Son Of Spam

E.14th St 9E
New York, New York 10009
212-995-0299
Holycity@juno.com

Son Of Spam

A Collection of Trash

By Matthew Paris

Table Of Contents:

1. Introduction
2. The Abattoirs
3. Alberta Ice Toilets
4. Alein Aber Frei Tonic
5. Kaboom: A Message From His Divine Excellency Ibn Abdul
Alhhazred
6. Alpha Inc.
7. Amnesia Incorporated
8. Bare Bones Towers: A Retreat Of Amusements Anonymous
9. Anonymous Anonymous
10. Harry Greene’s Asteroid Real Estate
11. Asteroid Village: A Paradise For Children
12. The Authentics
13. The Platinum Whores, Bacteria and the Kleptonics
14. The Banalities
15. Bialisis Pills: A Cure for Teenage Sneeze Dysfunction
16. The Revellers New CD: Let’s Party
17. The Bolshevik Love Manual
18. Bottom Of the Class Inc.
19. Burdick and Budinsky: Attorneys for the Dead
20. The Butch McDonald Memorial Fund
21. News From the Martin Burbank Institute
22. Celebrities Anonymous
23. Cellular Litigation Now!
24. The Chatterbox
25. Clerk
26. Cocaine For Butterflies
27. Cocktails for Two
28. Apogee Air Conditioners
29. Competitive Government Now!
30. The Fucken New American Constitution
31. Coprophilia Now!
32. The Museum Of Crap
33. The Crusade Against Crime by Hypolitte Bourbon
34. The Encyclopedia Of Slander
35. A Letter from the Dalai Lama
36. Fuck You: The New Fucken Declaration of Independence
37. The International Museum of Defecation
38. Denial Systems
39. The Dissenters
40. Divorcing The Dead
41. The Hari Karma Dog Pound Newsletter
42. Okay Dogs
43. The Downes School
44. Dulldonium
45. MOD: The Tampa Museum Of Contemporary Dung
46. L’Ecole d’Eblis
47. The New Egoists Kit
48. The Egoists
49. UPDATE: A Message from The League Against Erotic Elder Abuse
50. Matthew Paris For President
51. Der Chaisserengel
52. Making Public Executions Public!
53. The Mausoleum Of Extinct Species
54. Fatboy Messiah and the Apostles of Consumption at Yankee
Stadium
55. The Idaho Fiasco Conference
56. The Financiers
57. La Frontera Pharmacy
58. New Frontier Music
59. Happy Day Funeral Parlors
60. The Museum Of the Future
61. The Genteels: The Thanksgiving Fast at McDonalds
62. Take My Life, Please -A DVD by Bill Bass
63. The Scarlet Ghosts In Concert: Now at Charon’s Black Barge
64. Glitter
65. Graffiti Scrawled On the World Court of Intellectual
Bankruptcy
66. Gumbai
67. GUP
68. Take It Easy: A Message From His Divine Excellency Sri Gupta
69. Hamurabi’s Farewell
70. The Hangmen Inc.
71. The Warren G Harding Library: Recent Acquisitions
72. News From the Hellenic Society
73. Who Was The Real Ernest Hemingway?
74. The Complete Henry James: The Definitive Oxford Edition
75. Understanding The Holocaust
76. Hyacinth Hall: The House Of Internal Perfumes
77. Hypertext Contest
78. Mycroft Systems Presents: I-God
79. The I-Chair
80. The Museum Of Illusions
81. The School For Impotence
82. Insecurities
83. The Intellectuals
84. The Invisibles
85. The Irreplaceables
86. The Jerk Encyclopedia
87. Heisenberg Jigsaw Puzzles
88. The Jonah Foundation
89. Kidnapping Yourself
90. Kids and Mutts Inc.
91. Korean Genocide- A Video Game
92. Shacking with The Krakens: A Memoir by Georgie Octopolous
93. The Justice League Of America
94. The League of Disappointed Men and Women
95. The Lenin Code
99. Leviathan
100. The New Modern Library
101. A Christmas Newsletter from Lupine Freres
102. The Lynch Brothers New CD: “Music for Hanging”
103. Dear Machmoud
104. Mamaliga Azuma
105. The Six Mancini Brothers
106. The Oxford Manual Of How to Marry Yourself
107. Mayhem
108. The McCarthy Award
109. Mediapedia: A Game by Mycroft Systems
110. Medical Money
111. The Microcephalic League
112. Minus
113. Mithrades
114. The Moloch Ha Movis Concert: Death After Death
115. The Momsers
116. Classic Hits Of The Momsers:
117. The Momsers Hall Of Fame Albums:
118. The Church Of Money
119. Principles of Hai-Bai
120. The Heptagon- La Musee de High American Art
121. The Museum Of Ideological History
122. The Emigration Application to the Nameless City
123. Natural Foods For Cats
124. La Musee de La Neante
125. Noodle Dating Systems
126.The Nopal War Prize
127. Nut City
128. Joe Oblivion
129. Obsidian Towers: The Retreat Of the Church of the Noble
Surface
130. The Eight Mancinis Moving Company
131. The Festival of Opacity
132. Kangaroo Track
133. The Fabulous Ordinaires
134. Saskatchewan Origins
135. Widows and Orphans Anonymous by Byron de Radcliffe
136. Orthodoxy Limited
137. Oswald Lee
138. The Oxford Manual of Bedlam Etiquette
139. The George Pataki Institute for Mideast Politics
140. Pentecostal Air Systems
141. The Biennial Hangmen and Pharmaceuticals Hootenanny
142. Fiddle In the Middle
143. Being Calm and Pleasure Free
144. This Month at PAPA: The Museum of Popular American Music
145. Disney Porno
146. Prandit Prandaranda
147. A Private Language
148. Proteum: Your Perfect Companion
149. The Ptolemy League
150. The Puffaroo
151. The Endicott Pendleton Economic Stimulus Plan
152. Quantitative Justice Now! by Achille Lavash
153. The Judith Reagan Memorial Imprint
154. GENERIC REJECTION NOTICE
155. Reptile Therapy by Melville Thorne PhD
156. Annals Of Retrograde Evolution by Doctor Hyacinth Robinson.
157. Rikers Island Escort Service
158. Robot Marriage
159. News From The Tallahassee Rodent Coliseum
160. Salmonetta and Shopping Therapy
161. The Sardanapolus League
162. Schvitz
163. Social Security Notice
164. Rob Sheehe’s Axioms Of The Middle Path
165. Let’s Go Shopping
166. An Acre Of Silurnia
167. Welcome to Sing-Sing Towers
168. The Skunks
169. The Encyclopedia Of Slander
170. The Slaphappy Dictionary
171. Slavery Inc.
172. A Life On My Back by Anne Nicole Smith
173. The Nameless Society
174. The New Italian Renaissance
175. Being Somewhere
176. Super Sugar World
177. The New School For Suicide
178. Sri Chutraprandra: Master of the Noble Surface
179. Plant Parenthood
180. Black Swallow Productions
182. The Tapeworms at Carlsbad Caverns
183. Tasmanian Systems
184. Television After Death
185. Third Life
186. Throwaways Inc
187. Tonight’s The Night Inc.
188. Twice Born 2.0: Another Product of Mycroft Systems
189. The Bolshevik Love Manual
190. The Destruction of the Universe Inc.
191. Vintage People
192. Vista of Paradise
193. The Vug
194. WaybackWhen: The Video Game of the Past
195. Suburban Welfare: A Plan For America
196. Western Pleasure Systems
197. White Man’s White Paper
198. Wildeworld
199. Womb Tomb
200. Zabar Planet
201. Teacher-Free Schools
202. My Presidential Manifesto
203. Spams: Notes On an Experiment in Distribution
204. A Spam Mamafesto
205. Anti-Monopoly: A Shtarker Brothers Game
206. 0-0-0: The Ultimate Channel Of Contrivance
207. Hate Date: The Gourmet Dating Service
208. The Consumers
209. Sign Up For Kindergarten!
210. Lets Live In Canada!
211. The College For Unassisted Living
212. Citoyen! A bestseller by Claude Fleur de Mal
213. Divorcing Yourself
214. Landfill City Celebrates The Month of Trash
215. The Shakespeare School of Bartending
216. The Egnorables- At The Edge of Sense
217. Golden Age Books
219. Cull, Cull, Cull by Hercule Benedictine
220. The Decay Of Monopoly V: The Final Michugas
221. I Did That Too by Goo-Goo Xerxes
222. Masterpiece Porno Theatre
223. I Am Not Harry Krishna by Herschel Kirschner
224. Minutes of the New World Order
225. A Vacation In Bedlam
226. Poor Me and the Debtors
227. Drones Of Peace
228. The Museum of Insanity
229. WOE: The Depressive Singles Site
230. The Lama Lo Lama
231. The Hot Potato
232. Master Of Advice
233. Chitterling-Zenda Systems
234. Songs Of the Criminally Insane
235. Keeping PBS British
236. Maxims of Kidnapping Yourself
237. Shoppers Androgynous
238. The Museum Of The Present
239. The Maurice Arthur School of Pharmacy Dancing
240. Holy Lives Of the Bankers: Volume Sixteen
241. News From Erewhon Pleasure Cruises
242. News From the Syrian Tourist Bureau
243. Untergang Real Estate Developers
244. Organizations Anonymous
245. Family Values Limited: The Books That Speak To You.
246. Medical Liquor from Doctor Leshaun von Stoltzing
247. Oxford Encyclopedia Of Early Twenty First Century Culture
248. The Realtors
249. A Manual of Beggary
250. Illegal Aliens of Alturia
251 A New Year’s Message From Bloodbath, Death and Beyond
252. The Hall Of Villainy
253. Ridalone: The Pill For The Incurious
254. Zelda Of Nazareth
255. The Encyclopedia of Banality- A Video Game
256. Confessions From Wolfenstein Castle- A Video Game
257. Astrological Universe- A Video Game
258. The Devourers
259. The Zoo Of Escaped Animals
260. Bank Error In Your Favor!
261. Good News From The Beloved One
262. Forgettable Reality Inc.
263. The Neanderthal Apocinashads
265. The Oxford Encyclopedia of Mediocrity
266. The Royal Dillingers
267. ISIS Realty Unlimited
268. Maxims Of Rameses: First Scroll
269. Maxims of Rameses: Second Scroll
270. Maxims of Rameses: Third Scroll
271. Maxims of Rameses: Fourth Scroll
272. Maxims of Rameses: Fifth Scroll
273. Maxims of Rameses: Sixth scroll
274. Maxims of Ramases: Seventh Scroll
275. Maxims of Rameses: Eighth Scroll
276. Maxims of Rameses: Ninth Scroll
277. Maxims of Rameses: Tenth Scroll
278. Maxims of Rameses: Eleventh Scroll
279. Maxims of Rameses: Twelfth Scroll
280. Maxims of Rameses: Thirteenth Scroll
281. Maxims of Rameses: Fourteenth Scroll
282. Maxims of Rameses: Fifteenth Scroll
283. Maxims of Rameses: Sixteenth Scroll
284. Maxims of Rameses: Seventeenth Scroll
285. Maxims of Rameses: Eighteenth Scroll
286. Maxims of Rameses: Nineteenth Scroll
287. Maxims of Rameses: Twentieth Scroll
288. Maxims of Rameses: Twenty First Scroll
289. Maxims of Rameses: Twenty Second Scroll
290. Maxims of Rameses: Twenty Third Scroll
291. Maxims of Rameses: Twenty Fourth Scroll
292. Zolocaust Affirmation
293 The Andrew Carnegie Institute Manual For Avoiding Theft
294. An Open Litter From Gabiel D’Auvergne
295. The Story of NYTA- The New York Times Recovery Program
296. The CANTDOIT Newsletter
297. APES Newsletter
298. The Mechanists’ Ball
299. The Oxford Alternative History of the United States
300. The Quagmire String Quartet
201. The Fiascos
302. Executioners’ Notice
303. A Message From Clone Drone Systems
304. Raoul Gosling: From the Billionaires Anonymous Newsletter
305. Xxumpta
306. Maxims from the National Undertakers Newsletter
307. Zhunging the Zhang
308. From “Patagonia On Five Dollars A Day” by Kokomo Fudge
309. Akiro Moto’s Maxims of Emptiness
310. Release Notes For Plutocrat 7.1
311. Release Notes for The Search For Oblivion 4.1
312. News From the Fritz Himmler Gallery
313. A History Of the World by Achille Le Soeur
314. The Oxford Encyclopedia Of Unimportance
315. Warheit von Berlin
316. The Cooperstown Hall of Infamy
317. The Scent Of Eros
318. Unter
319. Maxims of Thebes
320. Plotz and Futz
321. Doctor Posner’s Therapies of Destruction
322. The Zircon Sermon and Martyrdom Of Xiang Quo

