On The Origin of Feces

Charles Darwin: Look: if you’re a guy, then the only thing that matters in life is the mating. For millions of years you have evolved to put your prong in a moist warm place and leave your seed there, then move on. The marrying, the dating, the art, the music, the jobs, all that stuff, that’s just secondary to the mating. Those are the things you need to do in order to get to the mating. It’s different for women because they have evolved to carry a baby in their belly and breastfeed it long after you have gone. They’ve got investment. And if they choose to use the modern science of pills and prophylactics to keep from filling their evolutionary role, then that’s their business. But that doesn’t change your business, my male friends, which is the mating. You need to leave your seed, even if the recipient has created a chemical cocktail in her nether parts designed to destroy it. That’s her problem. Not yours. So if you aren’t doing the mating on a regular basis, then your life is without meaning or point. You might as well kill yourself now, and release the seawater inside you so that it may be used by someone who will actually satisfy his evolutionary prerogative.

O’Brien: I was wondering what my life was all about. Thanks for cluing me in. The meaning of life is the mating. Well, then. Who knew?

Charles Darwin: Don’t misquote me, O’Brien. I never mentioned life having meaning. Life has no meaning. It has purpose. And that purpose is the spreading of the genetic material. Also known as the mating.

O’Brien: Does pleasuring one’s self to pictures of moist warm places count?

Charles Darwin: No. The LORD was right to punish Onan for spilling his seed. The pleasuring of the self is not the mating. It is the wasting.

The LORD: That’s right. Ka-POW! Consider yourself smited.

Charles Darwin: Consider . . . if you had a choice: would you live in a little ragged hut by yourself with just enough food to live on and get to have your way with three different women every day, or have a nice house in the suburbs with a wife and three kids and a pension and get laid once a month? Be honest with yourselves now. Tap that lizard brain.

O’Brien: Honestly? I think if I lived in the ragged little hut, I’d get sick of the women after a couple of days and want to look at online porn by myself, so I’m going to have to pick the suburbs option. And I suspect I’m not alone.

Zorax, Master of the Obvious: Whether life has meaning or life has purpose is a meaningless distinction. Life simply is. And let me tell you all, especially you, Charles Darwin: the mating is over-rated, and O’Brien has touched on an essential truth with his choice. You can live a long and satisfying life without the mating, especially in an era of unlimited pornography on demand, all the time. No, the truest, deepest pleasure in life comes from the shitting. Nothing satisfies more than a good, solid bowel movement. Any one of us can go without the mating indefinitely. But see what happens if you try to go without the shitting. Everything you work for and achieve in life is not about the mating, because we have evolved to the point where we’re selfish pigs who don’t actually care about our spawn, but is instead about the shitting. You have arrived as a human when you have a nice, clean, private, sanitary place to deposit your feces, unrushed, unmolested, unwatched. So forget the mating, and embrace the shitting. This is what gives life its focus, meaning and purpose. Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s a bran muffin explosion in my immediate future. Is there any of the mating in yours? I didn’t think so. QED. Zorax, out.

Charles Darwin: Yeah, that’s what I meant to say. Survival of the Shittest. On The Origin of Feces. Right. I stand corrected. Darwin, out.

The LORD: “Darwin, out?” Oh, you jest, Charlie. You’re a funny little man. I’ma send Lucifer down to stick a fork in you to see if you’re done yet, and I suspect he’ll find you need at least another 50,000 years of broiling. Then we can talk about “out.”

Charles Darwin: Shit.

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)  

Art Talk: Hardy Party with the Overlords

O’Brien: I just finished reading “Jude the Obscure,” which may be the saddest book I’ve ever read.

Karellen: “Jude” isn’t sad, O’Brien. It’s one of the great comedic works of the English language, a veritable chuckle-fest from start to stop, if you find despair amusing, as I do. Plus, Hardy teaches an interesting lesson about women. Stay away from the mousy intellectuals; stick with the farm girls.

Mustapha Mond: I read “Tess of the d’Urbervilles,” and that was more than enough Hardy for one lifetime. He’s right up there with Dickens for writing soap opera drivel, as far as I’m concerned. Anybody want a watercress sandwich? I made a big old batch last tonight, so there’s plenty to go around.

Karellen: After having read “Tess,” I also read “Jude,” and “Jude” is indeed much, much better. Why young English majors are forced to read the former rather than the latter is just stupid, a true testament to the idiocy that leaks out of the ivory tower like dirty, smelly, pretentious pus. Mmmm . . . say, Mustapha, these are some good watercress sandwiches! I love the way you cut them in squares, diagonally, without the crusts. Well done, sir!

