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.

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Overlord Holiday Special (Petulia)

Burl Ives: Well, you know, O’Brien has always been The Littlest Overlord. All the other Overlords pick on him. All the time! He doesn’t get to play in any of the Overlord games! But then, something wonnnnnnn-derful happened! On Christmas Morning, The Littlest Overlord got to give The Baby Jesus the best present of them all!

O’Brien: Here, Baby Jesus. I would like you to have my copy of the Criterion Collection DVD of Petulia. It’s the greatest movie ever!

Burl Ives: And when the other Overlords saw what O’Brien did, they were, like, “Whoh! Did you see that?! That Littlest Overlord just scooped us!”

Karellen: Yeah, sure, that’s how it happened, right. But then when we got home, we kicked O’Brien’s ass and made him clean the Easter Bunny hutches for being a dick and showboating on us.

O’Brien: I don’t want to be an Overlord! I want to be a dentist!

Mustapha Mond: Hey, who’s that girl on the cover of the Petulia DVD? She’s pretty cute!

O’Brien: That’s Petulia.

Mustapha Mond: I know that, Dinghis Khan. I mean, who plays Petulia?

Guy Who Esplains Thins: The role of Petulia was played by the young Cloris Leachman, before her “accident”. Rock Hudson plays her love interest. The villain is played by Marty Feldman, in a genius stroke of counter-casting.

Plot Summary of Petulia, from Internet Movie Database: After separating from his wife Petulia (Cloris Leachman), Elmer Scroggins (Rock Hudson) quits the spy business and became a restaurateur. His wife refuses to speak with him, and his daughter, who changes her career more often than her clothes, has begun dating a man old enough to be Elmer’s father! On top of it all, the government has asked him to come back and save the world again. The evil Von Bandeez (Marty Feldman) has hypnotized animals into doing his bidding, and plans to use them to take over the world! It’s up to Elmer to save the world, as only he can battle Von’s Vegetarians and man-eating rabbits!

O’Brien: Like I told the Baby Jesus. It’s the best movie ever!

Karellen: Oh nonsense, you littlest assblister. Everyone knows that Petulia 2: Locked and Cocked blew that first one out of the water. It gets an 8.3 on Internet Movie Database!

Plot Summary of Petulia 2: Locked and Cocked, from Internet Movie Database: A 14-year-old boy named Rudy (Sean Astin) is trying desperatly to lose his virginity. His neighbor, the divorced Petulia (Cloris Leachman) invites him over and they watch a porno film called “E.A.T. M.E.: The Sextra-Terestrial” starring Roxanne Du Jour (Shelley Winters). When the movie is turned off, they discover on the news that the famous porn star has died. Meanwhile in Heaven, Roxanne must become an angel by commiting one good deed. She decides to help young Rudy lose his virginity. It just so happens that Rudy has a crush on the sister of the town bully, Mean Gene (John Travolta). Only Petulia can make it all turn out all right!

The Baby Jesus:
Leave it to O’Brien to give me a DVD without checking to see whether we actually had a DVD player. How useless was that, The Littlest Overtard? But I forgive you. And I’m letting Joseph wear the disc around the house on top of his head, since he gets bummed out sometimes that me and Moms have halos, and he doesn’t.

The Sad Trombone:
Womp! Womp! Womp! Wommmmmmmmmmp!

Published in: on March 31, 2010 at 1:35 am  Leave a Comment  

Billy Bush is the Tlatquiatluk

Parking Lot Monkeys: We feel so dirty. We hate ourselves. We blame Billy Bush.

Billy Bush: What did I do now?

Parking Lot Monkeys: It’s not what you did, it’s what you DIDN’T do, Billy Bush. *SOBBB*

Billy Bush: Okay, what did I NOT do now?

Parking Lot Monkeys: *SOBBB* Billy, do something!

Zorax, Master of the Obvious: It’s another crappy Monday, and it’s Billy Bush’s fault, again. I am very bored, so someone needs to wake Henry Stack Sullivan up and have him dance for our entertainment.

