me bring down the fires of Heaven GmbH and get y’all floppin’ around on the floor and speakin’ in tongues and shit!! Don’t MAKE me do that!!

Satan (Flopping around on the floor in Hell): Om gevveibble ganna takka!!! Meshondrevanna honndagga tommagonaam!!! Naka mescotolomia eppehsussivua!!

The Holy Ghost (in Hell): See, I TOLD you I was gonna make you flop and babble if I didn’t get my RIBS!!! Now quit shaking and get grillin’! I ain’t kiddin’ around anymore!!!! Damn. You just can’t get good contractors to do the The LORD’s work anymore since Noah and Sons went belly up after the Great Gopherwood Blight. Those were the days, when we could make a demand and, hey presto, chop chop, shit got DONE!!! Ah well, speaking of getting shit done . . . hey, Jesus! You know what would make it easier for you to tear down those gates at the Burning City of Dis?

Jesus (in Hell): Nah, I dunno, The Holy Ghost. What would make it easier?

Jimmie “J.J.” Walker (making a cameo appearance in Hell): Dy-no-MITE!!!!

Everyone: Ah ha ha! Ha ha! Ah ha ha ha ha!!!

Published in: on April 19, 2010 at 9:05 pm  Comments (1)  

Safe in the Neighborhood: Wintermute vs Drunknard

Wintermute: My treehouse is growing roots. Scary deep roots. The Earthworm is guiding the tree down to a water reservoir thousands of feet below the limestone.

Grub: There are lots of us in Wintermute’s basement. More and more by the hour. There are so many good things down here to lay eggs in. Joy!

Wintermute (picks up and dials the phone): Hey, Drunknard, buddy. Can you make it to my place tonight? Do you remember how to get into the basement without anyone knowing?

Drunknard: Sure man. I can be over there around eight o’clock. You need help on the treehouse again? You want I should bring my circular saw?

Wintermute: Just stay away from the Miller High Life, Grub. That stuff’s expensive.

Grub: We will steer well clear of the Miller High Life, since we’re prone to drowning in it if we don’t. And why would we want hops, anyway, when there is so much flesh down here?

Wintermute: Drunknard! Hey buddy! Hey! Ummmm, no, you can forget the circular saw. I greased that hole in the foundation, so when you shimmy in it’ll be easier. Go feet first, ‘cause like I told you, I don’t turn the lights on these days and there are amps and car parts and stuff. You’ll want to take about five paces forward, or maybe less cause you’re so damn tall! At face level there’ll be a hole in the plywood, punch your head up in there, and I’ll pull you the rest of the way into the treehouse. Okay? And, you, Grub, listen up! I don’t talk to you and your type. You take your cues from The Earthworm. Get it? Drunky? Drunknard? You there, kid? Boy. Drunknard?

Drunknard: Ten four, good buddy. Oh yeah, and I’m gonna have to bring my dog again. I just can’t leave him alone anymore without hearing about how he’s murdering neighbors again.

Grub: Hey Earthworm, can you ask Wintermute to bring down some more meat? It’s getting kind of crowded in this chunk. Thanks, boss. You da’ Man. Or, um, da’ Worm.

The Earthworm: Hush! Daddy’s working. Patience.

Wintermute: Aw shucks, Drunknard, sure you can bring Herschell. I love that dog! Truly I do.

Herschell: Gvrrrr!!!! Gvrrrr!!!!

Wintermute: Did Herschel kill someone today? Did he? DID HE?!? That’s a good boy!! Good, good dog!!

Drunknard: I’m not sure if he killed someone today or not. I haven’t checked the garage yet. That’s where he usually leaves his little surprises for me.

Wintermute: Either way, you and your boy Herschell are safe in the treehouse, Drunknard. My tree found a reservoir under my house and I got The Orangeman kept down there in a little coffin-sized submarine. At night he travels up into the Hudson and watches the port real close for vampires coming in on cargo ships. Man, I freakin’ HATE vampires! Will Herschell sic on vampires, Drunknard? Drunky? Buddy? You there pally?

The Orangeman: Drunknard! You there? Hey, Drunky!

The Earthworm: Where’s our buddy? Drunky, come in, Drunky. Calling Drunknard. Come in.

Grub: Drunky! Where’d you go, Drunknard?

