Project GILBROD VII

Project: GILBROD
Part VII: The Blasted Lands

"I feel like delving into the Blasted Lands.  Strange things there dwell.  We will enter the realms."
-- John
[ 12.02.2012.  1:35 AM ]

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On our planet they found it to be terribly dark on our brightest days.  This is because they come from near the center of the galaxy where many stars cluster together.  At all times on their planet there are seen several stars in the sky appearing at least as large as our single Sun here on earth.  Displays of solar violence, stars in death-dance tearing each other apart, streaming brilliant chains of fire between their deformed surfaces, are considered mundane astronomical features.

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Ah, yes, my strong child, my beautiful son.  Look, how she cowers before us.  Not so haughty and proud now, is she?  Mighty city-dweller!  Oh, yes, underneath, she is not so apart from us.  See!  See!  No, no, do not worry, my son, it is not her skin that you see me rend and rip, it is but her garments -- for you see, these city-dwellers, they cover their real skins with these woven things, these false skins, and you can tear them off without hurting them at all -- see, there is no blood.  No blood or wound at all.  Now behold, I have exposed the mating hole located between her plump haunches.  

Come now, my strong son, we will enter it together.

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At first i found the people to be tolerable, kind, and welcoming.  It wasn't until the early evening when they gathered together for the customary feeding that i witnessed the horror spoken of in the Chambers of Wisdom.  At first, they presented me with a bevy of plants seasoned by a fatty colloid; it was agreeable and I absorbed the matter into my being.  More chatter and laughter; I felt things were proceeding well.  Then, with grotesque ceremony, a few of their knobby matrons whisked into the room bearing the stinking corpses of slain beasts.  These were no animals I had ever seen, chitinous monstrosities with claws, eyestalks, and segmented exoskeletons.  With no change in mood they began to rip apart the shells of the things and slurp out the flesh within, first dipping the torn chunks into a boiling slurry of condensed mammal excretions.  My entire being quaked at the sight, the stench, the inescapable reality of the horrid spectacle.  My mind wandered back to the colloid I had ingested; it no longer seemed as innocent as I might have supposed, and my tract roiled in disgust and I strove to maintain my composure.  In a weak voice I inquired into the meaning of the ritual, determined still to learn what I could.  They bragged of the supposed delicacies and marveled at my reluctance to consume the filth.  Their words were light-hearted at first, but soon their emotional resonance changed and I began to sense genuine discomfort spread among them.  Surrendering to panic and afraid of the risk of total failure, I energized my particulate cloud and teleported away without explanation.  My mental state was so radically disjointed that I released excess electrons in my wake, and many of the party received severe radiation burns.  This I regret.  And yet I cannot bring myself to return to atone for my accident.  No, I say now that I have no intention of ever returning to the land of Nantucket.  The council shall have to find another.

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No one saw it but me.  He scratched his scalp, just a mundane scratching, but i saw what really happened.  I saw the skin erupting.  Tiny shards of dry skin burst from the scratches, near-microscopic fountains of dead skin fragments shout out several feet into the air, forming a rain that slowly fell on the chairs and the table and not least of all on our dinner; honey-glazed ham, infused with the detritus of crusty head skin.  I think the world would be a better place if people would take a moment every day to consider how much skin has fallen off their body.

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Weather is getting volatile.  Leading scientists agree: we are returning to a Triassic climate.  Storms will reach unprecedented intensities.  New fault lines will appear with massive volcanoes birthing worldwide.  A shift in the magnetosphere will create a cascade effect, redirecting the solar winds which will in turn disrupt the orbit of Jupiter.  The gravitational changes will create havoc in the asteroid belt, and Earth will enter a new phase of bombardment.  The plesiosaurs which have been held in stasis in the ancient polar ice will break free and reanimate.  They will organize into huge armies off the coast, and when the time comes they will assault the beaches and wreak devastation upon the Capitol.  Leading scientists agree.

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“Okay, Rich, what do we got?”

“It’s one of the most absurd things I’ve ever seen.  Chris, how these kids come to find such thoughts in their heads.  This fellow- here, pass me the chart please- um, this fifteen year old kid, name -- Jeremy Dorn -- fired a pressure washer at his forehead to, as reported by the mother, remove unattractive blemishes before an important first date.”

“Oh, hell.  This was self-inflicted?”

“Looks that way.  Dumb shit made a terrible mess.  We got, hmm, looks like a ten square centimeter flap just barely attached, several smaller lacerations, a couple pieces of scalp outright missing, and a ruptured right eyeball.”

“Fuck, guess I’m missing the game.  But dude, I got this new app where I can remote program my DVR.”

“Nice, let me see.”

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I went to the orphanage today.  All about the grounds there were strewn the small, rotting limbs of children.  I don't know who cut their arms off or why.  It probably doesn't matter.  Insects were frantically working to consume the flesh, and I admired their merciless competition.  A great stink filled the air.  Inside the fetid domicile, the limbless children scuttled about like wheelbarrows, their distended faces mashing through a thick layer of their own long-accumulated waste.  From most there came an interminable wail of unfiltered horror and despair.  

"Hi, got a package here, can you sign for it?  Yes, right there please.  Thanks.  It's heavy, do you need any help wi-  no?  Ok, thank you, have a good one."

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My friend, you have not known comfort, or the meaning of true luxury, until you have felt the warm embrace of the Fecal Jacuzzi.

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His name was Rick Jesus, and friend, he could dance!  Yep.  Good ole dancing Rick Jesus.  He was the man.

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From acclaimed dungstep producer Poop Sock Renegade comes the brilliant new album: Sole Grime.

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"Mommy, what's a demon?"

"Well, honey, you know those two men that live together a few houses away?"

"Yes."

"At night, and even sometimes during the day, they will stick their tinklers inside each other's fannies."

"Ew!  Gross!"

"Yes, it is gross, and God hates it when they do this.  So God made it so that every time they do that, a horrible, mean creature forms inside of them.  After they finish being inside each other, they poop, and the creature comes out and that is a demon.  And that's why you can never go near their house or talk to them because there are demons everywhere on their property, and Mommy wants you to be safe."

