City Planning: What the Bumblefuckers Want

Normanskill, NY (AP), “Just thirteen members of The Mayor’s Committee on Strategic Planning for The City of Normanskill, about a quarter of the total group, actually live in the City, with the rest making their homes in surrounding suburbs, according to an analysis by reporter V. Gina Gnome that included Bumblefuck and Normanskill County voting records, Internet-based address databases and the local telephone book.”

Wintermute: I’m a big fan of The Mayor, as you know, but this sort of behavior really frosts my donut. And not in the good way. As a longtime, tax-paying citizen of Normanskill, why in the world would I want someone from Bumblefuck County making decisions about my City’s future? What do all those people from suburbs out in Bumblefuck County actually want, anyway? A few more Starbucks to visit at lunch?

The Bumblefuckers: More parking for the two times a month we come into the city. All the cultural stuff in a nice sanitized area with no brown or poor people around. Cheap apartments for poor people that we can buy and flip a year later after having some poor, brown people repaint them for minimum wage, without benefits or social security. Maybe an indoor shopping mall. No gay people making us uncomfortable. More shows by The Dave Matthews Band, but acoustic ones in nice clean bars, so we can talk while they play. More cool nightclubs and restaurants with rope lines so we can feel exceptional when we get in. But they have to be in brightly lit areas with plentiful parking lots (we can’t parallel park, you know) and no poor, brown, gay or poor brown gay people around. In fact, when it comes to parking lots, let’s have some new deluxe “wider vehicle” spots designated for our Hummers only. You could put them where the handicapped spots are now, since no disabled people would get past the rope at our kinds of nightclubs anyway. That would pretty much do it for us. Good thing the Mayor put us on the Committee!

Wintermute: Why are you Bumblefuckers always so concerned about parking? Why, according to the Normanskill City Website, there are over 2,000 parking spots within a four block radius of the intersection of Asshat Avenue and Grand Street.

Karellen: Oh, come on, Wintermute. You know that most of those parking spots have been full since 1925. The last time I was heading downtown to the Asshat and Grand area and there was something going on at the Armory I ended up having to park up on Millard Fillmore Avenue. It’s a somewhat obvious choice, but for whatever reason (too freaky for the Suburbanites?), I didn’t have too much trouble finding a spot there. There’s always Hippie Hollow too. There’s always plenty of good parking underneath the overpass there. It’s kind of stuffy down there, though, so it’s good to leave your windows open. It’s so peaceful down there. Sometimes I just drop the kids off there and go for a walk. I need a lot of alone time, you know.

Louie Shakes: That’s right! There’s lots of nice young neighborhood people there who are willing to keep the kids entertained while you walk, and with the windows down, it’s okay to leave the kids in the car. Be sure to give the kids some money in case the ice cream truck comes while you’re gone. And leave the trunk open for them, too. They can play fort in it.

Guy Who Blocks The Flow: It is pouring down rain now, even though the sun is shining. Are the Four Horsemen sure to follow soon?

Guy Who Esplains Thins: They ditched their horses and are in motorboats now, following their yachts down the Hudson.

Pestilence: If there’s one muffuckin scratch on my yacht, Normanskill is going down with bird flu tomorrow!!

Famine: Are we there yet? I’m huuuuuuuuungry!!!!!



Q: Louie Shakes walked north 17 blocks and west 13 blocks to his ex-wife’s apartment in Brooklyn. He stole $65.00 from the bitch’s crib, where he also did $217.89 in damage jimmying the door open, which she had to finance on her credit card at 19.75% APR. Louie then set off to score some crystal meth from Stoney Stone Smeagol. It cost Louie $4.00 for a bus ticket from his ex-wife’s to Stoney’s apartment, $21.60 for the porno mag, smokes and pizza he bought while waiting for Smeagol to show, $30.90 for the rock itself, and $2.90 for a blowjob from a desperate crack whore he met in the stairwell on the way out. She gave him a 40% discount because she couldn’t actually get him off. He then met some brothers throwing dice in Williamstown. Louie bet the money he had leftover from his score, and made a 215% profit. He gave half of this to the cop who busted the game and threatened to haul them all downtown. How much money did Louie Shakes take home?