Henry Stack Sullivan: Tappity tappity tappity tap. Shuffly shuffly shuffle shuff. Tappity tappity tappity tap. (Big finish) Ka-tap, ka-tap, ka-top, ka-CHA!!

Wintermute: Over the weekend, Henry Stack Sullivan drove me crazy. I had the sweats and my mother was very worried for me. She put me in an ice bath and prayed to Saint Marie, her head wrapped in a black shawl like mi abuela for hours. But it was no use, me not even shaking from the cold water in the tub, staring straight up, hungry for blood. My hallucinations kept getting more and more intense until I jumped out of the tub, knocking my mom onto the floor and blasting out of the flat with no clothes. I found O’Brien at the Hollywood and jumped on his back, biting him, like eight times! Everyone was freaked out, but I must have looked mad scary, because no one, not even the bouncers, stopped me. I woke up back home, my bed soaking wet and the fever broken, O’Brien’s blood all over my face and pillow. So I know that was real, and with all that blood missing, that guy must be in the hospital or something. And I blame Billy Bush.

O’Brien: I had a dream with Billy Bush in it. Not anything sexual, so don’t get the wrong idea, but it was pretty weird because I only have dreams I remember once every few months. I was back at University of Buffalo following Billy Bush around because I didn’t know where I was, and I was in a panic because classes ended that day and I didn’t have any of my work done. Not sure what strange psychological undertones this may imply.

Karellen: I had a similar dream, where Billy Bush was painting my face with charcoal, preparing me for war with an army of robots.

Sigmund Freud: These dreams sound homoerotic. I’d look into this if I were you.

O’Brien: I knew you’d say my dream was homoerotic. It felt more like Billy Bush was my leader, taking me out of a confused abyss of conference rooms and back to the Promised Land. Which had tacky set design and poor lighting.

Mustapha Mond: I was just talking to this hot mamasita in my building for about 15 minutes. And when I walked back to my apartment I noticed that my zipper was down the entire time. Now I feel like idiot. I blame Billy Bush.

Hot Mamasita: So, like, I was like coming up the stairwell today and this posh older guy that lives in my building came up to me and, like, he just kept totally going on and on about stuff, and I was like “uh huh, uh huh” and trying to get away, and then, like, he kept following me and talking. So then I notice that he’s like totally got his zipper down, like he’s trying to flash me or something, and I was like “Ohmygawd, how gross” and stuff. Finally I got away from him. But now my day is like totally shot by how grotty that was. And, like, I like blame Billy Bush and stuff.

Ossifa Tlinklitniktikutl In Nunavut, they have a word for people like Billy Bush: “Tlatquiatluk”. It translates as “the net that catches the shit flowing in to river, when it’s not frozen.” Each Inuit settlement has its own Tlatquiatluk, who bravely carries blame for all that goes wrong in the community, making the rest of the community members feel better about themselves. It’s good to see Billy Bush preserving such an important role in his homeland. Hopefully, he does not go Tiniktiniquit (Inuit word for “Mad like the mother seal after her cubs have been clubbed and skinned”), a common occurrence for longtime Tlatquiatluks.

Karellen: The freakin’ coffee jockey at the Dunkin’ Donuts put cream in my coffee when I ordered it black, and I didn’t realize it until I got to work. Now my whole day is shot. I’m getting too old for this crap, and I know who to blame for that, too! Where’s that damn Tlatquiatluk, Billy Bush? I’m gonna give him HELL!!

Ossifa Tlinklitniktikutl: You can blame him for everything else, but you can’t blame the Tlatquiatluk for growing old. Growing old is a natural process. Nothing to do with me or my people’s traditions. Inuit age quickly. I am only 34 years old, and already am a grandfather. My people generally die of heart attacks right around time our last teeth fall out from chewing hides, about age 50. Not Tlatquiatluk’s fault. Just the Inuit way.

Karellen: Sorry, Ossifa T, I don’t buy that. From my way of thinking, it was an Inuit serpent who gave the apple to Eve. Your people are responsible for age, death, sickness and painful childbirth. That’s why The LORD sent you to the Arctic.