323. The Abominations of Ramf
324. Brokers Anonymous
325. CUE: The College Of Ultimate Entropy
326. Ronald Coleman University
327. A Review of Fertilizer Planet: A Novel by John Le Vabeaux
328. A Review of “Jingles for Imaginary Merchandise” by Mel Ott
329. LaTraine Fung’s Oscar Acceptance Speech
330. The Casanova Awards of Plattsburgh
331. The Oxford Encyclopedia of Bare Competence
332. Nemesis, Tumbleweed and Memory Lane

Introduction

This is a collection of spams I’ve sent out in a funk as a
kneejerk response to getting in turn such bizarre missives from
Nigeria. Of course mine aren’t as good as the one’s I’ve gotten;
what non-Nigerian spams could be?
Don’t believe The New York Times, the New Yorker, Poets and
Writers, the colleges or any other mysteriously funded
organization that is trying to persuade you that the Emperor is
wearing his new clothes.
We are never going to get any help from the top as poets and
thinkers. The top is committing hari-kari and trying to take us
into a genteel abattoir with them. The bottom is our natural
audience but they are unorganized. We need to be a middle without
a top or bottom. Let the bottom discover us.
Whatever you feel that could generously be of influence and
express your calling should be the “spam” you sent out and ask
people to forward. E-mail is free. I’m doing what I can. We can’t
ever be satisfied with doing nothing. Unless we’re dead we can
only be executed or seduced into silence.
Being who you are isn’t about opinions, polemics, party
lines, orthodoxy, dissent. It’s only about taking back our
diverse franchise as an estate for influence in America.
It can if we want also produce something competitive
with the simple, transparent pop means that people have these
days to get any sense of who and where they are. Free verse is
only one way of creating a poem. I’ve been making and singing
blues in a bar.
About three years ago I sent out a spam inviting everybody
to do what I did as anonymously as I am trying to do it. I am
producing what I hope are funny fables about contemporary life
because that’s what people like about me, no other reason. I
don’t want groupies from my friends and relatives. I’ve been
running these parodies of the forwards and spans we all get
daily; I confess they irked me.
This idea is not at all about me. I did this only to invite
everybody I know with talent to do the same thing. The aim is to
form a wide connective tissue for a nameless communal group that
has no top, no bottom, only like Jackie Gleason an infinitely
expanding middle. It depends at least on forwarding whatever you
like in spams of others to people you know. It’s pinioned on
sending by e-mail your own personal effusions of influence.
Imagine a Flatland guild that has only a surface like
graphene, no leaders, no followers, whose only real enemies are
the cartoon norms and illusions of any tyranny in any time and
place, whose only large ally is Nature, whose only purpose is
merely to acknowledge personal sanity and echo the unarticulated
but inalienable diversity of Creation. That is the idea.
One might give some attention to other ways that produce
influence and honor a world of endless irrefutable variety in a
cosmic popular republic. In my lifetime in poetry three of the
intrepid explorers were Bob Holman generally, Robert Dunn and
Tuli Kupferberg making parodies of pop songs, Harry Smith and his
handwritten Robert Service-like ballads.
There must be a lot of ways to be who we are.

The Abattoirs

The Abattoirs are four butchers from Kansas City coming to
your town next week to do a midnight show who always played the
drums, harmonica and ukelele and sang in pastel suave harmonies
while they casually killed thousands of cattle with genuine
teflon clubs and sledgehammers. They never thought of being a
rock group they make music for the sheer pleasure of making sweet
and mellifluous sounds.
Two of them, Buzz Beauregard and Happy Herman, were too
covered in blood to strum any instrument. Fat Cy Saspirilla and
Little Lefty Laroque were always drenched in oleaginous cattle
feces; both men had almost drowned from slipping and wallowing in
the sea-like manure baths. All four men have had multiple strokes
and nightmarish vertigo from their continual slides into syrupy
mixtures of bovine phlegm, vomit and some unnameable intestinal
excretions of a mysterious, sinister and shadowy manner.
The Abattoirs don’t sing at all anymore in their act. They
don’t of course play any instruments either. They couldn’t do
more than nothing or less than nothing even in posh private
slaughterhouses of music if they tried. They are too broken down,
feeble and half demented from the deadly years at their old job.
They will however cut the arteries and smash the skulls of
any animal their new and young audiences bring to the stage. This
includes cats, dogs, lizards, chipmunks and skunks. For this tour
every night on your stage the Abattoirs will make no music at all
but slowly lacerate and finally destroy a virtual elephant.
This horrific beast is not a real animal. It is merely a
holograph illusion which utterly mirrors the dying look, sound
and even scent of a genuine expiring elephant. Some say that the
Abattoirs themselves are also cloudy holographs, that there is
really no live show at all, not even a true story of their
synthetic ascent. They claim the entire theater stage of every
Abattoir extravaganza is nothing but dense shadows and aery
magicks in a vast emptiness hardly worth the price of a ticket.
Maybe they’re right.
If we presented the real Abattoirs, if they ever were real,
or a real perishing elephant, would that be enough for you?