Wintermute: I actually chose to read “Jude the Obscure” after reading “The Mayor of Casterbridge.” So something drove me back. It’s pretty soap opera, yeah, but not so much drivel to me. It did have a list of mixed lessons at the end, none of which were clear: should we condemn society for creating a world where the mousy intellectual has no place in it? Or condemn the mousy intellectual for refusing to find a place in modern society. The farm girl (Arabella) was just as bad in her own way. Her presence begged the question of whether we are better off with the commonsensical farm girl or the mousy intellectual. Should you choose to do well and stay within your class or make the leap to another class and get thru all the suffering that ensues? The other important question was whether you are better believing in the God of the church and following the rules set forth, or following a code that you develop yourself based on your observations and views on the topic. Based on the ending, Hardy seems to tell you that it doesn’t matter one fat rat’s ass what you do. You go from one miserable situation to another. Then you waste away all by yourself.

O’Brien: That’s what I mean about being the saddest book I’ve ever read. Well, that and the fact that I have moved the time it took me to read it closer to death, with nothing much to show for my effort. The way I see it . . .

Wintermute: Shutup, O’Brien, I’m not done. So, for me, I guess the big unresolved question is: does the wasting away occur because society has no place accepting those who cannot live within its norms or is it because society should open up to new ideas and create a world where ways of doing things that are outside of the norms are accepted? Should Jude have changed himself or should society have changed to accommodate Jude? Or is the tragedy simply inevitable seeing as neither of the individual nor society really could change these aspects of themselves that differed without losing their fundamental nature?

O’Brien: Well, I think that it’s all a matter of . . .

Karellen: O’Brien! Zip it! We’re talking about Thomas Hardy here! Let the big boys speak, and you be a good fellow and go make us all some tea to go with these delicious watercress sandwiches that Mustapha brought us. Off with you! Chop chop! Go! Now, where were we before we were so rudely interrupted by that silly little Overlord? Oh, yes . . . those are all good points, Wintermute. There’s also the division of the intellect (let’s call it potential) to the body (let’s call it kinetic), and the inevitable subjugation of the former to the latter, by necessity. Or something. Pass me the chutney there, will you?

Wintermute: Here you go, Karellen. These truly are some great watercress sandwiches, Mustapha! Bravo! So, anyway, Arabella is the worse of the two women, the way I see it, being the calculating, manipulative one, but one is hard pressed to hold her responsible for that, given that she is subject to the same (well, differently, actually, but all part of the same larger structure) social restrictions/necessities. Her friends give her the advice of getting preggers, and getting her man that way, but that’s just the reality of the farm girl. In the end, it’s not the women who spell the downfall of Jude, but the conflict between what he would be ideally and that of which he is capable. He could, of course, stay in his attic, learning Latin, but the girl flashes him a smile and all that is physical about him trumps his intellectual pursuits, and soon enough, he’s beat. He can’t help it, because he’s not this purely intellectual being, but instead one possessed of intellect in conflict with desire, folly and physical need. I say “folly,” of course, which has its origins in “fool,” but that is not right. It’s not to indicate that his fall into the arms of a farm girl (or any other, for that matter) is the result of his own failing, but rather the natural, human desire to not spend the rest of one’s life in alone an attic, studying Latin. And, also, by “physical necessity,” I don’t just mean “poon-tang” (is that actually hyphenated? I don’t know), but also the basic needs of a job, food, shelter, etc. Which is what Arabella was dealing with as well. She gots to get hers, namsain?

Karellen: “Poontang” is a little too Motor City Madman for my tastes, Wintermute. I prefer “pussy.” Otherwise, you’re spot on target.

O’Brien: Tea?

Published in: on March 13, 2010 at 2:49 am  Leave a Comment  

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.

Chicken Fluffer

Karellen: I’ve got a bit of sensitive request for you, my Overbrethren. Last night, Mrs. Karellen and I set up the boudoir video cam to capture a little rumpy-pumpy for posterity’s sake, and when I watched the playback, I have to confess that I wearied of waiting for myself to reach full tumescence. I’m thinking that I might need to hire a fluffer. Someone to wait in the wings, as it were, to prime the pump, so that once Mrs. Karellen cries “action,” I’m ready for the fleshy swordplay right away. Can any of you recommend a good fluffer?