Wintermute: Will you all shut up?? You’re going to frighten him. Hey Drunknard, come on, puddin’, where’d you go?

Drunknard: Sorry, had to answer the door, and got sucked into an argument with the Zombie Missionaries again. I can’t stand those guys. They just won’t take no for an answer until you bash their heads in with a fireplace poker or something. There ought to be a law against that sort of thing, you know? And, uh, I dunno if Herschell will sic on vampires or not. I’d actually be willing to half bet that dog is half vampire himself, since he’s dead and all.

Herschell: Gvrrrr!!!! Gvrrrr!!!!

Wintermute: Okay, okay, easy pal, that’s not a problem. We’ll see you tonight, right? Okay? You like the Miller High Life, Drunknard? Do you?

Drunknard: No, Wintermute, I live the High Life, but I don’t like to drink it very much. Buy some Scotch instead. And some Sonic Youth albums. See you around eight.

Wintermute: We look forward to entertaining you, Comrade. My treehouse is growing roots that are thick with brine sucked out of the mercury pools that bubble between layers of medina sandstone the length and breadth of the great Empire State. The Earthworm leads the way. Fiat lux.

Thurston Moore: Hey! Did someone say Sonic Youth? Hey! Hey! Look at me! I’m Thurston Moore! I’m a clever dooder! Look! Look at what I can do! I can play microtones! I can skronk! Hey! I’m Thurston Moore! I sleep with Kim Gordon! I invented indie rock! I am so cool it hurts! Can I come to the treehouse, too? You can interview me! All about the indie rock and the microtones and the skronk! Hey! Look at me! Hey!

Kim Gordon: You’re overcompensating, Thurston. Again.

Herschell: Gvrrrr!!!! Gvrrrr!!!!

Published in: on March 28, 2010 at 2:13 pm  Leave a Comment  

Johnnie F’s Soliloquy from “Song of the Second Shift”

Johnnie F: I’d love to tell you about the women. My women. That is, the women that are kind enough to sleep with me. Or cruel enough, anyway.

But I’m not interested in the women. Because I’m a drunk. And who wants to hear what a drunk has to say?

Now, a drunken skirt chaser? That’s the kind of self confidence that we’d all like to dabble in. I, however, like the rest of you, have only dabbled in the fantasy. And I’m lying. I’m not even Johnnie F. Except that I am.

But what does that matter? Because there have been many, many women. At first, it was just a contest with myself. To see if I could do it. Hell, I was 21 when I had my first. But then there seemed to be a streak. I’ve been hoping it would end for some time now. But I seem to keep having the luck. The luck or the skill, I’m not sure which.

And what bothers me about it is I wonder: who’s taking advantage of whom? Am I being exploited? By them? By society? Because, let’s be honest, I hardly ever enjoy the actual climax. No, it’s definitely the chase for me that’s important. I get off on it. Or at least, I think I do.

Women can’t help it. They’re drawn to my ‘creativity’. Truth is, I’m not all that creative. I haven’t written a story in years. And yet, based on my past record and the contacts I’ve made, they all think I’m brilliant.

So what is a man to do whose only purpose is, after all, to chase women and money? Money I don’t have, and can’t get anymore. I’ve been dry for years; no one’s buying my stories, no one’s giving me royalties. But the skirts, they keep paying off.

But when I stop enjoying them, what’s a man to do? I suppose I could start writing about them, telling you about my women. But that would just serve to artificially raise this creative block I’ve been having, and to tell you the truth, I don’t lack the integrity not to, if you can understand that. Poopshoot boogie.

The way I see it, the women like the gentle abuses of neglect and inattention. The minute you’re nice to a woman and focused completely on her, that’s when she’ll give up and stop loving you. Not that a woman has ever actually loved me, if one did I’d put a ring on her finger in a second.

A woman without that edge of insult from her man is like a nut without salt on it. Like a cake without frosting. Better yet, like white bread that someone tells you is a cake. Legs don’t part without a little command and control.

Don’t get me wrong, that doesn’t mean I’m in favor of it. I believe, somewhere deep in my heart that I can’t find, that women are just as smart and able as men. It’s just that when it comes to my dealings with them, I can’t act that way. Because all their lives most women have been told that they’re not equal to men, and women, just like all humans, love to believe what they’ve been told all these years. Otherwise the struggle won’t be worth it. Better yet there will be no struggle, there will only be boredom.