Alberta Ice Toilets

We are selling Alberta Ice Toilets, the legendary central
product of that frozen Canadian province. These beautifully
carved commodes are the chill harvest of that fabled faraway
prance, a tool of modern life valued by all, now available thanks
to portable refrigerated rooms that come with the product free to
anyone living in the tropics from Florida to Barbados.
Alberta Ice Toilets don’t flush; one cannot of course flush
with any liquid including water at the frigid temperatures one
commonly encounters when one resides commodiously around the
Arctic Circle. As a consequence they can only be used once like a
bullet, a bomb or a claim of virginity.
It’s easy even in downtown urbane Alberta to mold a
beautiful cunningly carved toilet out of heated tap water poured
with love into a silicon and clay vessel, then simply thrust into
one’s icy backyard of seals, walruses and tundra to freeze almost
instantly, becoming in the alchemy of Arctic life an instrument
of pure utility.
The exhilaration and alertness one feels when sitting on
such lovely translucent vessel often adorned with images of
nymphs and ice sprites at once common and legendary in Alberta
Now everybody can have this ambience of ultimate alacrity even if
one is living wretchedly and buck naked among slithering lizards
and a plethora of banana trees deep tin the fiery and hellish
summers of a torrid rain forest.

Alein Aber Frei Tonic

The fabulous Alien Aber Frei Tonic is the ultimate elixir
from Himmelhoch Ltd. in Munich which purges even the most coarse
and inchoate brain of any scurvy hunger for understanding, sex,
companions, hope, human contact of any kind, even brute hunger or
thirst.
Developed for an age that needs it by the fabled eugenic
legend Albert Schvitzer, Alein Aber Frei was created to aid the
manned expeditions from Germany to the astroid belt, Alein Aber
Frei is sold in volume in every shopping mall.
We in Deutschland have settled our customers moot of whom
are the formerly socialist East Germans, a miserable cabal who
refused to work, experts only on staying on the divine dole.
Once they were gone we looked around for a better use for
our ultimate cosmic tonic; we realized that most our species is
miserable because for no reason at all the most loutish, ugly and
insufferably boring of them want intimacy, friends, alleys,
edible food and less than insufferable drink.
We have created without knowing in the Superman. He is not
as Hitler said, terrifying. He is boring. Tepid, banal,
self-involved, incurious, celibate, sometimes intravenously fed,
and
in a severe torose way beyond mere satiety. If you want to be a
morose, tedious Superman, or go to the asteroid belt yourself,
You owe it to yourself to chug-a-lug a bottle of Alien Aber
Frei and let the heroin-like pleasure and relief pour into your
bloodstream. Leopard said the dead aren’t happy; they aren’t
miserable either. That’s true about the new Alein Aber Frei
Master Race.
Sometimes it’s Nazis, sometimes it’s Christians, sometimes
Communists, lately it’s women and children. In the old ways it
was only a local magician in a tawdry carnival. They all even
when beggars or on Death Row are quietly guzzling Alein Aber
Frei.
As we have discovered in our late Auchwitz experiments,
Alein Abe Frei is poison for most dogs. Nearly all Dogs haven’t
got a reeling passion to be crazy.

Kaboom: A Message From His Divine Excellency Ibn Abdul
Alhhazred

Nothing saddens me more than the blind soul who cherishes
life. Is there some inherent sacred character to eating lentils,
dunging, hungering for strange flesh, and dreaming of rare
degeneracies that would make a cockroach, a demon or a donkey
feel uneasy with disgust?
Take a bubbling civilization that compounds all these nacral
and foul concerns with sugared and perfumed complexities, perhaps
caviar instead of lentils, sex with lovely houris rather than
drabs, turning decadence itself into a business so that both
hermetic and banal fantasies become hygienic and profitable; one
gleans and grasps the inner nature of the West.
Its hopes are like a sham marble statue in which the very
pedestal is fashioned from rotten meat.
I say: Kaboom.
Yes, kaboom to all this insufferable madness.
If we are worth anything at all in the cosmos we must
distinguish ourselves from this cult of valuing life itself.
Where does this ordinary insanity stoop? Do we honor the lives of
bacteria or viruses? Do we create monstrous life to suit our
whim? Do we wish sentimentally the whole cosmos was alive when it
seems to be doing very well for itself more merely dead but never
knowing life at all?
If we never do one good thing in our mortality, if we are at
the core hellish and perverse, at least we can cleanse a bit of
Creation, trash the lightless infamies that cluster around astral
sources of heat like leeches and moths. If is not a negligible
thing to know what is ultimately false and evil to pull it down
ineptly, we are more honorable at that sacred task of carrion if
we never know much less embrace for one instant anything or
anybody that is good.
Some weep for the loss of existence of the dead. I weep for
the triviality of the lives of the living.

Alpha Inc.

Alpha, the feral animal perfume that immediately reduces
anyone including intimates you encounter within thirty feet to
courtiers, chumps, punks, gulls, bums and servants.
Faint, subtle, colorless, your neighbors, kin and lovers may
not even realize that they are being enthralled in a clandestine
olfactory way to be your, slave, brainless follower, soldier,
dog, acolyte, often martyring their life at your whim.
When two people wearing Alpha enter a room they start
flattering each other for seemingly no reason at all. When
everybody in the chamber but one person is wearing Alpha they
devour this poor slob like a cheeseburger.
When only a mutt is wearing Alpha, even kings, priests and
gods become slaves to the regal cur.
Curiously, our new fragrance, Omega, one which inspires
everybody even remotely proximate to one to treat one as a
wretch, cockroach or slave, is even more popular.
We are a respectable business with the fluid morals of
commerce. We also have a patriotic belief in freedom. We are
ready to sell you either redolence. We are going to make money no
matter which cologne you buy.
We only lose if you buy nothing.

Amnesia Incorporated

Amnesia is like Amnesia; Amnesia feels good. Today, Amnesia
Incorporated, located in snowy Berne, Switzerland, brings the
world its latest miracle lozenge, Zevlin Seventeen.
It is the premier pioneer medicine for people who need hope
and ceaseless pleasure much more than they ever need memory.
Zevlin Seventeen keeps you perpetually, forever, always the
innocent on the first day of your marriage, the delight of your
small children, the ambition you felt on your promotion, the
consummation of your first and perhaps last wild love affair,
your hunger to show your heroism and mettle in a just war, the
feeling you had ordering your first cigarette, your first meal in
a Chinese restaurant.
With Zevlin Seventeen you don’t just go down Memory Lane;
you are Memory Lane. You are the clay icon who designed the
speedway.
What should you do with your Zevlin Sixteen? What
did you do with Zevlin Fifteen? Or Fourteen? Put them all with
Thirteen and Twelve and Eleven in the dog food. Fling them into
the landfill. Feed it to your pet turtle and iguana. Drop them in
the aquarium; watch those gaudy tropical fish look dazed and
happy. Throw it into the steroid-laden chicken feed. Sprinkle it
over your mouse traps and your red ant farm in the cellar. Go
shopping.
Don’t worry. It’s okay. Even your family, your country, your
therapist, your Mexican pizza delivery boys, your plumber, the
town whore and the rabid raccoons on your lawn are going to be
okay. You’ll be okay too.
Check out your personal pharmacy in the mall! Put in your
damned order! Sing Hallelujah! Kiss and lick the plastic in your
wallet. Sing Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Roger your half-dead wizened
old pharmacist!
Praise the lord!
Zevlin Fifteen and Sixteen is defunct. Hallelujah!
Zevlin Eighteen, Nineteen and Twenty are on their way.
Huzzah!
What did we do with Zevlin One? Or the Beta? What do you
think? We fed it to our enemies.