"Thanks, Mommy, I love you!  You're so smart!"

"Aww, God bless you, honey.  God bless you."
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I hope one day to have occasion to methodically kick open a long row of public restroom stalls in the course of hunting for someone.
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Ninety percent agree that egregious inefficiencies present in our legislative system are generated by a foolish dearth of human sacrifices.  However, the public is helplessly fragmented as to whom should be sacrificed; few are in favor of a random lottery to select the offerings.  People with conservative values tend to think that the unemployed, gays, and latinos would be most fitting to slake the thirst of our God; those with liberal values tend to place a higher premium on the blood of rural folk and religious fundamentalists.  Americans aged 18-34 overwhelmingly support the sacrifice of the elderly, while those in the 65+ bracket seldom agree.  Only 2% of all people support the sacrifice of those under the age of twelve; sadly, this prejudice will deprive the Almighty of the sweetest and surest blood available, and his wrath could be overwhelming as a result.  To solve this issue, Senator Leland Karvis of North Dakota has put forth a bill that would allocate government funds for unwanted babies to be raised in foster care, rather than be aborted, until such time as they are mature enough to be laid on the altar for the pleasure of the Lord.

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We traveled deep into the innerspace.  We breached the boundaries.  No one predicted the utter horrors we would bring back.  They clung to us like remoras, and upon exposure to air, they dropped off and burst onto the soil, soaking it with a noxious oil from which sprouted plants of bizarre and terrifying feature.  And instead of fleeing from these alien plants, like any sane person would, we cultivated and harvested them, and we imbibed them to see what effects they might have.  The vistas that were opened can never be closed, and forever after the winds of those blasted lands will scour us relentlessly.

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So there is a ghost, or maybe I should call it a poltergeist, in my house.  It's invisible, so how do I know it is there?  I know, for certain, because the thing is constantly giving me blow jobs.  You might think it would be awesome, but actually it is not.  For one, it will start up at any time, no matter what I happen to be doing.  But that is really not the prime concern.  The thing is really good at it, I mean, it is fucking skilled, but every time I try to just lean back and enjoy it, I can never stop worrying whether it's a girl ghost or a dude.

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I hope one day to suddenly leap to my feet in front of an assembled group of people, interrupt a speaker and jab my finger at them in an accusatory fashion, and yell "Lies!  Lies!" in a booming voice which is then drowned out by the furious jeers of my enemies mingling with the exuberant cheers of my supporters.

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It's just an inescapable truth that people feel nostalgic for their youth and think that whatever particular era they happened to grow up in was the best time to be had in all of history.  My mom was always keen for the fifties, which she remembers as a time of decency and stability, a land of Ozzie & Harriet wholesomeness.  My uncle, a few years younger, will never stop reminiscing about the sixties and the freewheeling hippie lifestyle he briefly embraced -- it was all about weed and the Beatles, I would judge from his rambling stories.  A certain coworker of mine pines for the decadent seventies in New York City and makes veiled references to hedonistic times he enjoyed in the Disco Era.  And we all know some people who yearn for the electric-blue eighties or the grungy nineties...

...misguided sentimentality, I tell you.  Everyone only remembers the good parts of their vanished salad days, clinging to pop culture artifacts and hazy impressions of national unity or youthful abandon.  But I suppose I am no different, because just like them, I'm convinced that my youth occurred in the greatest time in human history -- the Millennial Era.  Oh, what a decade.  It was initially defined by the earthshattering events of September 11th, which we watched as wide-eyed children.  I can still remember the thrill of that day, the incredible spectacle of destruction, and the air of excitement as we hoped for more attacks to disrupt the monotony of life, to freak out the adults -- and maybe get us out of school for another week.  No puny Woodstock concert or piddling Watergate scandal can ever match the importance and the sheer awesomeness of 9-11, that is indisputable...

...and that was just the opening trumpet blast of a decade that charged out of the gates like a juggernaut.  Another significant terrorist attack never materialized, but Hurrican Katrina was almost as compelling -- remember the Superdome footage and all those drowning black people?  Glorious.  In the Millennial Age, we were still blessed with a cool tough guy as our President, a man who made you feel good about America as we were blowing up terrorists and taking over countries like a fucking boss.  The economy was pumping full throttle and the roads were dominated by giant Hummers and Escalades, where the heck have those all gone?  Music?  Rock and roll evolved past its questionable beginnings and reached a zenith of pure kick-assedness in the form of Korn and Limp Bizkit; classic anthems such as "Freak on a Leash" and "Nookie" were the soundtrack to a nation proudly moshing into the unlimited future.  So many other great things to mention, I could go one forever.  Pokemon.  The Matrix sequels.  Survivor and American Idol.  Britney and Backstreet, Xtina and N*sync.  50 Cent.  Ritalin and Adderall.  The Saw movies.  MySpace.  iPods.  The Nintendo Wii.  And it all led up to the coolest pop culture event in history -- the release of James Cameron's Avatar, unquestionably the greatest film ever made, a singular cultural touchstone for the entire nation.  We all saw it, we all loved it, it redefined the possibilities of cinema for all time.  What a great closing note to an unstoppable decade!

Yes, I dare any of you fogies to make a case for your crappy youths.  I'm sorry, but you were mere precursors to the Millennial Age, a triumphant time that can never be matched.  And to the kids coming up now in this new decade -- sorry, faggots, but the real party is over and you're just gonna have to fight over our scraps.

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What up?  Bitch!  Ahh ha ha!  Did you see what I did there?  I called you a bitch!  You were all like, oh how nice, he is interested in what I am doing, but then you were all like, no, wait, hold up, he is not at all interested, he called me a bitch, damn, that is harsh.  Yeah, that's right.  That's what you get!  Stomped!  So cold.  Bitch didn't even see it coming.  Wow.  I am impressive.  I mean, I am really fucking good at this.