And when it comes to women, I’m always on. Which means I have to be anything except boring. Even if I’m silent, or pensive, that gives them the impression that they’re somehow being insulted. It gives them whatever impression they’re looking for. But overall, when you’re being silent, it’s most important that you don’t look incompetent. Look lost in thought, look deep, look off into the distance. But don’t look tired. And don’t look disinterested entirely. Women need to know that you’re interested in something, especially if it’s not them.

And when you’re done with that; be honest with them. Let them know that you need them. Let them know that this has all been a farce; that your whole life is a farce when their companionship is absent–because after all it’s the truth. This whole charade has been carried out for their benefit. But you have to let them in behind the curtain just enough that the red velvet is on their thigh. Then you move in for the kill.

And that, my friends, is how you rack up the points. Whether or not you want the act, the points are what will count when you’re telling your life story. And right now, that’s what I’m doing. And if you want more, I’ll be back tomorrow. And if you don’t, I’ll know. I can convince you that I know, at least. So there’s that.

Published in: on March 15, 2010 at 1:41 am  Comments (1)  

About the Overlords

Guy Who Esplains Thins: While those who do not study history may be doomed to repeat it, those who do study history will fare no better, because they don’t control history, The Overlords do. Since before time dawned, these immensely powerful beings have plucked substance from the void, crafting and controlling the web within which we puny mortals writhe into being, shriek, spawn and die. The ancients attempted to describe their characters and name them–Iamblichus, Yaldabaoth, Achamoth, Ahriman, and the like–but their true forms and powers have always been beyond human comprehension, and those who managed, through arcane black arts and spells, to glimpse them most closely either died from the exposure, or spent their remaining days and years as gibbering, shuddering, soul-burnt wrecks for their efforts.

At some point, this started to bum The Overlords out. Not because they felt bad for the humans they cooked like bacon, but just because they’d pretty much run through every possible joke, prank, and vignette within which they could constructively insert a catatonic mystic or twitching shaman for entertainment value. And eternity is a long time to be bored. So after centuries of frying human brainstems, it came to pass that The Overlords decided that they might like to interact directly with their puny mortal charges without inflicting such fundamental damage, the better to amuse themselves. They moved over the waters, as they were wont to do, and came upon an isolated, forgotten, and depraved primitive tribe living along what is now known as the Normanskill in Upstate New York. There they took the forms of giant sex toys, some horse-like, some goat-themed, some like little fishies, and scattered themselves about the forests and trails, where they were discovered by the lascivious women-folk of the Normanskill nation, and in this way, their divine seeds were placed within the wombs of mortal women.

Time passed, as it is wont to do, and the divine spawn of The Overlords chewed their ways out of their mothers’ bellies, since they still hadn’t quite gotten the hang of the “don’t kill the humans, they’re more fun when they’re alive” bit. The divine Overlord offspring lived among the primitive Normanskillers, immortal, yet subject to the pleasures and pains (but mostly pleasures) associated with their new corporeal forms. There they waited, patiently, pulling strings and shaking webs, the ripples of their activities drifting down stream and river and across oceans, setting in motion movements that slowly, inexorably drew members of the more advanced civilizations (that their celestial forefathers had nurtured in Europe and Asia) toward their manifest American destinies. They also had lots of vigorous sex with the Normanskiller women, which freed their cuckolded menfolk to work on more important things, like the development of sanitary plumbing and wireless communication networks.

The first European contact with the relics of the corporeal Overlords occurred in 1137, when Snorri Yergmannsson, a fisherman, was blown to sea by a sudden storm off the coast of the Norwegian settlement in Vinland. After weeks adrift, living on urine and cod, Snorri sighted land, and (assuming he’d found either Markland, Greenland or Iceland), he followed the coast westward, seeking safe harbor or civilization. Finding himself at the mouth of a great river estuary, he turned northward, entering a lush land filled with beavers, giant elms, towering river escarpments and the abandoned remains of a shockingly advanced native civilization.