Bare Bones Towers: A Retreat Of Amusements Anonymous

Bare Bones Towers is the ultimate hermitage away from
entertainment of Amusements Anonymous. We can guarantee in this
vast hovel bare desert land in the middle of a larger desert
there is absolutely nothing you will find more than mildly
interesting
much less delightful. The clientele are selectively picked from a
forgettable legion of lackeys of subtle undramatic plainness.
Everybody including you is or looks mildly middle aged. The
staff is trained in a tepid, slightly uncivil anonymity. You can
sit back in your banal chamber and exult as you think of the
ruling lethal passions of a society bonded like sloe-eyed slaves
to intense continuous entertainment.
Laugh with an icy tinkle as you think of the poltroons mad
for ever new movie, ethnic restaurant or au courant television
revel, queer for pathetic clowns at a ranch-style suburban club
featuring cruel and tasteless comedy.
Our tiny and windowless grey rooms are empty of furniture,
even a chair. Day and night are concealed in an achromatic mist.
The cuisine is a continual diet of tasteless grits washed down
with brackish water. We vary our beverages; we offer lukewarm
tea. We guarantee you will never have one moment in Bare Bones
Towers you will enjoy, then marvel at its absurdity and
triviality, then, after served a subpoena by an illegal
immigrant, savor a season of stuporous rue.
The tea gives all our clientele galloping amnesia. You never
will have to listen to either tedious or witty flaneurs talking
about themselves. You won’t be about to flaunt your own more
tolerable egoism either. Some call you a mystic; you will quickly
lapse with your peers in this virtual limbo into a near terminal
fatigue, silence and torpor.
We also have a basement wing for Children of Pleasure
Lovers. There is another one in “the dungeon”: a capacious
sub-cellar for their grandchildren.

Anonymous Anonymous

Anonymous Anonymous is the ultimate organization of people
who have escaped fame, a criminal record, the census, civil
litigation, newspaper articles, marriage and divorce, created
card ratings, public slander and even birth certificates.
Some say they don’t exist; others claim are metaphysical
demons or illegal, legal or semi-legal aliens, we all know
better, don’t we?
Nothing is more deceptive on Earth or elsewhere than these
Anonymous Anonymous members in their grey disguises to seem
ordinary and forgettable. Who are they hiding from? Do they know
there are demons or baleful and sinister forces after all of us
we don’t discern?
Why would they want to join us when their real hedge against
discovery is never begins a visible member of anything?
If you can prove you should be a member of Anonymous
Anonymous you all too clearly aren’t qualified to join us. Even
if you become a member with what seems to be absolute discretion
and unimpeachable secrecy you of course still lose the barest
smidgeon of your formerly ultimata animist status and have to be
immediately dismissed from the organization.
Don’t join us. Don’t even whisper about us. Don’t believe in
our existence. Don’t even deny us. Forget about us.
If you think of us once, you will no longer be what you are.

Harry Greene’s Asteroid Real Estate

Most of you think of an asteroid as a clot of rock in the
ether that sits in the eternal midnight like a mineral toad.
Harry Greene of Honeyloaf Towers Inc. shows in his free videos
that the next big push in the realtor trade is going to be astral
emigration. We are all going to have a snug and safe place for
ourselves even more comfortable than the suburbs.
Harry Greene proves with charts and quotes from many former
Soviet physicists that many stellar species smarter than we are
have blown up every planet in their solar systems to create
asteroids where there are none. Intimacy involving living on the
same planet is too crowded for them.
Now living on a planet will be a fashion of the past like
moustache wax or wearing khaki knickers. Even a small moon isn’t
good enough for us. We need the peace that only an asteroid can
give us.
How do we walk thoughtfully around a bit of dust no bigger
than a sooty pebble? Harry Greene sells chemical miniaturizing
kits that bring us back instantly to a sensible nature that
almost always builds small. We can all be smaller than small. We
can inhabit sub-electrons. We can be lords of neutrinos.
Ultimately we can be tiny as we have always wanted to be. We
can be unthinkably minuscule as nearly all the advanced and
clever
species of the universe now are. We will need almost no food; we
will be invisible motes on the equally microscopic world we live
on.
How can an honest realtor sell you an asteroid that isn’t
his? Harry Greene has staked out claims to every little sand
crystal that floats or plummets through the ether. If you try to
live on them he will make sure you spend the rest of your life in
court paying off bigtime lawyers on both sides before the
heavyweight galactic bailiffs shoo you from his property.
You can also have tiny castrated and lobotomized cordial
pets that don’t take all that much to care for. Nothing is easier
to keep happy and comfortable than a friendly bit of bacteria.
Viruses are the optimal affable intimate companion.
You will of course have a capacious home entertainment
system that is yours alone.
Nobody will hear it or see it but you.

Asteroid Village: A Paradise For Children

Asteroid Village is by a happy accident the first real
estate unit exclusively catering to kids. Sadly, we have had a
great emigration away from our estates of all adult human beings
here; the majority of adults have departed in such haste they
have often left their children behind them.
Asteroid Village as a result is the first modern housing
complex to accommodate the hunger of some of our earthly
citizens, once adults, now helpless but select infants, to ignore
each other in celestial day care. They never will have to feel
disdainful, contemptuous, piqued, miffed, stung, irritated as you
have been all too many times, nor wallow in a berserk and
murderous slavering fury about anyone and anything.
Snugly located in the posh asteroid belt between Mars and
Jupiter, cunningly designed by late demon architect Harry Greene,
America’s legendary expert at unassisted living, fabled Asteroid
Village is a Zagat-rated high end development.
Each minuscule body of authentically igneous rock is
equipped with an etheric electrified field that impersonally but
efficiently murders and sets instantly afire everything that
comes near it.
We know and applaud that the standards of the dead are never
as daunting as those of the living. They also never have any
money. Residence at Asteroid Village will not only cost you
nothing; we will pay you amply, even prodigally, to reside in our
domains. Don’t worry about us; we make our lucre on tax losses.
Everybody in the modern and comfortable Harry Greene world is a
big winner.
If kids as they grow up hastily if inexplicably leave
legendary Asteroid Village, we are prepared to sell, rent out or
even give away our Pulitzer-Prize winning homes to any life form
whatsoever, even something murkily sentient, vaguely motile,
dripping with steely achromatic ichors, shambling horrors
immersed in oozy drooling silicon.
If that doesn’t work we will sell our units to the genuinely
proven dead. Many of you might want to be interred in comfort in
a legendary Harry Greene creation. If you indeed are certifiably
expired and can prove it, a tranquil if hardly notably
stimulating residence at the acclaimed and justly fabled Harry
Greene Memorial might be perfect for you.

The Authentics

In a plastic world in which everything and everybody is some
kind of sham or fake the Authentics are as real as a strange b
smell in a candy store or surgical chamber
The Authentics have had experiences that they bring to their
music that are way beyond anything synthetic like a law or a
tepid suburban life.
Rhythm geodesist Joe Raunch has been convected and almost
killed by lethal injection in a Texas state prison before they
realized minutes before the sendoff hah ad been in a Tiajuana
donkey act at the time of them murder and couldn’t have done it.
Raunch has had galloping constipation problems, is addicted
to celery, has had a ruling taste for marathon running even when
there is no marathon. He jogs whenever he is underwater or
asleep. He intends to jog after death forever
Drummer Cal Deisel has worked in dogburger emporiums in
Shanghai, was a space trailer to the moon last ear, He has been a
resident of both heaven and hell. He collects herbal poisons and
feed them to his pet reptiles. He has had give children all of
whom are immersed with him in a court in Monaco in terminable
litigation.
He is an expert carpenter, stone mason and short order chef
eggs over easy who was voted by the Post-Hellenic Dinner
Association hash brown potato singer of the year. Something of a
botanist, he has crossed a pear and a tomato to gave us
completely inedible and rather sorry-looking little grey sort of
vegetable.
Lead singer Rugged Rod was wrongfully convicted for
fish-rape, manslaughter, arson and illicit munitions safes by a
grand
jury in Sin City, Florida, before he won a landmark Supreme Court
reversal on a technicality. Rod is the philosopher of this bunch.
He fought in the Persian Gulf War in Cleveland, nobody knows for
whom. Maybe it was for himself.
Electric bassist Rocky “Bonecrusher” Dyckman has been
batting innumerable diseases attacking his right elbow. He has
makes the best moonshine in Arkansas. He has been a legendary and
feared revolutionary in Switzerland, a country that has otherwise
never had a revolution.
The Authentics offer you life. What else do you want? Do you
want death?

The Platinum Whores, Bacteria and the Kleptonics

The Whores will sing anything at all for money. They aim at
a grudging and niggardly competence in their music like any
professional corps on salary. The Platinum Whores began as a rock
band but now occupies every wage earning job in America.
Bacteria, the retro group that brings old time music from
the planets, is an ambassador of the longest living kingdom of
life. Of course authentic bacterial warbling is more than silent;
it can’t be heard. Always from the beginning brainless, unadorned
by any design whatsoever, it sounds if you hear it at all like a
dim marginal hiss at the edge of your raucous sonic envelope.
Bacteria has had no hits, makes no appearances on the media,
has no profile, no name. They are invisible, locked in vapor;
they will move you like a plague.
The Kleptonics sound like every other groups in the world.
They are five of the world’s accomplished mimics. In fact you
hear them constantly if you think they are everyone from Enrico
Caruso through Frank Sinatra. Your lover on the phone might be a
Kleptonic. Your children are Kleptonics. Your president is
certainly a Kleptonic.
The Kleptonics don’t bother to make albums; they cover other
people’s hits. They are always cheaper than the original. The
business world loves their profit margins. Whatever you buy or
steal or listen to in a restaurant when you hear music at all is
now done by the Kleptonics.
We are giving away a free CD, Peggy Sue Got Divorced, by the
Rhinestone Sequels for the first five million customers for
Bacteria”s cosmic hit: Whoooosh.
Whooosh was really done by the Kleptonics.
The Platinum Whores are selling their famous golden platter,
Daycare College, Welfare Stomp, The Tender Loving Care Cha-Cha,
and That’s Justice, for money. These songs are also really done
by the Kleptonics.
The Platinum Whores and Kleptonics are all infected by
Bacteria.