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How can one be so naive in this day and age to know who is in da Royal Knights?  Fucking ridiculous.  Don't even start with that weak sauce accusation that they've lost the edge; sure, Franklin Bones got a little whitewash.  Dat nigga used to rule the streets and pop shit from a bitch's ass at the drop of a dime.  Slick.  Real talk?  He became 5-0 and hangs out at da police picnics and shit with Charlie Dandridge and other sick honkies.  Low-key, the Knights no longer check him, he's been relieved of command.  But real talk, da Knights are bigger than one man, and the word from the corridor is that Stew Gantz has assumed a position of power.  He's the nigga to keep tabs on.  Already he's placing orders at Cheno's for armor plating, gonna convert every whip on da block to a rolling gunship.  Straight, you didn't hear that from me.  When the leaves start falling, Gantz and the rest of the Knights are gonna do a dead ass roll up these faggot lanes and separate da wheat from da chaff.  Chaff yourself in the ladyhole, fagmotron.  Miximum respect.  Stomp the neck.  Search the wreck.  

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I'm sure you've heard the news -- that Pope Benedict XVI is going to renounce the papacy at the closing of February, and that the preferiti will swiflty elect the next pontiff.  It's taking over the headlines as we speak.  But do not, for a second, be gulled by the flimsy cover story that Benedict is abdicating because of "declining health."  This is verifiably false, as anyone who has witnessed the man's unusually robust body can attest to.  It's a sham.  Are there perhaps any Catholics in your office?  If so, note carefully how they discuss the news; they will feign surprise and claim to be startled, disbelieving... but watch them and you will see the ruse.  The truth is that they knew this was coming.  For almost two years now every practicing Catholic has known that Benedict would have to be disposed of in some way in order to make way for another man, a man whom many believe to be the Saccamentus, the prophecied Pope of Destiny who will lead the Church to its foretold glory.  His coming was immediately apparent to all true Catholics, shining like a beacon although to most people, his emergence was completely invisible -- for even among the other ancient religions, Catholics prize secrecy and view the world through a labyrinth of signs and sigils that the rest of us know not of; their ways are inscrutable as the darkest catacomb.  But in less than a month, the hidden shifts of power will become clear to all.  Mark also the words and actions of the preferiti; they know already that the usual candidates will not be considered and that the Saccamentus will come from outside, a man not normally deemed proper to the Office.  This will be one of those rare occasions when the Pope is selected though the Rite of Acclamation, the clever loophole in Vatican Law by which the preferiti can claim a "miraculous intervention" from God to decide the matter.  Yes, you will see, when Jerry Sandusky ascends the Papal Throne, and takes the name Pedophius VI as his papal title.


...and thus began the great era of Poacher's Delight.  In every nation were built the arenas, he Prepubesciums.  The all-male crowds filled each to capacity.  Shoulder to shoulder they stood.  The crowd was a constant blur of movement for the many tens of thousands masturbated simultaneously as the game played out below.  The romance, the blood, the cries from all involved were spectacular beyond description.  Life had meaning again.

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With supplies running dangerously low, and tensions at an all-time high, Jessie makes the shelter nearly unbearable.  Will the group hold together against the relentless onslaught?  Find out on the next all-new episode of "Storm Farters!"

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Controversy and outraged were sparked by the recent decision to remove wrestling from the Olympics.  The furor was quieted somewhat however when it was announced that a new sport would be added: Blind Dump, aka pooping in the pitch dark.  The addition of Blind Dump, though widely hailed as the most genius move made by Olympic officials in decades, is also dismissed by many for being primarily a "thrill-based" competition where mental fortitude and predilection for risk-taking trump classical athletic ability.  This belief is hardly shared by the amateur dumpers of many nations that are eager to display their skills on the worldwide stage.  These include longtime European champion dumper Orcelle Megrinova of Spain, Jalky Winder of Australia, Feng Do Long of Singapore, and early American gold medal favorite Torman "The Heap" Mulgrute.  

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I hope one day to hear a reporter on a national news network begin a story with the words "At times, the Catholic Church might seem more like a bizarre sex cult than a world religion.  However..."

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Ah, the coming of springtime.  In America, I don't have to tell you that the warming of the turf and the blossoming of the dogwoods means one thing above all else; the return of baseball season.  Whether you follow a major-league team of sluggers, a minor-league band of dreamers, or just your local Little League champs, you'll soon be packing the bleachers and grabbing a hot dog and  soda pop and practicing your best stadium holler to cheer the boys on..

....or will you?  Look around at your fellow fans and note the nervous sideways glances and general air of desperation.  Hear the meaningless barking calls they emit to fill the dead air.  It just isn't what it once was, is it?  The link of meat waste grows cold in your hand, and the sharp sodium taste of the industrially-produced relish stings your tongue.  You know they use formaldehyde derivatives in that shit?  And the chemicals and corn syrup in the sugary soda punish your glycemic uptake system with their artificial hideousness; a steady nausea arises.  Your grubby little son is barely paying attention to the man at bat, he's viewing cheap and filthy pornography on his iPhone.  The parasites have taken root in his intestines.  From the corner of your eye you sense assassins and saboteurs lurking in the shadows of the dugout.  An attack is imminent.  Warnings flash on the screens.  Red alert.  A collapse in the credit markets based on an average return of .05% negative margin on both municipal and international collateralized debt obligations based in central Europe... these words echo in your mind, indecipherable gobbledygook, and yet in the those three hours at the ballpark -- including the drive home -- the physical entities behind those impenetrable words will obliterate all hopes of a comfortable retirement.  Your future is completely beyond your pitiful locus of volition. The generational downgrade, a pervasive rot, a foundation devoured by termites and some undiscovered strain of exotic mold.  Down on the field, two of the players are brawling, trading vicious blows, and with a lucky swing of a hard fist an eyeball is thrown from its socket.  The video is uploaded and being watched by fans across the globe in less than 2 minutes thanks to your hyperactive son.  He's cheering and demanding that blood be shed and his infernal lust is echoed by the seething humanoids about you.  Now the referees are pulling them apart and their howls are those of steroid-saturated cattle being fed into the slaughterhouse chute.  The nausea intensifies and you come to the startling realization that corporations from across the globe have conspired to feed you toxic matter than humans were never intended to consume.  The battle to contain the vile meat slurry and fructose slop within you becomes unwinnable; out it comes in a glorious cascade of filth, coating the head and shoulders of the woman in front of you.  She laughs and revels in the feel of the acidic warmth of your half-digested meal and is apparently receiving a perverse sexual release from the experience.  Your son notices her dampened panties and begins to masturbate himself.  To your knees you fall, drenched in sweat, glad that you could expel at least a fraction of the poison before it was too late.  An air raid siren wails in the distance and over the radio comes the news that the War has finally begun.  