A: Zero, because Louie Shakes does not have a home. But the wad of crumpled bills and change he had in his pocket after his very busy day bought him a Slim Jim (Tabasco flavored), a pickled egg, and two bottles of Thunderbird from Abudinemadji’s Corner Market in Queens, and he later found a recycling bin filled with nice, clean, fresh newspaper, on which he laid his weary head at 3:00 that morning, a sweet smile of satisfaction and success on his weather-lined, dirt-stained face. It was Louie Shakes’ best day ever! At least until the night-horrors came.

Published in: on March 9, 2010 at 2:31 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.

Ethan Allen vs John Jay

Ethan Allen: You people claim Upstate New York as your home, so perhaps you’re qualified to speak to whether and when your state will secede from this union and become sovereign. The cartel who runs the business of the land for which your forefathers fought and died has repaid this service by taking your money and dividing it up among its friends. They use it to purchase the machinery of destruction (from themselves!) and, taking the poorest and darkest from among us, wield this power to its own gain around the world.  And how little they give back to you and yours! Your state is called the Empire State; and it is both the seat of power of a mighty empire and a land with sufficient resources and conditions as to become its own empire among the mediocrity which surrounds it. why must you continue to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory, decide every day and every year to support, to FUND, the machinations of a commercial cartel hiding behind the guise of a democratic union of states? When will you reach out and take what is already yours, what your people built, and which the rest of the world might envy. How many livelihoods must be stolen from your Carrier plants, your Oneida silver factories, your Nestle chocolate factories, before you will stand up and give them back to those to whom they belong? When the land where America was is scorched and parched, when the machine caves in on itself, when patriotism is exposed for the sham it is, where will you be? What will become of your state? I admonish you today, do not be left clutching the tattered rags of the flag of the Colonialized Americas, weeping for the union that was real only for a fleeting moment. Instead, embrace your state’s own motto: EXCELSIOR. Ever upward. You have everything you need right where you are. Grab the reins and drive your state to its rightful seat of prominence. Be ready for the collapse of this flimsy union and shed not a tear for the poor and pitiful souls who dwell in its auslands to the south and west.  Your children will enjoy a life of peace, prosperity and plenty. It is only your luck and your right, being born there. Do not squander it.

Re Ethan Allen: if there wasn’t war, then defense, energy and construction companies would go out of business. then what? And weren’t you from Vermont? Anyways, I’m down. You write the petition bring it by my house I’ll sign up.

Ethan Allen: Aye, I hail from the Green Mountain State. I fought for a union that did not in the end measure up to our greatest hopes. Let me extend the goodwill of neighbors from our fair state to your north and east. I cannot offer you men right now, but I will keep watch over your fight.

John Jay: Bullhonky, Ethan Allen. Have you been to Rhode Island? I think Rhode Island is nearly as quaint as some of the finer parts of our dear London. It’s smaller than New York and easier to defend from invaders. Abandon New York and Vermont. Look to Rhode Island for the future.

Ethan Allen: As quaint as I’m sure it is, Rhode Island’s very smallness is its greatest liability. “Little Rhoady” lacks the resource base of New York, with New York’s teeming fresh water, abundant timber, coal, game, cattle, produce and salt, and this is not to mention New York’s commercial and industrial infrastructure. And what of New York City? Rhode Island is a nice place to recreate one’s self, but it is no seat of revolution. I hail from the Green Mountains of Vermont. From where do you hail, Mr. Jay?

John Jay: I was born in New York City. And did you know that Rhode Island’s economy is built upon three powerful industries: health services, tourism and manufacturing. Health services is the state’s largest industry. Growing industries include electronics, plastics, metal products, instruments, chemicals, and boat building. Free trade in the global context is turning all states into service based economies. Rhode Island is ahead of the curve in this respect. Move to Rhode Island. Or die in New York. And coal? Who cares about coal anymore?

Ethan Allen: Healthcare equals managed care equals customer service equals service economy. Plus plastics and chemical manufacturing will screw your tiny state up faster than you can say “Dupont.”

John Jay: Listen, Ethan Allen: you took Ticonderoga so New York graciously left you and your Onion River pseudorevolutionary roughnecks to your farms and your sheep. But be warned, Ethan Allen, do not come looking for a slice of Empire pie now that the Union is beginning to crumble. You and your Green Mountain boys are rough and ready, but so are New York’s Calico Indians and Rhode Island’s plucky Providence Platationers. Rhode Island harbors no ill will toward Vermont. We all must see ourselves as allies in the overall battle for self-sustenance through the dissolution of the Union. I urge you: do not attempt to mount forces. It is my hope we can count on your support when the time comes.