The Banalities

The Banalities are a rock band totally forgettable as no
musical group has ever been in pop history. They offer tedious
songs without melodies, harmonies or rhythms; they also waft out
seemingly all too familiar but terminally dull musical debacles,
travesties of very ordinary ditties that would avoid with good
reason. They seem to be covers of dreary music one has forgotten.
They are nameless if probably they were once born with
names. They dress inconspicuously, are so ultimately without
style that they might be fictional or invisible. They aren’t even
a raucously loud bad; in fact it’s questionable whether they are
playing music at all or are physical present at their own
concerts.
The Banalities never pay personal income tax, are not even
commercially incorporated, contribute nothing to the American
exchequer or culture. Who they are, what they do, what scandals
and drug-laden carnal follies they wallow in, are unknown and
probably ether insufferably boring or thankfully unknowable.
Why should you pay for a pricy ticket to see the Banalities
appearing (after a fashion) at your local theater next week or
any time? They are absolutely an experience we fully guarantee
you will survive.

Bialisis Pills: A Cure for Teenage Sneeze Dysfunction

Forty million acne-faced American teenagers have rampant
sneeze dysfunction and don’t know it!
Well, how the hell could they know? Only when they see
everybody sneezing and coughing when they aren’t, when they take
a pinch of snuff and nothing happens, they might have a
glimmering of their illness, no?
Like people who need therapy most victims of rampant sneeze
dysfunction live an innocent lifetime never realizing they are
deeply sick. Half of them think they are better off not sneezing.
The other half are morons who aren’t exactly sure what sneezing
is.
Even if you are adolescent, healthy and have no problems or
ills whatsoever, if you have a lover, a neighbor, even a mid
enemy whom you haven’t seen sneeze lilt you owe it to them as
well as yourself to find out why they are not sneezing and
coughing.
Recommending Bialisis Pills to them immediately might make
their scurvy life better. You should even follow strangers around
for awhile in their travels to see whether they may need Bialin.
We sell to adults too! In fact Bialisis Pills aren’t merely
for those of you of all ages who have lack of rampant sneezing
problems; Bialisis Charitable Foundation but is the leading
champion of compassionate Western preventative medicine. Our team
of certified staff doctors rightly believe that if you don’t have
a disease, you should be treated for it; one day you might have
it.
Our veterinarians offer the same infallible Bialisis remedy
for dogs. Your little mutt probably needs copious grams of Bialin
daily.
Our side effects of our competitor’s coarse and scurvy
Bialisis pills are something like slow torture as practiced by
the ferocious and fearsome Yung Dynasty: the extant masters in a
history of diverse ippissimi of pain and woe.
The side effects of Bialin aren’t merely loss of appetite,
an allergy to love, headaches, diarrhea, constipation,
depression, febrile semen, fainting, liver and kidney failure, a
coma or catalepsy as with other remedies for sneezing you are
familiar with. It isn’t even an expensive hospital stay, horrible
decline and death, Our certified lozenges are not only lethal but
contagious. They despatch all known and unknown life forms in the
vicinity including termites and microbes within a range of five
miles.
Your only alternative to a cure is sickening, suffering,
then miserably perishing, giving up sneezing forever.

The Revellers New CD: Let’s Party

Now that affluent suburban burglars are regularly robbing
the houses of their neighbors anytime they go out of their
hearths it’s time to have a new look at devices that can inspire
these burglars to look elsewhere for their daily loot. Crocodile
moats, walls, and mane fields and machine gun nests on the lawn
wont trick anyone anymore. These pillagers are too sophisticated
to be frightened by a bite from a giant reptile. They just shoot
the beast and march on to walk off with the swag.
The Revellers, the Hindu religious group based in Mumbai,
that brought you forgettable shopping mall music for decades,
have recently produced that perfect recording for you. It is not
just loud and raucous dance music like the offerings of their
competitors in Sri Lanka and Pakistan.
It is nightmarish fare punctuated by expletives culled from
hairier movies, prison films that only aptly belong in the foul
and surly months of ravening monsters and maniacs. There are also
sounds of explosions, screams, riddling hellish wails, sampled
screeched from surgery done by indifferent bottom rung drunken
doctors in crumbling city hospitals, harsh and irritatingly
abbrev sounds made by sanding machines, fake tyrannosaurs bellows
taken from old science-fiction flicks.
There are sinister low tones coming from the woofers that
emulate the terrifying sound of earthquakes. There are bytes of
news reproduce of exotic atrocities and slaughters from imaginary
television news programs. All of these odious sonics are imposed
on a repetitive sampled layers of thecitis of idiot adolescents
frenetically dancing and whistling jocose Hottentot anthems off
key.
Of ceruse it you’re going out yourself to burglarize other
people you may want to buy this recording to scare people in
their house as you break into it.
The Revellers themselves, once living in a suburb of
Mumbai, were all recently killed in such an assault by Pakistani
vandals on their estates. This is a commemorative album.

The Bolshevik Love Manual

Sandra Gabble, retired porno star par excellence on the
audacious San Francisco scene for twenty years, recently
converted to Bolshevism after talking over the future of humanity
with a set of Berkeley wine and cheese honchos across the river.
The result is a volume of simple dynamite recipes for love
that is changing the amorous habits not merely Bay area radicals
but America itself. Fashionable progressive women are throwing
away their peasant costumes, dyeing heir hair blonde, getting
affordable silicon breast and posterior implants, doing the
clever tricks in the sack that are giving social radicals in the
United States an erotic life competitive with any fatigued
wine-swilling gourmand womanizer maundering in Paris.
The indefatigable, still gorgeous and pert Sandra Gabble has
certainly revolutionized world Bolshevism in a profound way.
Thanks to this premier porno celebrity no longer do leaders
taking us to an inevitable future proclaim as Lenin did that sex
is less important than urination.”Some people are good lovers,”
Lenin had remarked once. “Nearly everybody is good at pissing.”
Lenin was right but these days when you walk down the street
and see an artificial looking woman dressed in very high
stiletto heels, a short tight skirt, unlikely big spongy boobs,
showing traces of cosmetic surgery scars beneath a fluff of
lemon-colored hair, one is either looking at a local trollop, a
prestigious porno luminary or a Bolshevik.
Of course Sandra is pushing her book on a public who are not
Bolsheviks. “Happiness should be just a Bolshevik thing,” she
says on the media. “Everybody should be as delighted to be alive
as fierce erotic animals as all the Bolsheviks in America are
thanks to me. It’s not enough for me to put a smile on the face
of radicalism on the planet
“I want to make the oyster-eating capitalists, lushes
mumbling in the gutter, lunatics in asylums, death row convicts,
cell phone fiends and terminal news junkies as happy as
progressive thinkers and I are. I’m even pitching my book to
ghosts. Don’t ever ask me how, kid; just watch me do it.”
Gabble has been haunted my media questions about her
controversial revolution within Bolshevism. Some call her the
worst thing to happen to Communism since Kerensky. Thanks to her,
Bolsheviks are too tired to go to meetings; they spend most of
their time in a half-snooze waiting for their body to revere from
the last revel so they can go on to the next one. Her enemies say
she is turning idealists into jaded degenerates. Sandra find
these charges silly.
“Let them go back to that boring Lenin; I don’t care,” she
says winsomely. “Some people hate porno. Some hate love. I’m for
them. Some even like to be celibate. I say, goody-goody. There’s
plenty of room in the healthy new Bolshevism for everybody.”

Bottom Of the Class Inc.