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What we're dealing with here is a systematic program of forced clown transformations.They abduct you in plain sight, tattoo the clown paint on your face, and surgically implant a prosthetic clown nose.  No one is exempt.

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So my best friend kept pestering me to see this show Breaking Bad.  He's a real dick about these things, so finally I said, okay, get off my sack, I'll check it out, man.  But then I couldn't find it on Netflix Instant or Hulu and figured it was some real obscure arthouse crap, which is about what you'd expect from him.  Dude likes weird stuff, stuff from Europe.  But the thing about me is that when I decide to do something, I do it.  Nothing gets in my way.  I did some googling and managed to track it down, and to make a long story short I eventually ended up at an old warehouse of archived VHS tapes outside of Boise.  I mean, it was a pretty cool morning, this old guy who worked there helped me dig through the tape stacks, and it was really snowy out and we ended up getting breakfast at this Waffle House and drinking about a million cups of coffee and just talking about life, and women, and other shit.  And I left with the tapes so it was another total victory...

...the show was pretty different than I expected.  I learned a lot about pewter, and meat preservation, salting, tallow, and stuff like that.  As I found out later, I was actually watching Breaking Bread: A Christian History of American Feastholding, a PBS documentary from 1974.  It was really pretty bad-ass.  Do you know what a movable feast is?  My friend starting guessing that it involved tables on wheels, like, a party that travels throughout the town, with people getting drunk and rowdy all day.  And I said, nah, you're fucking stupid, man -- it's a feasting day that falls on the same day of the week, but different calendar dates, like Palm Sunday or Ash Wednesday.  Didn't know that, right?  Yeah.  I'm still going to see this Breaking Bad thing, but only after I'm done with Breaking Bread.  Five more tapes to go.  Hell yeah.  Who knows, I might even have my own feast one of these days... a real one, not just sitting in the crib and gorging on frozen shit.  That's nothing special.

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Have you ever had "Newman's Own" pizza?  It's made from real pieces of Paul Newman.  For decades, they cut the pepperoni slices from his back and froze them.  It's thrilling to think that when you bite into one it could very well have been harvested during the filming of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.  

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My friend,

I feel i must come clean with you. Yesterday, when I took the name of Shatner in vain... it was not just a careless slip of the tongue.  I am ready to admit to you, and to the world, that I... consider myself a Nimoid.  Most think of us as a misguided cult, heretics, lost souls damned to wander the shadows.  But I do not believe this is so.  I believe, now, that Shatner is not the true Exalted One.  It is Nimoy, and always has been.  It is true that Shatner was given the greater rank and proclaimed highest throughout most of history.  But he was Captain only in earthly affairs, while the power of Nimoy transcends material designations and concerns.  Do not mistake what I say!  I will still honor and give thanks to Shatner, for we Nimoids consider him to be second highest, the chosen companion and scion of Nimoy.  But we place Nimoy at the crown of the firmament where he must be.  If you are able to look past your ingrained aversion to this "blasphemy," we can speak of it at length.  It would be my honor to read the Scripts with you and show, in specific terms, the evidences that Nimoy is the One.  Have you never wondered?  Surely it has crossed your mind.  Who was it that penetrated and communed with V'Ger?  Who was it that sacrificed his life to save the Enterprise from Khan?  Who rose again on Genesis?  Who performed the calculations necessary for the successful time leap that led to the salvation of the humpback whales?  Who flew up the side of the Mountain effortlessly with rocket boots, while Shatner agonizingly climbed with hands bloodied?    Who lived far into the future, to travel again in time, to halt the machinations of Nero?

It was not Shatner.  It was Nimoy.

Look at the world around you.  Shatner has not been seen in many years, while Nimoy continues to thrive.  Have you seen the cool new Audi commercial that features Elder Nimoy with Zachary Quinto?  It is yet another proof that Nimoy is the One.

Your words are disgusting.  Nimoy was only ever moved by the will of Shatner.

Sigh.  Just like my father.

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This summer, most Supreme Court watchers are rightly focused on the cases that may set new precedents concerning gay marriage and the authority of the police to collect DNA; however, a very important interpretation of the First Amendment is coming to the fore in the case of Belker v. Pennsylvania.  The case stems from an incident that occurred in October of 2011 at Appleton Middle School in Hanover County, Pennsylvania.  Two students -- Conrad Belker and Derome Proctor -- were suspended for seven days for allegedly using racial language to taunt another student.  Specifically, they repeatedly called the boy variations of the word "nigrobar" which was overheard by teacher Berta Fultin, who recommended them for suspension.  The parents of Belker argued against the charge on the evidence that "nigrobar" isn't actually a word.  Their case was dismissed by the Hanover County School Board but a local district judge later ruled in their favor, and a countersuit by the county was filed, resulting in a two-year legal stalemate that the SCOTUS must now resolve.  During arguments this week, Justice Elena Kagan seemed to favor the defendant, saying that "the imaginary word is obviously a barbarized version of the very real word we all know it to resemble, and thus the racial intent of such a slur is clear."  A different opinion was heard from Justice Antonin Scalia, who claims there is no legal precedent for "outlawing a syllable, which is what this boils down to," while also pointing out that the taunted child was not African-American, but rather of Croatian heritage.  Meanwhile, court observers have been both amused and shocked at the uncharacteristic indecorous behavior displayed by Justice Stephen Breyer during the case; he has been seen shaking his head, sighing loudly, making other noises of exasperation -- as well as using firecrackers and other noisemaking devices to disrupt the proceedings.  At one point, he stood up and loudly declared that his fellow justices were "a gaggle of ignorant nigrobars."  Clearly, this is a case to watch, as the legal status of this imaginary word could have very real repercussions for words such as "snigger" and "niggardly."