Mustapha Mond: I’d be happy to recommend and share my fluffer, Napoleon Boner Pirate. He’s an excellent fluffer. Very professional. He’s fluffed for Space Chubby and Commissioner Gordon Haskell as well, plus many others. He’s friendly and courteous, and always senses when it’s time to get in there and get to work. A real self-starter. He doesn’t need anyone pushing or holding his hand while he works through complex tasks. I’ve got his resume here, in fact. It says: “Highly organized and motivated; exceptionally reliable, conscientious and thorough; excellent written, oral and interpersonal communication skills; familiar with all Microsoft Office applications, bass guitar, and ikebana.” Let me get him on the line for you . . .

Karellen: Hmm . . . he seems like he might be a bit over-qualified for my needs. Plus that name sounds French, and I’m not so sure I want his type lurking around the mothership.

Napoleon Boner Pirate: No no no! I’d be perfect for the job! That’s an old resume, actually. I’m no longer pretending to be familiar with Microsoft Office Applications now that my fluffing career has started to take off! Give me a chance. I’ve got the drive and determination to see any situation through. At least watch me fluff before you make a decision.

Karellen: Let’s not be too hasty, there, good fellow. How about a little conversation first, hmm? Tell me: what’s the biggest challenge you’ve faced as a fluffer, and how did you handle it?

Napoleon Boner Pirate: Well, let’s see. If I understand your question correctly, the biggest challenge would have to have been Drunknard in the early days of Space Chubby. I simply couldn’t get a rise out of the guy. Then one time we were in Montreal and saw a porno film with women acting like chickens, pecking up corn, clucking, etc. Drunky pretended not to be interested but I saw a funny look in his eye. From then on I would bring a couple of hens to band practice and everything was, ya know, cock-a-doodle-can-do.

Mustapha Mond: That shows you’ve got some gumption, kid. The world would be a better place if all fluffers were as goal-oriented.

Napoleon Boner Pirate: The first rule of fluffing is that if you’re not goal-oriented, then maybe you need to find another line of work.

Drunknard: It’s true. Before Napoleon, I didn’t really know that I liked chickens. Now I keep a coop in my basement, and I bring chickens to every show. Thanks, Napoleon. You’re in a league of your own.

Gassy Veal Kitten Randy: I can vouch for the chicken thing. Me and High Function Downs Boy tried to practice in Drunknard’s basement a couple of times but we were up to our elbows in chicken shit. I must admit, however, the sound of our awful music was veritably enhanced by the inclusion of the murderous clucking of consistently molested chickens.

Drunknard: Molested? You make what I do with chickens sound so scandalous. The chickens and I make love. Where’s the harm in that?

Gassy Veal Kitten Randy: That’s not the way the chickens squawk it, dude.

Drunknard: You wouldn’t know an ee-yawk from a ree-ikkk, my uncouth young friend. And besides, their language by nature is crude and violent to untrained ears. What you hear is simply their begging for my attention.

Sandy Twistedpanties: Begging for your attention? Oh please. The truth of the matter is that a chicken can never say yes. After all, despite your ostensible comprehension of squawk, the poultry language has yet to be mapped out by the best of our scientists. However, the most commonly uttered phrase among chickens as derived at laboratories and through publications I am familiar with is “rape!” Even when chickens are being violated by roosters, they have no choice in the matter. While PETA refuses to go this far, I must insist that all sexual acts involving chicken are by nature forced and therefore morally wrong. Please consider in depth what you are doing, Drunknard, and release the hens. Otherwise, I’ll make a stink so big my local district assemblyman may hear about it!

Karellen: What’s that smell? Yuck!

Sandy Twistedpanties: You know exactly what that smell is, little man. But you clearly aren’t accustomed to the smell of empowered vagina. Just the mention of that word—“vagina”—makes some small-minded, little men uncomfortable. Grow up. Learn to appreciate the way a real woman smells. Like strength.

Karellen: You have to admit . . . it’s a bit musky . . .

Drunknard: What I have with the chickens goes beyond language. It’s called love.

Sandy Twistedpanties: Okay, Drunknard, I thought maybe you were a reasonable man. But now, once again, I am forced to realize the truth that the only good man is a dead man. Prepare for the stink.

Napoleon Boner Pirate: Sandy, are you trying to make my job more difficult? Do I have to find another vice for Drunknard that doesn’t involve chickens or other animals? I’m tellin’ ya, before I happened onto the chicken thing the guy was like a deflated balloon. Cut a fluffer some slack, namsain?

Sandy Twistedpanties: Typical male perspective, Napoleon. As if everyone has the same voracious sex drive that must be satisfied. Why don’t you just leave him alone, and not expose all those helpless chickens to psychological devastation in the process?