We are the central employment site for expensive, inept
unskilled labor, the very employees you want when you are
discreetly selling short on your stock, when you are terminally
depressed and want most desperately want your enterprise and even
your existence to fail.
We offer you at best an ragtag army of semi-literate, lazy,
grumpy and sometimes incontinent solders who are the largest
market for your shabby and broken merchandise in America.
We aren’t just a camp for spoiled insufferable louts as our
myriad off-shore competitors and nearby American Liberal Arts
colleges are. We have resident intellectuals who mount parades of
orthodoxies of vapor and watch them strut and kill to the martial
music of Sousa. (Ralph Sousa). We have in our massive Hippocrates
Wing a coven of wily doctors who cheated their way through
medical school wo cannot tell the difference between the living
and the dead; they can’t diagnose a cold when they themselves
might have one.
We have defrocked brain surgeons who can only find jobs
operating doing amputations on helpless convicts in our worst
prisons. We have killer astronauts who aim to go to Mars and end
up on Pluto. We have dizzy acrobats who cannot walk on level
ground. We have musicians who have learned how to play the piano
in a half hour.
Lonely? Hungry for carnality? Take in our Matrimony Pavilion,
savor the nacral and monstrous fare in our Poodle Escort Service,
or in a funk even wander though our A Midnight Quick One in A
Rusty Chevy Wing you will find legions of diseased and litigious
punchboard lovers who will bring you nothing but trouble.
We offer you, entre nous, some very dangerous people- now
dangerous to you. Unlike even the best our competitors, the
American school system, we can absolutely pledge that any rogue
you hire from our lists will at least steal your pencils. Most of
them will grievously disappoint you, perhaps even bring you to a
deserved and prayed for horrendous ruin.
You have our standard Teflon Guarantee: if one of our
professionals doesn’t do you major injury, another will.

Burdick and Budinsky: Attorneys for the Dead

We are the cosmic masters of litigation.
We have expanded our arena of universal advocacy from the
living to the dead. We are now representing thirty two million
corpses who have been recorded on laugh tracks on current
television shows who before we too their case never got a penny
in residuals.
We have forced several sitcoms off the air because they
could not pay the estates of the perished ones whose giggles
chortles, guffaws, even wild maniacal screams they used without
contract or giving up a single shekel to the bereaved descendants
of these expired over-tickled howling loons gone bonkers.
We have forced many celebrated media producers into court,
threatened them with exposure of how they got the sonic comic
mayhem from our clients.
Our beneficiaries include the eleven love chidden of Emmett
Squibb Jr., one who on dealt row was recorded in all manner of
bibulous laughing fits to leave his progeny d’amour with some
boon after his terrible, valent and helter skelter life.
They are now all millionaires, living in La Vegas, sipping
Almanac, basking in the sun at the terraces lip of their
individual avocado-shaped swimming pools.
Insatiable Jessica Squibb was voted by Babalu Escort
Services the state of Alaska Consumer of the Year. Darnell Squibb
became the largest eater of ratmeat cheeseburgers in the ice-king
state. Lucky Larry Squibb is running on the Black War ticket for
governor of Nevada.
If you’ve ever been recorded on a laugh track, alive or
dead, if you have any perished relatives you has been guffawing
after death to a vast torporous suburban audience in volume,
contact Burdick and Budinsky immediately.
What’s next for Burdick and Budinsky? They say the sky’s the
limit. Not for Burdick and Budinsky. We think owning any building
includes air space right up to the stars.
We are suing every airline that ever flew anywhere near
anyplace for violating the air property rights of everybody and
everything on Earth.
By the way, you have a right to charge people for even
looking at you. If anyone casually glances at you in the street
it could and should cost them a bundle.
Some call us twin Mephistos. Our clients call us twin
angels.
In either case we can and will change your life.

The Butch McDonald Memorial Fund

The Butch McDonald Memorial Fund is America’s perfect
charity. It sets out to do nothing; it hopes for nothing, it has
no intents or goals, no personality, can neither succeed nor fail
since it both sets out and manages quite well to accomplish
nothing.
Butch McDonald himself, me, is a fiction who hardly deserves
a memorial; he has never existed. In a world in which hope, love,
comfort and memory is mostly an odium, a homage to pain, when
one thinks of the legendary and celebrated Butch McDonald, we all
can be grateful; there is nothing to remember.
If we are asking for funds, all of your funds, even hoping
you will go into debt and bankruptcy to fuel our Byzantine
financial machines, we are merely requesting from you a currency
that no longer has any value either if it ever did have one.
Entre nous, folks, how real is a dollar?
In a sense your money will of course vanish utterly into our
pockets to be spent on cholesterol hamburgers if you send it to
us, much as it will disappear from our underworld coffers in turn
into some equally imaginary lightless realm not only beyond your
ken, even leagues outside our own audacious and continual
speculations, an ebon kingdom more unthinkable if that is all we
know about its nature than gnome-ridden Zurich or the supposedly
sunny Cayman Islands.
If Butch McDonald is indeed a fiction, not even an
interesting one but a dense bolus of stale hamburger banalities,
how real are you? How much of your apparent character is an
equivocal legacy from sinister strangers?
How materially stable is the very fund itself? We are massy
siphons of nothing going nowhere. We can be as imaginary as we
choose to be in a world where even the rulers are inviable or
dead since we are weightless vessels holding nothing, carrion
monsters devouring raw credit and finance itself, aery swine of
the nether stars beyond the Doppler indigo belt gobbling down
emptiness. We unlike you the perfect consumes. You probably work
at some meaningless fey labor for your income; we wait for you to
contribute it to us out of some ineluctable cosmic fatigue.
Thank you again for your charity even if you give us all
your lucre you are merely bountiful with a parcel of ether. Yet
in the end we want you with a kind of primal desperation to send
us nothing. It doesn’t matter either to you or even to us who we
are, what our address is, what our hopes, amorous tastes and
scurvy material woes might be. Perhaps your matter even less than
ours. Think it over.
You are free of all that past dross. We are ready to swallow
and atomize to something less than dust nothingness itself. Since
you are only able to send us an impeccably true nothingness,
though we revel in our midnight troves in our starry keeps, we
never have do so. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you!
Thank you, you son of a bitch, for nothing.
yours,
Ronald “Butch” McDonald Junior

News From the Martin Burbank Institute

The Martin Burbank Institute announces its discovery of a
galactic television station in one of the inner sulfur-infused
planet of the remote and to us faintly lit Cassiopea star system.
These signals are more than one billion years old; it has taken
the audio-visual signals that take aeons to traverse the black
ether between their ineluctable world and ours.
“We can’t gauge whether their programs are commercials,
tragedies, comedies, offerings of educational information or
perhaps merely random programming of video masters investigating
the nature of chaos,” Doctor Joy Sturgeon, the spokesmen and CEO
of the Martin Burbank Institute said in a press realized the
Tokyo newspapers.
“We are however all pretty much agreed at Burbank these days
that such bewildering offerings of television might come from an
overly cognitively brilliant species as their necessary remedy
for over-organization,” she added. “We believe that most galactic
life forms are envenomed by too much hard edged brain power; they
need daily to bathe in random noise and occipital designs as
often as possible to keep their sanity.”
“Members of the Institute have been watching the programs
closely for several years, trying to make sense of what species
that has lived elsewhere that long ago in another part of the
universe deem worthy of their amusement. Could we give them jobs
or sell then anything, insurance or chewing gum?
The Burbankers have as yet been unable to fathom why any
form of life whatever would watch or listen to these gaudy but
utterly baffling images and cynics.
Who indeed are these faraway and incomprehensible monsters
who are makers of television? What is their evolution? The
tireless Burbank scientists have put a sampling of all the
species on Earth they can bring to watching the screen to
determine whether any of our own earthly kind respond favorably,
with repugnance or at all to the video.
So far the only local species that has seemingly been amused
by the television programs has been a giant lungless echinoderm
lurking at the bottom of the chill polar seas, noted for gulping
down watery offal in the lightless nether abysses below
Antarctica.
Doctor Sturgeon warns us of pirated or rogue presentations
of these programs from our offshore and satellite channels
available to the cognoscenti. “Unless you’re some kind of
echinoderm watching this stuff won’t do you much good,” she
advises. “On the other hand, it’s completely addictive. It will
keep you off the streets; you could do worse.”
“Since we clearly have nothing to say to this insufferable
worm without any neural system at all,”she comments. “We are
likely to be as much as a social loss were we at a roast beef
dinner or locked in the same maximum security cell as convicts
with this probably long dead Cassiopea bunch,” Joy Sturgeon
remarks. “Of course, perhaps what we or they think is television
isn’t really television.”