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The villainous Dick Shitner has escaped from prison?  Dr. Buttcrackula has constructed a deadly Fart Factory?  The police are helpless against the random attacks of the Dingleberry Gang?  This is a job for the Green Gonad!


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And thus again I went to the Temple to visit the Old Master.  I sought balm for my spirit and resolution of the contradictions that have assailed me, assailed all of us in recent years.  I related to the Old Master the widespread discontent that all men of conscience now feel at the actions of our kingdom -- nay, empire.  The hands of our leaders are now clad in iron gauntlets; laws governing especially the outer provinces have grown hard and cruel, and so many tearful innocents are crushed beneath the monstrous wheels of the bureaucracy.  The latest decree from the Royal Palace demands the immediate public execution of any souls "giving any assistance, material or otherwise, to terrorists, insurgents, malcontents, and other enemies of Their Majesties."  Fine words, but what they mean to men serving on the frontier is to see that old women, children, priests, and honest merchants are dragged into the muddy streets and killed.  An each death does not subtract one jot or tittle from the rebellion; if anything, each one is just more pitch tossed into the ever-spreading fire.  Our best men are stricken with melancholia and frantic madness, suicide and desertions are becoming commonplace.  Meanwhile, the brutes and thugs revel in this bloodletting and these thick-headed fiends, who before would have never risen above the rank of footman, now increasingly populate the middle ranks of officers where I myself serve.

I laid my breast bare to the Old Master, and as I expected, his reply was a series of questions, riddles, and koans that were meant to challenge my basic assumptions and the very identity of the terms in which I spoke -- life, death, justice, peace, mercy.  Always it has been so.  However, I had rehearsed for weeks and began to joust and parry his statements; inverting his queries, demanding elucidation, and using what little philosophical training I possessed to counteract his musings and otherwise engage him in meandering circumlocution.   I knew victory when I spoke, "but what, revered Master, can the wise soul know of the meaning external things if the basis of his beliefs is that he can only know ephemera?  Does this not contradict the Waterfall analogy?"  and the Old Master stumbled, stuttered, and pursed his lips before uttering an unconvincing stock reply.  The Temple warders shifted uneasily, never having witnessed such.  I hastily bowed and took my leave, and as I reached the outer rim of the cloister I seized a votive candle and flung it -- not in the direction of the Master, for that would mean my death -- but against one of the side walls.  It was enough for several guards to materialize and flank me, making certain that I was seeking egress, watching me for any further sign of discontent.  But I gave none.

Out in the streets again I surveyed the plaza, it was lovely as ever in the purple twilight.  Apart from a few soldiers and merchants packing up their wares as the markets closed, the only other people about were a several Erisians -- those indigent worshippers of chaos and sloth.  I came near to them and stripped naked to the waist and wriggled out of my tall boots, and made the sign that I was ready to have my chest tattooed with the sigil of the Azure Claw which would mark me as one of them.  "Right on, man, yeah, right on my brother!  I love you, my brother!" one of the ragged youths hollered, and with a grin I swung and felled him with a mighty blow -- in the solar plexus, not his face, which could have been fatal.  All my impotent fury towards the Old Master was channeled into that strike.  His wind rushed out and he collapsed as the others laughed and cheered -- as the only trait shared by all Erisians is a hunger for mischief and excitement.  I helped him to his feet, and we embraced as equals.  Thus ended my old life and my new path began, a path that I supposed would end in poverty and disgrace.  I knew not yet that the journey ahead was far longer and greater than I could have imagined, a journey that would come to shake the corners of the known world, to seize the axis of the Universe and send it spinning the other way 'round.  

But that is a story for another day.

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"I mean, you're like a machine underneath, right?  But sort of alive outside?"

"I am a niggernetic negronism.  Living nigger over a metal negroskeleton."

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Ah, my beautiful, strong son.  So you are the one who has been chosen by the gods to infiltrate the hated City for the glory of the Tribe.  Now I will give you words of knowledge for your journey.  You have seen and known several females of the City-dwellers, but never have you laid eyes upon a male.  Ware of them, as they are somewhat stronger and fiercer than the females, and are more apt to be weapon-bearers.  Always approach them with caution and do not meet their eyes unless you must parlay with them for some reason... but worry not, for the males themselves have a certain weakness that makes them almost as fragile as the females; their seed-sacks and mating probes are, at all times, outside of their skins, hanging loose in the air, as vulnerable as a ripe krelket egg on the plains.  To ravage this soft and yielding area is to wound them grievously; merely to strike it is to stun them.  Amazingly, the vast majority of them do not armor their tender loins to gird against such attacks, as surely we would, if we suffered the same humiliating deficiency.

It is yet another sign of their arrogance, yet another trick that the Creator played upon their foul kind.  Oh, yes, my son.  

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"Farting in the Stairwell" -- the new album from Paul McCartney.

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Of all the achievements that we can attribute to Socrofece, one of the most enduring is that he at long last put to rest the ruinous Fallacies of Enthropides, which until that time held sway in the culture.  
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Well, here we go then.  The fourth day of the Global Anthropology and Life Sciences Initiative begins at 9:00 AM with a speech from the investigative genetics unit at John Hopkins, which they say is on the brink of isolating the DeVito gene -- a breakthrough that could offer new hope to the thousands now suffering from DeVito Syndrome.  After that, there is an MIT group symposium on cyberbiotics.  Then, the evening schedule is dominated by a 3-hour presentation by the famed anthropologist, Dr. Handa Dongquan... have you heard of his new theories?  Well... they're entertaining and thought-provoking but a bit controversial, really.  His presentation is called "Re-emergent Traits in the Modern African Primate," and it uses a wide range of visual materials.  He'll, for instance, draw some very specific comparisons between certain human behaviors and their ancestral forerunners.  He'll show clips from certain rap videos, in which these large alpha males recline, surrounded by their gaudy material goods and scantily-clad females engaged in "twerking," and then compare them to footage of certain primates such as the baboon and the mandrill -- who assume the exact same poses on their piles of hoarded fruits, as their females present their engorged rumps and shake them raucously in hopes of securing the alpha's seed.  The similarities are fairly undeniable.  His thesis is that when societal controls are relaxed, as they are now, the modern African primate will revert to these instinctual displays and behaviors.  