O’Brien: I wish I had “a people.”

Karellen: You do have a people, O’Brien. They are called “Those Who Serve Karellen With Pleasure.” Now bring me a cup of black coffee, and tell Billy Bush that him and his type aren’t welcome here, especially on a Monday morning.

Parking Lot Monkeys: We’re sorry we brought that Tlatquiatluk up. It won’t happen again. Next time we hate ourselves, we’ll blame it on D. Boon. Maybe partying will help.

Meet Yr Overlords

MUSTAPHA MOND

Loves: Soma, Alphas, World Domination, Technology, Persian Food, B. F. Skinner, Uriah Heep (but only the Ken Hensley/David Byron Years)
Hates: Squalor, Epsilons, Hamburgers, Sand in His Shorts, O’Brien

KARELLEN (WITH MRS. KARELLEN)

Loves: The Overmind, Balrogs, Seawater Sacks, Sexy Devils, Sorority Girls, Jethro Tull (but only when Glenn Cornick or John Glascock were playing bass)
Hates: Simpletons, Empathy, Pretentious Arthaus Klowns, Inefficiency, O’Brien

WINTERMUTE

Loves: Himself, Upstate Ether, Rough Sex Role Play, Treehouses, The Earthworm, Computers, Toe Fat (the band, not the body condition)
Hates: Humanity, Sporks, Space Chubby, The Adams Party, O’Brien

O’BRIEN

Loves: Boots to the Face, Rats in Cages, “My Dinner With Andre,” Sigmund Freud, Big Brother, Karellen, Uriah Heep (but only after Ken Hensley/David Byron left)
Hates: Violent Children’s Games, Macho Bullshit, Insensitivity, Himself

Asbestos

Karellen: I have some asbestos insulation in my basement that needs removing. I’ll pay anyone $100 to do the work and will supply a soft red handkerchief for protecting your airways. Who’s up for the job?

Stoney Stone Stoner: Dude, count me in! That’s easy money, brah! Koff! Koff koff! Koff!

Wintermute: When you finish Karellen’s basement, you can come take care of the tunnels under my basement, and my tree house, too. The best commercial bid I have for asbestos remediation work here is pretty steep, what with all the rules and laws and safety and whatnot, so I’m prepared to double Karellen’s offering and pay $200, plus a handkerchief of a color of your own choosing, plus some duct tape to wrap it around your head so you can work with both hands. How’s that grab you?

Stoney Stone Stoner: Whoh, most excellent, dude! Those tunnels totally rock, what with all the grubs and the earthworms and the meat down there!

Karellen: Good man, Stoney! And, you know, asbestosis and mesothelioma normally take 30 to 50 years to manifest after asbestos exposure, so if you plan to be dead by 40 anyway for other reasons, then this is totally the gig for you. It’s basically free money!

Mustapha Mond: I did my own asbestos work. I cut small chunks off and dropped them in the trash every week and nobody was the wiser. Just spray it down with water beforehand and you don’t have to worry about getting a lungful of the stuff.

Karellen: Well, my understanding is that you really have to breathe in asbestos dust frequently to develop a problem. A small occasional exposure won’t do much. In fact, it may even put a little hair on your chest.

Wintermute: Fire retardant hair, at that!

Stoney Stone Stoner: Whoh! Maybe I can add some water and work the dust into paste for my back! I’d totally like to be fire-retardant on both sides! Heh! Koff heh! Koff!

O’Brien: Oh, I can’t believe what I’m hearing here. The truth is that it only takes a single asbestos fiber to form a lesion in your lung. But the fibers are so tiny, and the resulting lesions are so tiny, that it can then take years before it grows to the point where it’s a problem. Don’t mess with this stuff without protection and insurance, Stoney. Seriously.

Stoney Stone Stoner (Checking the Internets): Hey, Overdingles! From what I can find on the web, it seems that you’re not in danger as long as the asbestos is in good shape and you don’t disturb it.