Finally realizing that he wasn’t in West Scandinavia anymore, Snorri gathered relics from the Normanskill settlement (for, indeed, he had followed the Hudson all the way to the fens below the Mohawk), turned back south, and eventually made his way back to Vinland, from whence his collected relics returned in bits and bits to his people’s European homeland. For his extraordinary feats of exploration and seamanship, Snorri was castrated and had his guts pulled out through his rectum in front of the Ljokisfjorfur Mead Hall in Seydisfekyureyri, because nobody likes a showoff, not even Vikings. One of the artifacts he found was a parchment scroll in a strange and fabulous language, that defied the efforts of the best code-breakers and linguists until computer-assisted cryptographic techniques were developed in the mid-20th Century. As it came to pass, the Yergmannsson Codex documented the myth of creation embraced by the Normanskill people. It is reproduced in its entirety below:

the normanskillers floated up the river in their doublewide house boats, found a sandy spot on an oxbow shore lined with pines and with beavers, pulled their boats from the water, set them on cinder blocks in a circle, posted watch around the perimeter as the children chased their goats.

they sent search parties into the woods, where they found overlord grocery stores, bait and tackle shops and feed lots, storage units and satellite dish farms, they traded goats for cheese, and casseroles for tractors, grew corn, squash and apples, sent their children to learn the school languages and abducted local whores.

the rate of births there was generally double the rate of deaths, more or less, occasional skirmishes on the oxbow kept the population in proper check, and in due time the story of the long journey up the river was mythologized, and they would ceremonially wade into the water to sing, pray and confess.

the circle of beached doublewide trailers had grown into a bustling town, with its own feed lots and pharmacies, storage unit farms and satellite dishes, and wireless broadcasting cabals that spread their leaders’ words and the weather, until that fateful autumn when hurricane malachi knocked the whole place down,

and the normanskillers floated down the river in the flotsam of their oxbow city, sacks of rice stained purple by blueberries strapped to the sides of their tractors, carports and campers carried downstream over rapids and out into the ocean, and the overlords were largely lost to history, which we must regard as quite the pity

But were the corporeal Overlords truly lost to history? Of course they weren’t, you idiot. Haven’t you been paying attention? The Overlords make history. They’d just grown bored of their original Normanskiller hosts fairly quickly, so they sent them packing down river with an assist from a little weather-based jiggerypokery, where they could later be massacred by the Dutch, the English, and the Smallpox, to the great and lasting amusement of their former benefactors, who generally like nothing more than a boot to the face, forever. The departure of the aboriginal Normanskillers left the Overlords alone Upstate, in their secret underground bunkers and treehouses, filled with vapors and ethers, where they have romped and stomped and humped and pumped for centuries now, the corporeal conduits of the genesis urge.

Occasionally, the Overlords have found it entertaining to inspire creative human beings to evoke their archetypes in art, literature and film, to better allow humans to comprehend who and what they are. It is for this reason that you may think you know Mustpha Mond from Brave New World, or O’Brien from 1984, or Karellen from Childhood’s End, or Wintermute from that piece of shit Neuromancer. But these are but fictitious doppelgangers, images seen through mirrors darkly, and with Penthouse Vaseline filters smudged across their surfaces.

Upstate Ether is the real Earthly home of the Overlords. So behave here, lest they cook your brainstem, just because they can. And because they still find it amusing, all these centuries on.

The Flaming-Bag-of-Poop-Maker: Charles Darwin vs The LORD

For the uneducated man one of the most convincing of all “proofs” for the existence of a God is the watchmaker argument. It was presented by William Paley in Natural Theology, and the opening passage begins like this (Paley, 1802): “In crossing a heath, suppose I pitched my foot against a stone, and were asked how the stone came to be there; I might possibly answer, that, for anything I knew to the contrary, it had lain there forever: nor would it perhaps be very easy to show the absurdity of this answer. But suppose I had found a watch upon the ground, and it should be inquired how the watch happened to be in that place; I should hardly think of the answer I had before given, that for anything I knew, the watch might have always been there.” Further down Paley continues: “Every indication of contrivance, every manifestation of design, which existed in the watch, exists in the works of nature; with the difference, on the side of nature, of being greater or more, and that in a degree which exceeds all computation.”