As I said, his work inspires some resentment, especially from several prominent African-American scientists.  Neil Degrasse-Tyson and some others plan to protest the event tonight, but as of yet, they have not been able to find any flaw's in Dr. Dongquan's
methodologies.

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I hope one day to see a blockbuster film in which the hero delivers the line "now, villain, prepare for your fecal baptism!" and then follows through with this precise threat.

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“Good morning gentleman.  Did you know that owls vomit up all the bones, fur, feathers, bills, claws and teeth of the animals they eat as a normal part of their digestion?”

“No.”

“No sir, I hadn’t heard that before.”

“Well, they do, and I think we all know the question now is how do we market and sell these ‘pellets’ as they are called in ornithology?”

“Asian women.”

“Obviously Asian women, Paul, but I need specifics.”

“Beauty products.  Facial masks.  Exfoliating scrubs that infuse the essence of owl.”

“Yes.  Good.  I like it Paul, I like it.”

“What about aphrodisiacs?  Asian men eat all kinds of weird shit for that.”

“Matt, have you ever heard anybody mention owl virility?  Your idea is stupid.  You’re fired.  Other people, come on.  Ideas.  Feed me your ideas.  Let’s get this rolling.  We have a huge supply of pellets waiting for production.”

“I’ve got it.  You ready?  You ready for this?”

“Spit it, James.”

“Children’s vitamins.  Children’s vitamins molded into the shape of tiny owls.  Kids love owls.  Kids are dumb.  And Asian parents will know how owls are extremely devoted to the rearing of their chicks.  They will associate the owl’s parenting with their own, and by aspiring to meet the impeccable standards of the owl, their efforts to acquire these vitamins will be frenzied.  And people think owls are wise.  I don’t know why.  They are just stupid birds, but whatever, there is this mythology around it, so there ya go.  The vitamins will imbue the wisdom of the owl.”

“And that right there gentleman is why James makes twice as much as the rest of you.  Outstanding as usual, James.”

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Feyd, Rabban, go quietly.  No other great house of the Landsraad must ever know of the Emperor's aid to the Baron.  The entire Landsraad would turn against the Baron and the Emperor.

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Throughout the long and notorious reign of Jabba the Hutt, countless creatures were condemned to torment and death in the depths of the infamous Sarlaac Pit; yet not once did Jabba stop to wonder about the nature of the Sarlaac, as he was incurious even for a Hutt.  But then his life was brutally cut short, and soon thereafter came the fall of the Empire and the rise of the New Republic, and it happened that Jabba's estate fell into the greedy hands of his 14th cousin, Gwando the Hutt -- who manipulated the labyrinthine Hutt legal system to outmaneuver the other possible heirs.  Gwando assumed control of Jabba's territory with the full intent of ruling as ruthlessly and capriciously as his predecessor, but soon he had to contend with the auspices of the New Republic which, much to Gwando's chagrin, paid special attention to Tatooine.  As the birthplace of the Skywalkers it was subject to new and intense scrutiny and the slaving and smuggling industries of the Hutts were outlawed by special order of the New Galactic Senate.  Gwando paid lip service to their demands and carried on with business as usual in the shadows as best he could.  Publicly, he made a grand show of sealing off the Sarlaac Pit and declaring and end to all such lethal penalties; grateful were the lower classes of Mos Eisley, for many had lost a family member or comrade to the maw of the insatiable Pit over some petty debt to the Hutts...

...privately, however, Gwando fumed at the loss.  He quivered in rage at the whispers of the other underworld kingpins who declared that the Hutts had grown soft and were now pets of the New Republic.  And although other methods of execution were readily available, Gwando coveted the unique horror of the lost Pit, as there is nothing a Hutt desires more than what he is not permitted to claim (which partially explains the ruinous level of inbreeding within the species.)  Secretly, he hired a scientific team to ascertain the nature of the Sarlaac in hopes of duplicating it, and was astonished when they reported that the creature of the Pit was but a minor orifice of the true Sarlaac, which was a titanic wormlike being whose body stretched for untold miles under the sands -- some remnant of prehistoric Tatooine, one of the last of its ancient gargantuan species.  They soon located a second orifice which was concealed in the wasted lands of the Sand People, and Gwando made a personal expedition to the site as soon as it was feasible.  The brutish Sand People offered a surprising level of resistance, but were mercilessly cut down by Gwando's clandestine battalions of former Stormtroopers and Empire battle droids.  

With great ceremony, Gwando and his minions took control of the Second Pit but were surprised and disgusted to find that it was an orifice of excretion rather than of consumption.  The Sarlaac Anus, as it soon came to be known, steadily pumped forth an oily, sludgy waste product, the stink of which overwhelmed even the Hutt.  Furthering his disgust was the discovery that the Sand People worshiped the Anus as a sort of divine fountain, and used the gurgling black filth in every possible way -- they cooked with it, used it in salves and potions, and mixed it with gravel to form a sort of concrete from which they carved their coins and statuettes.  In a heedless rage, Gwando executed all the Sand People in the area out of sheer spite, and ordered their bodies thrown into the Anus to plug it; but after hundreds had been flung in, Gwando was delighted that the bodies seemed to disappear, either dissolved by some chemical means or pulled deep into the vast tract by some sort of involuntary reverse suction.

In any case, it was not long before the Sarlaac Anus became even more feared than the original Sarlaac Pit, and Gwando was immensely pleased.  


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Hey man, as long as I have my little see-through juice boxes that have live creatures inside that I can crush and then drink their fluids through a straw, we are good.