Celebrities Anonymous

Tired of being a celebrity? Fatigued by nightclubbing,
womanizing, strange erotic tastes, private detective agencies
following you to the bathroom, the adulation and even wild
slander of nerds, louts, sloths and creeps, the incessant hunger
to be always in the media as dong something or denying the
phantom charges of invented anions that one exists or is doing
anything at all?
Of course you are. So were Zeus, Jango, and Quacamunga. They
all had had enough of media fame; they slunk ruefully into Rehab
in their time, didn’t they? It might be the day that you
disappear into our vast building looking like a scarlet red
hospital deep in South Dakota near or under fabled Mount Rushmore
and take a long rest and a deserved big snooze from a hectic and
fatiguing life.
A lot of miserable people write us asking whether God went
into Rehab. If he did, would we tell you? Celebrities Anonymous
will always protect your right to be invisible and nobody even if
you are a minor demon to be nobody. Some people and gods of
course don’t need us to be anonymous. We certainly recognize
that. We honor that. They are perfectly quintessential nobodies
without any help from us. We say: let them all do it. To us and
to their enemies even a perfect nobody is somebody.
Believe me, we of all people understand the commercial
mentality of show business and fancily dressed political honchos
who financially have to be front and center in the news to exist
in their minds or your minds at all. Many of our clients are
former wrestlers, movie stars, senators, religious charismatic,
creepy bigtime golfers, show girls, financial savants, brokers,
public saints, messiahs, real estate moguls and car salesmen.
We do tell them all in our hospital there is really another
way to live. It’s not misery, believe me, in an age of ceaseless
rage and slander to be rich and utterly and yet perfectly
anonymous.
Folks, it isn’t suicide either to take up those old
seemingly equivocal values of privacy taken for granted by every
little rat in a sewer. Take it from me, it isn’t quite an
expensive simulated death either, even a sign of public failure
as a former celebrity to relax, do a few lazy laps in your
tepidly heated terraces swimming pool. God knows you’ve made your
money. You’ve been sued enough by your wife, lovers and friends
to know that. So you aren’t going to be recognized by the Puebla
Mexicans who delver your pizza, easy on the pepperoni; so what?
Some wags say our high class celebrity hospital is really a
painless execution chamber; we calmly sedate, surgically
slaughter, roast and consume our minor gods at the dining table
in a plastic abattoir. Maybe sometimes we do. Some celebrities
can’t stand anonymity. They not only ask us but handsomely pay us
to put them to the sword so to speak. We do it: painlessly; we
even charge them the usual bevy of big bucks for it.
Why not, we’re only about money. So are they.
Hey, death is just another kind of Rebah.
Cellular Litigation Now!

Robin Boozer’s polemical Pulitzer Prize winning book is
going to be made into a movie and television series. After seven;
decades of husbands and wives suing each other in legal squabbles
to the death, children divorcing parapets, cats and dogs and
other pets denouncing each others in court, even aquarium fish
armed with teams of lawyers ready to loot neighboring ant farms,
whole blocks of suburban homes sold at midnight and the former
owners leaving for some other city in the murk.
Says Boozer, what can be new in legal history and social
atomization of America? The answer of course is Cellular
Litigation.
Burdick, Boozer and Caroomaswaamy have opened up in
Philadelphia the first American cellular and atomic litigation in
history. Before Burdock Boozer and Caroomaswaamy went into
action, terminally fractured as American social life was,
citizens still stayed more or less intact as they made casual
legal war on each other.
Now individual cells in the same person’s flesh are able to
sue each other in Philadelphia’s Cellular Court, a special
judicial machine set up by local progressive activists to
accommodate the growing hunger to sue anybody and anything of
individual human cells anywhere in the body. They file armies of
suits not only against cells in their own host but cells and
atoms of other humans, domestic animals and wild beasts, even the
exploding flesh of the gods.
What’s next in this march of general progress? Ask Boozer.
Burdick and Caroomaswaamy aren’t talking; they can’t. Their
cells, organs and atoms are too busy litigating against each
other in the World Court.
There a kind of grey mist of their innards floating though
the legal chambers of The Hague. Boozer says in his addenda he is
thinking of quietly leaving the planet. Where to go? Someplace in
the Andromeda Strain.
Associated with the ACLU (American Cellular Liberation
Union) Boozer alone runs class actions suits representing a
group of horrendously victimized cells all in one organ; the
kidney, spleen or liver.
Most often they are just ordinary cells in the leg or in the
elbow somewhere looking for justice thanks to Boozer- if they can
no longer count on the black milling fog they once had thought
were Burdick and Caroomaswaamy.

The Chatterbox

The Chatterbox is to television what the Blackberry phone is
to the old phone. Now you can carry around with you all the
confessions and revelations of your favorite celebrities and
their stormy marital lives and nightclubbing while they relate
them to you in the street, in the bathroom, as you make love or
while you slumber.
The Chatterbox is a battery-operated microscopic implant in
your neck that can be inserted or removed after a brei and almost
painless surgical procedure done not by a mere doctor but a
specialized electronics store mechanic. You will experience ever
afterwards these celebrities crowding around you in substantial-
seeming holograms as you go anywhere or do anything, or even do
absolutely nothing. They will be ceaselessly relating their
intriguing lives to you while you are apparently listening to the
repetitive woes of some intimate or take in a tale of banal grief
from some stranger in a bus station.
You will never be alone again with a Chatterbox. If you are
alone, as so many of us are, thanks to the Chatterbox, you will
never know it.

Clerk

Clerk is the Pulitzer Prize award winning role playing
computer game for those mature spirits who very cannily and
sensibly don’t want to take risks.
One spends time in shuffling virtual paperwork, drinking
imaginary tepid wader from a broken cooler, playing interminable
games of Hearts on one’s computer and eating a cheap and
ultimately forgettable lunch delivered from assorted greasy spoon
chefs maundering at a local diner.
Clerk has twice won the Nobel Prize for Peace. The runner up
both times was the famed but boring Pere Lachaise Cemetery.
Immersed in the arid eddies of Clerk, one has scant dialogue
with other players from Peru to Mongolia, always choosing in
insufferable leaden clichs one calculates will enough one to get
through the day without any distraction. One occasionally plugs
in to glitzy daytime game shows with a cunning aural device; one
may even giggle a bit in real time, hunched over one’s desk as
one faintly echoes the canned laughter and asymmetric inchoate
guffaws of the long dead.
As tedious as some churls say Clerk is, it is mirabile dictu
the most valued as well as the popular role playing game on the
planet. People all over the world who have only heard of Clerk as
a vaporous legend from Silicon Valley aim to play the game rather
than any other amusement.
In fact many violent people in exotic places will kill you
to play this genteel and low key game. Ultimately that’s probably
the only element of Clerk that makes Clerk interesting.

Cocaine For Butterflies

Among the many beneficial uses of doctor-approved medicinal
cocaine is the happiness of hounds on Zephyro Luzon’s butterfly
ranch in the Filipinos. Zephyro sells both certified medicinal
cocaine and butterflies to posh Filipino collectors from Manila
to Corregidor.
“My butterflies are happy,” Luzon remarks. “They fly better,
look better; as much as I can tell about the inner life of an
insect, feel better. Maybe they’re even smarter.”
“It’s ridiculous to talk about vicious habit-foreign drugs
for butterflies,” Luzon says to any Filipino who will listen.
“Butterflies only life for a day. They haven’t got time to have
bad habits or any habits.”
He dismisses charges he is crafting gaudy winged monsters in
the insect world as scurrilous and perverse.”We’ve been looking
at expanding the industry and taste of doctor-approved medicinal
cocaine to mice and wild rabbits; we’ve had our big sales with
compassionate chicken farmers.”
Zephyro Luzon looks reporters in the eye and says: “How long
dodos a chicken live? Shouldn’t its life be a joy if it’s going
to be short and suffer execution though it has committed no crime
and is probably mr virtues than most of us?”
Luzon is working on giving medically approved cocaine tall
the bacteria on the Earth, those who only live for an instant or
less. “Let the little bastards enjoy themselves while they can,”
he grunts.
Luzon also sells doctor-approved cocaine to
charity-conscious suckling pig fames, reflective dealers in
calves, ducklings, and soulful lamb butchers. His business is
very popular in New Zealand. “If we’re going to kill the
bastards. At least we can make them happy for no reason at all,:
Luzon says.
Luzon imagines a future world in which only big tough
animals like ourselves who lie a long time will avoid medicinal
cocaine. “We will be sober as senile elephants and giant sea
turtles,” Luzon says confidingly. “We masters of the Earth can’t
afford to even go near cocaine.”
He preaches against the dangers of any drug including
aspirin or beer for the gods, elephants, sea turtles and humans.
When asked whether he himself has ever tried any of his classical
Peruvian anodynes he grins and shakes his head wryly.
“Cocaine only makes you happy. I’ve got better things to do
than to be happy,” he muttered. Many patriotic Filipinos feel
Luzon certainly does. So do a whole lot of frolicking and happy
ducks, chickens, lames, pigs and butterflies.