Charles Darwin (in Hell): As Paley notes, there is indeed a reason for the complexity of everything in nature, and that reason is merely survival of the fittest. A tree exhibits all its idiosyncrasies as a result of those particular traits’ abilities to ensure the tree will receive adequate sunlight, water, and minerals. The “guiding hand” or “watchmaker” in this respect is simply nature. Cruel, heartless nature. That lets the weak die off and the strong feed on its bones. That punishes the sick and the poor and rewards the rich and powerful for their blameless fates. I guess what I’m trying to get at here is, if that’s what God is, then I can’t see how it is a benevolent force or one worthy of admiration at all. Especially since He’s had me cooking down here in this flaming sarcophagus for a century and half now.

The LORD: Don’t make me punish you and your followers up on Earth again, Charles. I could turn New York into a red state too, you know. Or I could make it so that when your fans get home tonight, instead of finding a rock or a watch sitting on their doorsteps, they will find a big flaming bag of dog poop. Then they will truly know who the Flaming-Bag-of-Poop-Maker is.

Sandy Twistedpanties: Aaaah, you ain’t so big, The LORD. Anybody could be the Flaming-Bag-of-Poop-Maker. In fact, I’ve been leaving flaming bags of poop in front of every church, temple, and mosque for years. Those bastards get everything tax free. The hell with that! Step in the poop, you!

The LORD: But who makes the poop that you put in your bags, Sandy? Well, yeah, dogs do. But then who makes the dogs? That would be me: The LORD. I am the one true maker of poop.

Guy Who Blocks The Flow: Someone told me once that Buddha was the one true maker of poop.

Buddha (in Hell): Nah brah, that’s The LORD. Srsly.

Guy Who Blocks The Flow: Buddha? In Hell? Really?

Buddha (in Hell): Yeah, it’s not too bad, really. The LORD set me and my followers up real nice down here. There’s a cow in every garage, for starters.

The LORD: Hey, no problem, Buddha. I’m all about equal opportunity when it comes to eternal damnation.

Sandy Twistedpanties: Aw, c’mon, The LORD. Dogs make the dogs that make the poop! Everyone knows that!

The LORD: But who made the dogs that make the dogs that make the poop, Sandy? Well, yeah, they were wolves long ago. But I made the wolves. And the single-celled organisms that they descended from. But that last point is just between us here on Upstate Ether, okay? If anyone from a red state asks, then tell them I invented all of those things over the course of a week some six thousand years ago. And I invented all living creatures with poop in their colons, so as to avoid any “which came first: the food or the poop?” debates. And now, if you will excuse me, I’ve got to get down to Washington, DC. I’ve got some cabinet and Supreme Court positions I’ve got to fill.

Charles Darwin (in Hell): I’ve got to respectfully disagree, The LORD. A combination of amino acids and outlandish weather and geological conditions made that one-celled ancestor of wolves all those years ago, and then natural selection took it from there. All you did was take credit for it. And send me to Hell for calling you out about it. I’ve got to say that I certainly don’t think I deserve a conscious eternity in this flaming coffin just for following the scientific method to its logical conclusion.

The LORD: Charlie, Charlie, Charlie . . . how many times do we have to go through this? Who made the amino acids and outlandish weather, Charlie? That would be me. But, oh, let’s see, I’m thinking you want to cite the prevailing scientific theory, something along these lines: that all the matter in the entire universe existed in a space smaller than a helium atom until a big bang blew it all up and created everything, all in matter of milliseconds. Suuuuuuuure, that’s real believable. Your astrophysicists don’t use scientific method. They make leaps of faith, and bad ones at that. I think it makes more sense to just suck it up and say “And the Earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the spirit of The LORD moved upon the face of the waters. And The LORD said, let there be light: and there was light. And The LORD saw the light, and it was good, fo’ shizzle!” That makes just as much sense to most folks as the Big Bang theory does. Now, excuse me while I go put together an extra big bag of flaming poop for Sandy Twistedpanties’ porch, and appoint Pat Robertson as attorney general. ‘ta!

Buddha (in Hell): You cows stay away from Charles Darwin, please. He is unclean and untouchable.

Charles Darwin (in Hell): That hurts, Buddha. That really hurts.

Voltron Power: Sloth Bear vs Wolfareen

AMSTERDAM, Netherlands (AP) – Bears killed and ate a monkey in a Dutch zoo in front of horrified visitors, witnesses and the zoo said Monday. In the incident Sunday at the Beekse Bergen Safari Park, several Sloth bears chased the Barbary macaque into an electric fence, where it was stunned.