Asbestos: Yeah, that’s right, bitches. Leave me the fuck alone. If I am encapsulated (painted or wrapped), and non-friable (not crumbly), then I’m not a pressing problem if I’m in an area where you don’t go very often. Tiles are the least worry. So just you stay on your floor of the house and I’ll stay on my floor of the house and everyone will be happy. Motherfuckers.

Ossifa Tlinklitniktikutl: That true, but on other hand, if asbestos is exposed to air and crumbly, then fibers are so small that even just walk past them generate enough air current to make them fly about. They get sucked along in wake of you and womenfolk and walrus, and eventually end up everywhere in igloo. This not safe. Ice Marshall come and take womenfolk and walrus, and put you on ice floe alone with no clothes if attempt to remediate asbestos without proper Nunavut license and payments made in seal hides and penis bones.

Drunknard: You guys are all full of shit. When I was a kid we had asbestos sheaths covering the pipes in our basement. I remember swinging around on them with the asbestos dust falling all over the place and I’m perfectly fine. If I were you Overdouches, then I wouldn’t be such a pussy. I’d just go down there with a hefty bag and a crowbar and take care of business. Then I’d use the bandana to wipe my brow when I was done.

Wintermute: I dunno, Drunky, old pal. I’ve heard some of the shit you cough up. You might want to get that looked at.

Drunknard: Do you mean my poems or the green shit that flies out of my mouth?

Wintermute: The green shit. I am pretty sure I saw insulation in there. Or chunks of spleen.

Drunknard: I’m pretty sure the insulation has been buried in the tar from one hitters and Winstons. I’m perfectly safe.

Drunknard’s Spleen: We all good, yo! I think that was stomach linings you saw there.

Drunknard’s Lungs: We’re Drunknard’s lungs and we’re happy as can be! ’cause every day he puts a bunch of weed in we!

Drunknard’s Colon: We’re Drunknard’s guts and we’re happy we can say! ‘cause we gave him quite a firm productive bowel move today!

Drunknard’s Brain: I’m Drunknard’s brain and I just can’t think for nuffin’! ‘cause Drunky’s gone and filled me up with robitussin!

Drunknard’s Liver: I’m Drunknard’s liver, soon your hunger will be sated! You don’t need salt or pepper, ’cause I come pre-marinated!

Redneck Dawg: Wez Drunknarz baws? Kinna snuffsem? Pliz?

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  

Hoverounds on the Normanskill

O’Brien: As I age and get more prosperous, the idea of riding around on an electric vehicle becomes increasingly attractive to me. Not a golf cart or a hybrid Toyota Deathwagon, mind you, but something more nimble. Like a Hoveround. Those really speak to me, and they sure are well-marketed. The ending of the most famous Hoveround commercial shows two elderly women in their Hoverounds at the edge of the Grand Canyon, implying that being wheelchair bound need not limit your enjoyment of life, even of the rugged outdoors. It’s right up there with the Clapper and “I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up” commercials among the geriatric set. I’d do anything to look as happy as those two old ladies did.

Karellen: I never perceived that commercial that way at all, O’Brien. I saw it as two elderly women in their Hoverounds at the edge of the Grand Canyon, trying to kill themselves, and foiled once again because their Hoverounds can’t climb fences. It sucks getting old and not being able to do stuff.

Stoney Stone Stoner: Whoh, dude, I love that commercial! Except it doesn’t show how the whole story ends, with the two old ladies holding each others’ hands and gunning their Hoverounds right into the Grand Canyon, Thelma and Louise style—except they fly right over the motherfucker, because those things can HOVER! Awesome, yo! Heh! Heh heh! Heh!

Karellen: Nice reaction time, there, Stoney. I’d already delivered a punchline to O’Brien’s opening. Now what the hell are we supposed to do with this piece?

O’Brien: Perhaps we could hold a vote on which one we like better?

Wintermute: Well, I like the frustrated suicidal old ladies trying to drive their Hoverounds through the fence better than the frustrated flying suicidal old ladies. It’s more pathetic, and that makes me laugh, because I find other people’s suffering humorous.

Mustapha Mond: I concur. Trying to commit suicide and being stymied is much better than going into the canyon.