Published in: on January 26, 2010 at 1:21 pm  Leave a Comment  

Federalism Along the Normanskill

Normanskiller: Me and the kids just got back from dumping some old tires and used oil in the Normanskill ravine! Now, we’re gonna take the afternoon off to spend some live free or die quality time together, just to put the finger in the face of the Patroon, who’s been sniffing around at the gate again, looking for his tithe. I’m so sick of him and his ilk and their crazy redistributionist schemes! They better watch their backs, ‘cause some day, we’ll come for them!!

Patroon Pieter Van Vreebenhuyck: There there, my little man, my little Normanskiller. Facts are facts, and you owe me for working my land fair and square. Pay me, or I’ll send a tax man with an itchy trigger finger, a man who likes to make his rounds at night. Because he has another job during the day, trying to fight back the Giant Hogweed that threatens every ditch between here and Boght Corners. He’s a nice little fellow. From Ghent.

Normanskiller: Oh yes, you send that tax man, and I’ll put a hole the size of West Troy in him as soon as he sets foot on my holdings. You can’t tax the land! It’s like trying to put a tax on the sun! How you gonna squeeze a dollar out of that? So send him on over. I’m ready.

Patroon Pieter Van Vreebenhuyck: That makes no sense at all, my gentle Normanskiller. Why, you’re starting to sound like one of those crazed Calico Indians, or, even worse, a New Scotlander! You know how it all works: I’ll just take some crops or meat or something. Come on. You know that’s my acreage you’re on. You signed a contract, so now pay up. There’s free land out west if you’re man enough to make the journey, and can farm it for a few years while fending off real Indians and other people out to do you harm. But we don’t have those rules here on the Normanskill. So pay up!

Guy Who Blocks the Flow: Hey, what has become of Upstate Ether? Now we’re in some sort of wacked historical hallucination?

DeWitt Clinton: Welcome to the new Upstate Ether, Guy Who Blocks the Flow! Nice to meet you! I’m one-time New York State governor Dewitt Clinton, prime proponent of the construction of the Erie Canal, that mighty channel of commerce that now runs from Waterford to Tonawanda, and is known as the “Barge Canal.”

Patroon Pieter Van Vreebenhuyck: Mister Clinton, Governor. Please, don’t mind the populists that sprout up occasionally here. We’re generally good folk, with a love for great men of politics like yourself. I know we have some mutual friends, Buffalonians, building a harbor that’ll bring more commerce our way. Oh how rude of me! Brandy and a cigar for you, Governor? This fine bottle traveled with me from Holland about 10 years back. It’s a fine malt. Why don’t we step into the back here where we might have a little more . . . privacy. Shall we?

Normanskiller (shouting from the crowd): DeWitt Clinton is a federalist whore!

DeWitt Clinton: Federalist whore, am I? Well I’d like to see how you Normanskill populists would fare without the support and protection of the mighty United States of America!

Normanskiller: We’d be fat, stoned and happy, dumping old tires and used oil into the Normanskill, the way our parents and their parents before them did! But now, with taxes to the Patroon, and taxes to the state, and taxes to the Feds, it’s all we can do to buy any tires and oil in the first place, much less to have extras to dump. You’ve destroyed our way of life!

DeWitt Clinton: And a jolly good thing that we did, you inbred, ditchweed yokel. There’d be no progress in this great land of ours if you and your kind were left to breed freely and make decisions about anything other than what type of offal you’re going to stuff into your pie holes from meal to meal. You, sir, disgust me. Good day!

Normanskiller: Clinton, you bastard, I know you’re a dueling man who put two bullets in a man’s leg a few years back. We could stand here and bark at each other like angry dogs, but why not settle our dispute in a matter of moments, the way that men do? Shall we say coon rifles at dawn?

DeWitt Clinton (pulls pistol from waistcoat, pumps four slugs into Normanskiller): I said, sir, GOOD DAY!

Normsankiller: I die! And I blame federalism along the Normanskill!

DeWitt Clinton: Now, about that brandy and cigar, Patroon Pieter . . .

Patroon Pieter Van Vreebenhuyck: Right this way, Mister Governor, right this way.

Published in: on January 19, 2010 at 3:55 pm  Leave a Comment