Sloth Bear: Now that I’ve tasted monkey, I’ll never be happy with the Purina Sloth Bear Chow ever again. I’ma gon’ eat everything in the zoo now, bitches!

Ether Gallery: Good God, look at the claws on that monster!

Wolfareen: Whoa, whoa, whoa! You’re all impressed because that bear ate a little monkey? I can take down a muffuckin elk, bitches! Don’t toy with the wolfareen!

Ether Gallery: Maybe they could put a safari park in the mall and throw the prison inmates in there. Let the sloth bears and the wolfareens have at them. And is it just us, or does that bear look stoned?

Sloth Bear: I ain’t fuckin’ wit’ you, Wolfareen. We on the same team. We fuck shit up. We like Voltron, yo.

Monkey (in hell): Being eaten fucking sucks.

Wolfareen: Word up, striped homey bear. Now gimme some of that monkey meat, yo. Elk’s all gamey and shit.

Sloth Bear: That monkey meat’s makin’ me feel muffuckin slothful. I ain’t got ‘nuff Voltron power to fuck shit up right now. And my stomachs is kinda startin’ to hurt now. Oww! Ow ow! Oww!

Monkey (in hell): Joke’s on you, bear. I been eating my own feces all day! Ha! Ha ha, I say! Ha!

Redneck Dawg: Assa won funnah munka. Ho Sloff Behz, sevza munka baws fah me?

Monkey (in hell): Baws? You can’t handle my baws!

Redneck Dawg: Awwww. Assa won mean munka. Funnah, but mean. Wemma snuffsa baws, munka! Wemma snuffsem!

Sloth Bear: Yo yo yo, I’ma be sick! Bleeurggghhhh!! Bleee-eck!!! Bleee-arrgghhh!!! Bleee-uccka chukka pukkka koffa koooffa hack! Hack! Hack! Gack!

Redneck Dawg: Awwww. Assa lotta munka pooks, Sloff Behz. Kinna hazzit?

Sloth Bear: I lied. I only want the Purina Sloth Bear Chow from now on. Wild meat disagrees with my disposition. You win, Wolfareen. You have true Voltron Power. I’m just a big ol’ bitch with claws.

Wolfareen: Told you so, you Ether Gallery pusstards. Now step aside and let a Wolfareen get to work. I see a caribou steak in my immediate future.

Published in: on February 12, 2010 at 3:03 am  Leave a Comment  

Descent into Madness: Drunknard vs Everything (With Assists to Grand Marnier, Nicorette and Absinthe)

Drunknard: how come no one is ever online when i’m drunk and rambling here at night. i pine for the glory days, when upstate ether was a tussin-fueled 24-hour extravaganza of bile, hate and trailer park rocking trash. now this board is all bourgeois and boring… bunches of office monkeys arguing with themselves from nine to five daily. what about the night owls? what about the tussin drinkers, the lotus eaters, the winos and the wild children, the vapours, the fakers, the late night shakers and bakers, the makers of madness and mindfuck, the bad luck yuckapucks and the hucksters of sterling commentary and dromedaries heavy with crystal clear desert gold and the old tribes lies and wives who survive on highs? what about them, yo? why you office bitches control the gain now, huh? tonights meltdown brough to you by nicorette, grand marnier, and pure, real absinthe. accept no substitutes, motherfuckers. its worth the investment and the illegality and the heart palpitations and ministrations, the stations of the cross, the boss, the floss in the brain despite the pain, the limnal hymnal, the baptist bad trick, the equipoise and the altar boys, the trial balloons and cocaine spoons, the peridot and astronaut, its all there, prego, blended with a smooth italian sauce, of course, your loss if you don’t play the game at 11 P aMe, tired and sleepy like mister creepy cubicle monkey, whats a junkie to do, foo, you honkey motherfunky clerical donkeys?