Stoney Stone Stoner: No, dude, you don’t get it . . . they don’t go INTO the canyon, they go OVER the canyon! Because those things can HOVER! That’s gotta be worth something! They’re still stymied, just in a different way! Although I have to say, brah, the imagery of them getting caught up in the fence is pretty fuckin’ funny, yo.

Mustapha Mond (Frying Stoney Stone Stoner’s brainstem like bacon): Zzzzzzzzttttttt!!!

Stoney Stone Smeagol: Sssssss . . . . pass us that remotes, precious. Is times for Mutuals of Omaha’s Wild Kingdomses, sssss. Tricksy Overdouches. Sssss.

Mustapha Mond: Yes, I definitely like the crashing into the fence version better. Although they can’t get tangled up in it, since that implies them being able to generate some speed and power. They just have to drive into it slowly, bounce off, back up just as slowly and then drive into it again, over and over, without ever making a dent. I could watch that for two hours straight, easy. Someone get me Upstate Ether Central Casting! We got a film to make!

Upstate Ether Central Casting: Aw, guys? How about we substitute the Normanskill Ravine for the Grand Canyon, huh? We got some budget issues here, you know?

Wintermute: Yeah, the Normanskill could work. Because then if they did, by chance, break through and plummet over the edge, it still might not kill them. That really ups the impotence factor a lot.

Karellen: Speaking of impotence, what about if we replace the old ladies with O’Brien? He already wants to have a Hoveround, so that eliminates the need to convince him to sit in one. And old ladies can be tough to work with . . .

Wintermute: There’s got to be two of them on the Hoverounds, though. So they can get out of synch, and as one backs up, the other hits the fence, and you would keep thinking “Oh my God, if they could just hit the fence at the same time, then they might actually break through!” Only when they do get their shit lined up that way, it still doesn’t make a difference. So who should drive the other Hoveround, if we put O’Brien in one?

O’Brien: Thanks, guys! That would be great! I always wanted to be in the movies!

Karellen: Oh, Christ, O’Brien, this isn’t supposed to make you happy. So you’re out, you idiot. Now we need two Hoveround pilots . . .

Mustapha Mond: I’ve got it!!! How about our two favorite gibbering junkie hobo types, Louie Shakes and Ol’ Dirty Piece of Strange! We could get them obliterated on the drugs of their choices, and then send ‘em into the fence. You know we’d get some great ravings for dialog out of that, too. Oh, man. I know I would pay Hoyt’s movie ticket and snack prices to watch 90 minutes of footage of Ol’ Dirty and Louie Shakes stoned on Hoverounds trying to drive through a fence into the Normanskill.

Stoney Stone Smeagol: Hehs! Hehs hehs! Ssss hehs!! Thats would be the funniestsests, preciouses. Smeagol would put down remotes and leaves sofa to watch that one with nice, funny, friendly Overdouches. Yes!! Happy Smeagols! See him capers as Hoveroundses crashes into fences! Hehs! Hehs hehs, Smeagol says!

Karellen: See? The stoner crowd would totally eat that up! Brilliant, Mustapha! And that wouldn’t take much, from a budget standpoint: $150 for camera rental, $100 for film, $250 for film processing, $300 for the rental of two Hoverounds, $100 for enough hootch and rock to render Ol’ Dirty and Louie Shakes raving looney tunes. Results? Priceless!!

Upstate Ether Central Casting: Uh, guys? How about we go digital, and borrow the camera, to save a little scratch, huh? Film and processing is expensive, you know? And that hand-held video look is all the rage now among the Pretentious Arthaus Klown set anyway. This could be the next “Blair Witch Project,” and would leave us some margin on the books. Can we go that route, big guys? Thanks for considering it! You’re the best!

Stoney Stone Smeagol: Sssss! Yesss! Digitals!!! That’s leaves more money for preciouses weeeeeeeds!! Yes!! Sees Smeagol caperses with delightssses! Hehs hehs!