Guy Who Blocks the Flow: I had a dream that David Bowie was telling me what a wonderful artist I am. I told him he was wrong and to fuck off. “Shut up, David Bowie, you’re full of shit.”

David Bowie: You insult me in a dream, you’d better wake up and apologize.

Where Everybody Knows Your Favorite ELP Album

(Piano Music and Singing Over Credits)

Making your way in the world today
Takes everything you’ve got
Taking a break from all your worries
Sure would help a lot
Wouldn’t you like to get away?
Sometimes you wanna go
Where everybody knows your name
And they’re always glad you came
You wanna be where people see
Troubles are all the same
You wanna go where everybody knows your name

Karellen Walks In

Ether Gallery: KARELLEN!

TITS (polishing a glass behind the bar): How’s it going there tonight, Mr. K?

Karellen: Not too bad, TITS. Quite a day at the office. My bunions are killing me again. But it’s good to be here.

Mustapha Mond (dressed in a postman’s suit, stands up, walks over to Karellen, sits on the stool beside him): That’s good, Karellen. We’re all glad to be here. Let’s chat about Emerson, Lake and Palmer to get your mind off your bunions.

TITS (Slings towel over shoulder): I tell you what, y’all keep chatting about ELP all night and this bar’s gonna get shut down real quick.

Ether Gallery: Laughter!

O’Brien (from a table in the corner): Aw come on, TITS, let’ em talk about what they want. I personally don’t care for ELP, but it’s a free Ether right?

Karellen: That’s what I say, O’Brien. (Sips from beer). Ah, nothing like sipping back a cold one and chatting about ELP with pals.

Mustapha Mond: Yep, their third arlbum wars tha one ta have. It’s er, eh undeniable. Hey bahrkeep, how’s about parrin me anather one?

TITS: Just a minute there, Mister M. Hey, Snoink, why so glum tonight?

Snoink (in sports coat with beard): Oh I don’t know, TITS, I suppose it’s just so unreal, isn’t it?

TITS (Leans against bar): Well how d’ya figure that, Mr. S?

Snoink: Well, that’s the whole idea of it I suppose. Here we are, in a public space, similarly to the way it used to be. However, it’s completely different than it used to be. Ten years ago, Guttman was right, we were “bowling alone.” However, now, we’re not even actually bowling (and nor are we, I might add, in virtual reality helmets, literally). We’re just clacking away. The least effort short of watching television, and yet this is the proverbial and current public sphere!

TITS: What are you getting at, Mr. S?

Snoink: Oh nothing I suppose, nothing. It’s just depressing is all.

O’Brien (from a table in the corner): I hear that.

Mustapha Mond (Raises glass): To depression!

Ether Gallery (All raise glasses): DEPRESSION!

Snoink: Don’t understand me too quickly. I’m talking about atomization, the individualistic, privatized tendencies of man gone too far! I’m talking about alienation, and anomie only against one’s self, the cause of that depression! I’m speaking of the current lack of feeling, caused by this lack of real, public interaction, that can’t help but leave one feeling empty and unfulfilled in the end, despite the fact that this is, in some (inferior in my opinion) sense considered “public interaction!”

Ether Gallery: Silence!

Karellen (Turns away from Snoink and towards Mustapha Mond): Yeah, so the third ELP album is definitely the one to have.

(Fade to black over piano music)

Published in: on February 22, 2010 at 3:19 am  Comments (1)  

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!

Purity: Karellen vs O’Brien

Karellen: Purity is an adulterated notion of Christian penance and outdated instinctual loathing. Death is not life in any form regardless of what these notions of purity and sacramental rebirth may lead you to believe. Purity absorbs our little selves and replaces everything in them with the slow and inexorable sedimentations of the smaller deaths: indifference, hate, obsession, the cankered tranquility of domestic life and the fevered varieties of the displaced orgasms that we experience through television, movies, books, restaurants, clothes, haircuts, tattoos, cars and professional sports. Dying is what we do all the time, and it is not entertainment. It is dying.

Guy Who Esplains Thins: If you can read this message, then you are dying.

O’Brien: We’re not going to die, Karellen. Through the Ether, you and I will live on forever! Our mental meanderings have been imprinted on the collective gray matter of humanity, which will persist after corporeal death as waveforms. They will travel through space like microwaves, these ideas which have been created or conveyed, and can no longer be destroyed. We are all eternal!

Guy Who Esplains Thins: If you can read this message, then you are dying. From microwaves.

Published in: on February 2, 2010 at 7:51 pm  Leave a Comment