{BIG INHALE!}

Drunknard: whassup, give it up for the brother who thought about the mother of that poster girl, her world cut short for the sport of hipsters and their sisters, all them dead sluts with cuts round their necks, ‘cept their sex is all wrong, they’s boys singing songs ’bout the mouths of willing slaves who save their souls and lend their holes to violation, thats their station, see, the mystery is why the guys let other eyes capture the fantasy for free and reap the benefit of that foul shit on concert walls and downtown halls, for some sick band did some poor whore give up her life, not once, not twice, but countless times as fools with rhymes reload the screen the view the scene of cables wrapped around the necks of little girls who sold their sex for crack and lies and alibis, the girlie dies, the girlie dies, and hipster guys and their hip maids debate the posters that they made, i say, i sayed, or said, i said, that little jezebel is dead, and in her breathless death emotes, a concert she herself promotes, by dudes with issues of their own, she cant pick up the telephone while i sit here, i’m all alone, in some electric message zone, but fuck it, fuck it, thats the key, fuck her, fuck them, fuck you, fuck me, fuck all this shit, fuck italy, and africa, fuck zuider zee, fuck abraham, and sam i am, fuck truth, fuck lies, fuck candied yams, fuck all of this and all that too, i need a drink, fuck me, fuck you.

{BIG INHALE!}

Drunknard: maybe champagne would ease the pain of a rainy day that in no way made the way that we pass the day escape in quick time like escapes, get laid, some splayed broad satisfying the faded impulses betrayed by age and rage, this stage in the night is alright, why fight the plight of the poor fools using tools of inebriation and levitation, flying high, like my own wry guy, i dont know why, while flying high i try to be an upstate ether guy, no reply from the office wise, replies and sighs, let the signal fall and rise, as pictures of thighs and brides scroll by, by and by, my and my, why try i, buy me my, my my and i, i get by in the sty that i make as i bake like a blind eye letting in the light, but the sight that i fight in the night is alright, yet the plight of the right guys and wrong eyes and lost guys and found prizes blight all i see when i pee in the sea that i sail chasing tail and i turn and i stand on my own like some bone-addled coot in a suit at a desk while my chest it is filled with despair where my hair in the air should be waving like flags like the freaks fly from peaks as the weeks scroll along and the song the impales my old scales in the vales like a spear, like a year in the valley of fear, where the lord in his ford, in accord with the tales that we tell, we’re in hell, just as well, just as well, since the smell of the land of the lord, get onboard is as bad as the lad that had had himself gored by the facts and the acts that come free, with a tax, that the state sets and rates on the plates of the poor, in the war of the rich and the sons of that bitch that we call liberty, but we pine to be free, get in line, pass the time with the liberal crew, who support and report all the things that you do, i am drunk, but no punk, got no green day on tap, as i rap and attack all the spurious crap that we eat just like meat in the most holy seat where our god says we’re odd and then give up its seat to the clown dressed in brown, that’s the devil we know, it’s his show, let it go, feast on raven and crow, since the veal makes us squeal that its suffering is real, while the foul and the owl feel like nothing we feel, since they fly, since we’re wry, like the carnival crowd that’s allowed, and is proud, to be ugly and loud, in the suits that they choose as the festival comes, and we turn and we burn and we’re nothing but dumb animals in the thralls of the festival vibe, where we try and decide that the lives that we’ve tried are remiss, if we piss out the bourbon and gin, then again, we can’t win, we’re here lonely and then, we submit and we quit like the monkeys that work, in a box, with a fax, in a cubicle world, where we hurled out the bile in a style that is grand, let it come, let it come, let it fall on the land that we make, no mistake, take the rake, how it down, to the town where we found that our kids are all fucked, theres no luck for the suckiest schools that our kids sit in all day, we pray that the anomie rids them of goals for their souls and the holes that they fill, put the pegs on your legs, stomp on circles that beg squares to come, like the sum of the total eclipse, as he slips, and he trips on the carnival ships, filled with germs and with worms that the stewards have brought, god, i’m hot, quote a lot, that’s the answer to what’s on your mind as you find that your energy fails and you stare at the sun and you (blind) trim the sails.

{BIG INHALE!}

Drunknard: upstate ethernards? you fucking bastard desk jockeys, you piss poor excuses for free thinkers, locked in your jobs, using this site for daytime amusing, rather than nigh-time abusement? wake up! cast off your yokes! talk to me, wasted wonders of yore! take me from lonely shore! fight the good fight in the war! that’s what this board, yo, is fucking here for! and now, i’m going to bed. i hope i dont throw up and drown in my own puke. that just old, yo. although it would still make headlines, i know.

James Joyce: Oh, come on now, you blithering idiot. That doesn’t make any sense at all. Stop that, right now! Bad, bad Drunknard! Bad!