Karellen: Well, I guess that would work, what with the skyrocketing price of good weed and whatnot. Remember when we were kids and there were such things as nickel bags? Those were the days, when you could collect your tips from your paper route every week and go buy a little bag to get you warm after hauling all the Sunday papers. Kids just don’t have it the same these days. Although, I guess looking back, a high school diploma might have been worth more than all of those nickel bags.

Wintermute: I can remember a period in my life at college where pot was so plentiful people were turning down anything that was “shake” (broken bud with bits of stem and seeds mixed in). “I only smoke bud” meant you were high class, a real connoisseur.

O’Brien: Say, that reminds me, does anyone know what a “lid” is, in pot terms? An older relative of mine used to refer to buying “lids”, but I never knew what he was talking about.

Guy Who Esplains Thins: A lid is the round, flattish thing you cover a pot with to prevent food or water from splashing out while cooking.

Stoney Stone Smeagol: Ssssss! Noes!! Fat, stupid Guy Who Esplianses Thins is always wrongses! Stupid, fats Guy!! Ssss!! A lidses is amounts of loose weeds that Smeagol can hold in lid of Prince Albertses tobacco canses. Ssss!! What stupid, fat Guy is describeseses is not lidsesesses. What stupid, fat Guy describes is called ELP recordses!!!

O’Brien: Hmmm . . . I’ve heard of EP and LP records, but what’s an ELP record?

Karellen: It means “Extra Long Play” record. Or at least it feels that way when you’re forced to listen to it, and you can’t get your Hoveround through the fence to escape.

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.

Absinthe for Richie Muffinstuffer

Richie Muffinstuffer: Hey Overlords, is it true that absinthe is legal in the United States again? I’ve been reading about it all my life. I’m thinking it has to be even better for drugging and seducing attractive visitors than vodka, Robitussin and pomegranate cocktails, right? Who can tell me what it’s like? Money’s no object, obviously. Thanks!

Oscar Wilde (In Hell): I once remarked that “after the first glass, you see things as you wish they were. After the second, you see things as they are not. Finally, you see things as they really are, which is the most horrible thing in the world.” From beyond the grave, I would amend this to say that seeing things are they really are is only the second most horrible thing in the world. The first most horrible thing in the world is the dramatic irony of exploding of syphilis contracted after a youthful liaison with a female prostitute after being imprisoned as the most infamous bugger of the 19th century. But, still, you get my point.

Mustapha Mond: I think living in Binghamton would be worse than that.

Oscar Wilde (In Hell): Right. I stand corrected. Absinthe is the third most horrible thing ever. After syphilis and Binghamton.

Mustapha Mond: Nah, I still might have to move it down the fourth place, behind syphilis, Binghamton and that awful Shallow Hal movie. That burns worse that a venereal disease ever could.

Oscar Wilde (in Hell): Oh, I dunno. Shallow Hal had a pretty weak script, but that Jack Black is kind of cute. Never mind that other awful movie about me that had me chasing that poncey Jude Law around, though. I like my boys rough, and with some meat on their bones. From the great beyond, I’m looking at you, O’Brien!

O’Brien: Alright! At least someone is!

Published in: on March 5, 2010 at 4:13 pm  Leave a Comment  

Wondering While Shaving

O’Brien: Wondering, wondering, wondering . . . why does Barbasol shaving cream cost so much less than other leading brands? I mean, I buy the stuff, and I like to think that I’m getting a bargain, but when I’m at the drug store and Barbasol costs half as much, per unit, as Gillette Foamy or some other brand, it makes me wonder whether I’m doing something awful by using this cut-price product. Is it burning the skin? Altering the genome? Causing sterility? Contributing to the growth of manboobs? Is it made from monkey sperm? Spider Eggs? Can you use it with Pop Rocks? Did Mikey’s head explode after he shaved with it? Wondering, wondering, wondering.

Karellen: Goddammit, O’Brien! Quit daydreaming back there! You just nicked me, right above my kidney! Pay attention, man!

O’Brien: Sorry, Karellen. There was a big tuft right there, hiding a mole. Let me lay on a bit more lather. Wondering, wondering, wondering . . .

Published in: on February 27, 2010 at 10:29 pm  Leave a Comment