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Hey Shawn, how's it going?

Pretty good Dad, pretty good.

Well, I'm glad to hear it.  School was ok today?

Oh yeah!  It was awesome!  We learned about galaxies!  Did you know there are, like, a gagillion galaxies out there?!

Yes, Shawn, there are for all practical purposes a nearly infinite number of galaxies.  Which reminds me, did you know that God used to exist?

Really?  But Dad, you always said there is no God.

That's true son.  There is no God.. today.  There used to be a God.  There have been some fascinating scientific discoveries in recent weeks that have proven it.

No way!  But if there was a God, what happened to him?

He was destroyed, annihilated.

Destroyed?

Yes, Shawn.  You see, it turns out that God was pretty dang amazing, but he didn't have everything figured out.  He understood just enough to get things going, but like a computer programmer isn't aware of the bugs in his code until they manifest, God wasn't aware of the full potential of the Universe.

Wow, so what happened?!

God's chief blunder, and what ultimately led to his destruction, was his failure to realize just how much "stuff" there was going to be in the Universe.  There was so much stuff, which we call matter, that it coalesced into objects far more massive than God had anticipated.  It wasn't too long after the beginning that God noticed things were awry.  He flittered about the Universe in a panic, dashing instantly from one nebula to the next, wringing his hands in great consternation at the accelerating formations.  It was all happening too quickly.  He couldn't keep up!  Stars we forming much larger than he had thought possible.  He was so preoccupied with trying to understand what he had done wrong that he didn't notice when his killers were born.  And we can't really fault him.  They are, by their nature, very difficult to detect.  Black holes, Shawn.  They are everywhere.  And one day God ventured a little too close to one.  He crossed the event horizon.  And when that happens there is no turning back.  Nothing can escape the gravity well of a black hole.  Nothing.  God screamed in agony as he was shorn apart by the incalculable power.  We know this happened because scientists have detected an energy field spread throughout the Universe that can only be explained by the ejection of some of God's energy as he was decimated in the accretion disc.

Wow Dad, you're so smart!

No son, I'm not smart.  I just watch videos of the smart people on YouTube.

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Tonight, on UPN!

It's the season finale of Catch That Rabbi!, followed by new episodes of That's Just Latrell, The Adventures of Chinstrap Johnson, and the premiere of our newest comedy smash, Completely Anal.  Tonight, on UPN.

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So many living babies in dumpsters.  Mounds of living, screaming babies in dumpsters.  And then the dump truck comes and hoists the dumpster and the crying babies spill out and then the compactor engages and the babies scream in agony until their very last moment and the truck drives away with a thick flow of baby blood pouring out the back, splattering a trail down the highway.  Every day in America.  Every city, every day, the holocaust unending.  And from his throne in the White House, Obama watches all and laughs gleefully while voraciously snorting a giant mountain of cocaine a la Scarface, relishing the slaughter of the babies.  Congratulations liberals.  Your paradise is here.  

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We would take the zombie Herschel head and feed it sardines.  This activity would be on display for all the survivors to witness and participate in.

"Rick, you've done enough, and we're grateful."  

"No, Herschel, I haven't.  Carl is starving yet I feed all our sardines to you.  What's the point of all this?  The sardines just spill out your neck hole."

"Rick, the others trust you.  You're only doing what you think is right and best for all.  It's a lot of responsibility.  You're allowed to make some mistakes."

"Mistakes, Herschel?  Mistakes?  My son is starving to death... Daryl, I want you and two others to go to town.  We need more sardines for Herschel."

"Rick, man, I don't know about this whole Herschel thing.  We know you miss him.  Hell, we all do.  I'm okay with us keeping the head alive, but Jesus, man, stop feeding it!"

"Rick, the council has decided.  From now on, it's supervised visits with the head.  That's not just for you, but for Maggie and everyone else."

"Errrrrra!  Raaaa!   Nooooo!"

[ That last text was one of Rick's anguished screams. ]

"Rick, I appreciate what you're doing here.  We all do.  I just don't think that continuing to feed my head is what you really need to be doing right now.  And don't think I don't enjoy the taste of those sardines either, because hoo boy, they are good."

-the head smiles warmly-

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White County -- This week, nearly all of the civilized world united in solemn reflection at the news of the death of Nelson Mandela.  His passing was noted from the top of Alaska to the tip of New Zealand, clear evidence of the man's unique imprint on our century.  One place where his death was barely noted was the small town of Sparta, Tennessee, a charming hamlet within whose borders I found myself on assignment over the holiday season.  Now, before you blurt out something indignant and self-righteous, let me assure you that this was not because the people of Sparta are a provincial lot, or because there is a lingering miasma of racism that still infects such rural areas.  Both are somewhat true.  But in reality, it was mostly due to the fact that on that same sad Thursday the people of Sparta were preoccupied with a closer and keener grief, as they mourned the death of their own Cornetta Dildew, lifelong resident and beloved friend to all.

Mz. Dildew, as she was known to several generations of students at White County High School, was one of those small-town pillars that can only exist in communities such as Sparta, where people can wield a profound civic influence far beyond their mundane job descriptions.  Like many teachers in rural regions, she taught numerous subjects -- English, Social Studies, P.E., Home Ec, and Chemistry, among others -- although, as Principal Helm Roggerson readily admits, she only held a degree in English.  We were seated at the local diner and holding forth over honeyed bacon and cheesy grits.  "It ain't like in big cities," he chuckled, "we're some folk who know that a person's true worth ain't just what's printed on some paper.  Knowledge is plentiful as field corn, but wisdom comes more dear, and that's what Cornetta brought to the table with her.  Wisdom, true wisdom.  A slicker like you might scoff at that, but there it is."  I assured him that I entertained no such snobbery, and continued to listen to the many warm remembrances of Cornetta Dildew's singular life.  The woman did it all, it seems.  Member of the PTA.  Church parishioner and organist.  Sunday school teacher.  Editorial writer for the local gazette.  Girl's volleyball coach, especially during the miraculous 1989 intramural season.  Member of the Kiwanis Club, the Moose Lodge, and the Rotary.  She taught First Aid and swimming at the local community center, served as a assistant nurse, and organized numerous charity drives for certain elderly and infirm townspeople, all on a volunteer basis.  And any White County High School Bake Sale was not complete without several warm baskets of "Dildoodles," Cornetta's signature vanilla-cinnamon-raisin cookie.  

Even the youth of Sparta, tall, gangly country boys and thick country girls with calloused hands, the types who have that rebellious spark that comes so natural in rural youth, have nothing but praise, often tearful, for the departed woman.  "She was the only reason I passed Freshman Algebra," Seth Hundsacker recalls smiling, "she took me by the ear, sat me down, and wouldn't let me leave 'till I really got the quadratic equation.  She was hardcore, man."  Another boy remembers Mz. Dildew teaching him to hit a baseball, a girl recalls Dildew teaching her to knit, sew, and cross-stitch.  "You see this sweater?" the freckled lass offers, "we made this together, me and Mz. Dildew -- sorry, I mean, Mz. Dildew and I.  Made it from nothing but spiderweb.  We would go out every night that summer, into the deep woods, to gather the web.  The strongest web of the dark orb weavers, strung between the trees that never feel the sun, that's that strongest material on earth, she said."  I was, I admit, unaware of this.  "She taught me also the secrets of the Moon, what it means at different times," the girl says before emotion strangles her words.  One of the older folk ushers her aside and sends the children off.  Now I tarry amongst the graybearded elders, and it is from them that I learn the true nature of this woman, from those who knew her as Cornetta, as Cornetta Creekjumper, daughter of Dornwald and Merrilyn, Cornetta the maiden of the winds in the younger days, the days when Sparta was still a part of the ancient world.  As they pass me the bottle of murky brown liquid, I hesitate before swigging.  Old Castus Hodgeson grins a crooked grin, and it reminds me of that of Morpheus inThe Matrix when Neo chooses the red pill -- the first time you see tht movie, you're still unsure whether Morpheus is on the level, and it can be foreboding.  I mean, the viewer is still totally in the dark at that point.  What if Morpheus is in cahoots with the as-of-yet-unidentified sinister force that we only learn later is an army of futuristic computerized machine-men?  What if the pill inflicts a crazy hookajou upon Neo and turns him into some kind of hodad?  This could do the same damage to me.  These are the possible dangers we face.  But I continue with the sombre procession of elders as we wend down the mossy banks of the river and pass under the boughs of the forest.  The bottle continues to pass from one to another and soon the intoxication becomes irreversible.  Principal Roggerson makes me swear on my daddy's sack that I will not so much as inquire into the ingredients of the brew I am swilling.  On my daddy's sack, I swear, to not even ask.  This gains their trust.  I bring up the subject of the departed Nelson Mandela, but they tell me to speak not of Mandela, for what is Mandela?  Just some overseas darkie who lounged in prison for the best years of his life before sitting idly on some political throne.  His deeds, symbolic and bloodless.  Nay, speak ye of Dildew and her deeds which were far greater than those of Mandela but yet are destined to remain unheralded by the outside world.  Around the fire they tell of their many youthful adventures with Cornetta, the maiden of the winds, and how tragically there never was a Spartan man that could win her hand.  No, they say, she was a holy warrior born and not to be tamed by any plodding farmer or simple herdsman.  She was one of the chosen few who, in that legendary war now almost forgotten, banded together to battle back against the Nameless Evil.  They found the lost shards of the Cavalry Sword of General Gremmack and reforged the blade in the fires of Tarksett; with the help of the outsiders -- Black Crow Cotterson and the Wandering Blood-Hand -- they faced the Evil and drove it out of the lands forever; in veneration they were rechristened White County after the white lights of Heaven, the White of God, and the darkness retreated to other places whose names were strange to me.  Dumphree.  Larnik.  Polczycklan.  Tankada.  There still it dwells.  The nature of the Evil, infinite, unholy, beyond the bounds of my scientific mind, was revealed and my soul was shaken to its core.  It still exists in places I must never tread.  But not here, because of the heroism of those like Cornetta Dildew, those few messengers of the White.

The vision fades; the baleful gray light of the morning sun behind a wall of clouds illuminates the trees.  I return to my normal mind and clutch the rivulets of the dream before they run through my grasp and vanish.  I know that what I have learned this night will inform the rest of my earthly existence.  All has been upended.  How do I incorporate this new knowledge with what I was before?  We stagger back to the road, past the sturdy homes and work sheds.  Soon we are back at the diner, and still the townfolk gather in groups, emerging from trucks and still speaking of Dildew.  Without warning a grubby urchin leaps from a gaggle of his peers and runs madly at me, weeping and bawling as he lashes out with a thick yew branch.  I raise my arm instinctively to defend myself and my elbow suffers a sharp blow, I wince and bellow.  The child screams at me.  "I will make you eat turds!  I will make you eat MY turds!"  Incoherent.  I make a tentative grab at him as I know that this is a place where such misbehavior is still punishable by a good whuppin'.  However, I catch the eyes of the men about me and with a glance they make it clear that I must let it pass; it is the price I must pay being an outsider during a time of grief.  The child is free to go unmolested.  He runs off hollering and screeching and kicking at the gravel.

Soon my time in Sparta is at an end.  As I climb into the waiting helicopter and begin the ascent I see one final marvel; on a hill just outside the town they have heaped white stones to form enormous letters...

C O R N E T T A  D I L D E W
A N D  T H E Y  S T I L L  D O

It must be some inside joke I'm not fully in on.  Again I realize I am an outsider who will never truly feel the magic of this land.  But I feel the weight of the sentiment.  Cornetta Dildew.... and they still do.  They still do, indeed, in places like White County.  

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I scramble among the humanoids, evading their hooves, nimbly dodging. The purpose is clear; gather as much meat and lumber as they can before they are struck down in the street.  I see the older among them, withered and grey, proudly displaying their acquisitions to an audience that cares not but to detest the garish showings.