Cocktails for Two

He has a beautiful looking cyanide and avocado cocktail, The
Green Dream, on his own desk, easily accessible when he is ready
to plotz. “Whether one is sipping Kevorkian, Bloody Mama,
Hiroshima Mon amour, Sayonara Meine Schtozie or Hari-Kari Meine
Lebschen und Auf Weidersein Meine Luckshen, I feel these drinks
properly promoted as pure instant pleasure without consequences
of sold right will at once satisfy anybody of class and taste and
rid our Western society of these ugly incontinent loons, mewling
nerds hanging onto life, plainly of no use as slaves, taxpayers
or lovers to anybody.”
Rat Burger Tycoon Donald MacDonegal, the CEO who came up
with the one child, one parent plan for China to keep down the
population has a new plan to save countries like America and
japan burdened with supporting crones, lacking any young
population of chumps wanting to create their own enemies.
“I told them in China the one parent, one child plan would
keep down their numbers; anything but a paramecium needs two
parents. Hey, I got half my ideas from American Welfare Programs
and Anna Freud psychology books. You give a group an impossible
plan; some creeps will follow it. They will take an impossible
job, have an impossible lover quicker than they will try to fill
inside straights in a dumpy casino poker game. Don’t ask me why.”
MacDonegal is a believer in the power of advertisement.
“Hamburger joints always served breaded rat meat before me; they
never talked about it,” he says. “I made rats kosher.”
MacDonegal is a visionary not merely out to balance the
budget and eliminate the daunting deficits of the West. “I see
Cocktails For Two as a program for people of all ages,” he says.
“We’re dropping dead all over the place anyway; wouldn’t it be
better to go out with one last spasm of pure delight?”
Now Donald MacDonegal is behind the Cocktails for Two
federal program he is promoting all over America and Japan.
“Death has always been a bad guy. No more, baby. These drinks are
tasty, frothy and instantly lethal,” he said. “They aren’t
addictive; they kill you right away.”
MacDonegal is definitely not all talk. He has despatched his
whole family, everybody in his rat burger business including his
bankers and taken out assorted bums lurking in the garbage bins
beyond in the back of his food shops. He has emptied whole
prisons and insane asylums. Many have called him a more seductive
Adolph Hitler.
“That’s ridiculous,” he says. “Hitler was all about force,
rage, hatred and evil. I have no wickedness in me. I love and
cherish people. All my customers have died happy.”

Apogee Air Conditioners

Do you live in a culture not severely cold enough for you?
Are the droves of people who’ve told you to drop dead, have
informed you they are too busy even to notice you, have betrayed
and sued you in a snake-like way if impersonally enough, have
called charity the last illusion after one has done with God and
scurvy reception, a generation that would not even bother to kick
you into the gutter if they saw you collapsing and dying on the
street, are ready to honor your existence only to sell you
Martian underwater real estate and Antarctic mangos and coconuts,
aren’t otologically chilly enough for you, we have an air
conditioner line that will satisfy your insatiable hunger for
ultimate frozen life that will outdo both hour lust for an
ultimate ceaseless winter.
It will overcome your clamorous desire not to postpone your
common and inevitable voyage of the species to the dark side of
Pluto.
You don’t have to retire to outer space on an asteroid and
view from an opiate remittance the pallid faint dot of a sun in
the remittance of the ether as a feeble hub of light worthy of
you and your biological kindred.
Buy our Malaysian Poontang or our high end Cadillac Arrest:
two of our most popular volume items fresh from our imaginary
convenience store shelf.
The Malaysian Poontang simply turns your home into a block
of ice larger than a mammoth.
The elegant and silent Cadillac Arrest encapsulates that
same thrice mortgaged roof-leaking domicile into an amnesia
geometric rectangle of thick grey nearly palpable mist, an opaque
fog that mirrors and even easily outdoes the ultimate limbos of
future comic entropy.
Just plug it in; whoosh, you are frozen beyond the world of
love, motility and mosquitos! You can even take your dog.

Competitive Government Now!
By Elvis Purvis

This bestselling memoir of Elvis Purvis, one who appleld the
American Constitutional checks and balances as young man to a
fake Korean grocery store, then a prestigious Czech munitions
factory, the state government of Arkansas, afterwards our
ambassador to all three U.N.s, has written an unforgettable
heartfelt, stunning, tempestuous, sultry testament that is
compelling, riveting, ultimately simply a non-stop money making
page turner.
As a stripling entrepreneur Elvis Purvis hired three cadres
of fake Koreans from Pueblo to run his select and pricy to-fu and
kim chee items; all were vying to bring them all a profit. As
such checks and balances do this created some natural abrasion
between the trio of groups but, hey, that’s democracy. Purvis
took his dynamic and frictions filled schemes to statesmen-like
munitions sales, hiring an aggressive trinity of shameless
pitchmen teems to sell the same weapons to the same country.
A billionaire from his three-headed corporative coups,
Purvis was six time governor of Arkansas, having not three but
nine different branches of bureaucratic rulers all presiding over
the same juggernauts. There were nine competing prisons all
wanting to cage the same convicts, nine battling Welfare systems
all hoping to service the poor, nine externally bickering insane
asylums looking to lock up the same slavering maniacs.
Purvis, denied a chance to run for president because he was
by accident born on a baccarat table in a Las Vegas casino,
became the Americana ambassador to three equal U.N.s, two of them
located in Tiajuana and Hamburg.
Purvis in the last chapters of his memoir offers his designs
for democracy in action not only to Venus and Mars but to
metaphysical realms. He suggests to God that he could to be three
Gods. He tells Satan to run three hells, delegate two of them to
Zeus and Krishna; let them compete for which one is better or
worse.
Purvis himself has cloned himself into three people. After
reading this book his readers may do the same.

The Fucken New American Constitution

The Fucken New American Constitution updates that old
shitass document written by lying lawyers, mint julep slavers and
wigged fogies into a body of law we contemporary Americans can
all enjoy and live by.
First of all the language of this piece of trash isn’t
virile enough for grandpa. In a document beginning: “We the
fucken people” the Congress is called Bullshit Hall, the
President, Jivemaster, the Supreme Court, The Mamas and the
Papas.
Look,.we ain’t stupid. You got a law you don’t like; you
break it. We got to make the motherfuckers out there like the
law, get it? The assholes out there are sure as hell going to
like our fucken laws, believe me. We don’t ask nobody including
shiteaters and clerks to eat shit.
Forget about voting, courts, police, any of that shit. Yeah,
and forget about signing anything or signing away anything
neither. Fuck it, let them all kiss my ass. Forget about states
rights, local rights, any kind of rights. Nobody get any rights,
not even dogs. We all know that shit.
Forget about armies and navies; who the fuck is attacking
us? No fucken body. Yeah, a few Arabs. So what?
If we have any trouble we’ll call in Arnold. Arnold can be
fucken anybody, even the real Arnold. Hey, even fucken Arnold
isn’t Arnold.
Well, that’s it. The whole fucken Constitution. Blow it out
your ass. By the way: fuck you.

Coprophilia Now!

What, the public asks, is Coprophilia? Is it a taste, a
compulsion, a virtue, a legitimate act, a religion or a merely a
niche market business? It may be for all we know at Coprophilia
Limited, all or none of these; for us our goal is to make all
things other than injury legitimate. Has Coprophilia ever hurt
anyone? Is it taken up under duress? Do even our torturers who
set up prisons to stifle the wicked demand such actions from
their prey?
We have run Coprophilia spas on several Indian reservations.
It is legal or almost legal in the state of Nevada. We have frank
and audacious Coprophilia television channels offering the
shilling adepts in the sitcoms eating, swallowing, chewing and
digesting human and donkey manure to traditional laugh tracks.
We have quite a few progressive psychologists who are
champions of the mental values of consuming various kinds of
manures. They run posh Coprophilia clinics in the Cayman Islands
and on several offshore pleasure boats. We have several Hollywood
stars who swear publicly their beauty comes from a daily glass of
pig urine.
Many Churches of Coprophilia have filed for sacred status
under the tax laws. They have already split into eight factions
each of them claiming the others are not really Coprophiles.
We of course have several Congressmen and Senators who have
quietly attested that they are advocates of the taste if we’ve
never yet had a Preassigned who acknowledged he was one of us.
Is Coprophilia against family values? Certainly not, it can
be a ritual the whole clan enjoyed nightly as a delectable desert
after the silicon steak and the plastic mash potatoes.
What is it that keeps Coprophilia from being legitimate as
begin a vegetarian? The answer is obvious; coprophilia is not
taught in the schools.
We are pressing the inter-continental legislature for a
mandate to teach Coprophilia to children. Such a curriculum could
never be viable, you say? Thank of what your kids are being
taught and assess this matter again.
Our aim of course is neon of these things: it is simple
cosmic revenge. We plan to take over a country, maybe yours, have
all the privileges you have giving only to your dietary elites to
one day put the very flag we fly over the White House. Which
country? Which White House? It may be yours.

The Museum Of Crap

The Museum of Crap, located at 5403 Sequoia Street in
Peoria, Illinois is a repository of the Arts that have no
intelligence, no style, no socially redemptive value, no ideas,
no personality, work which exudes a general crass estimation of
the capacities for mere consciousness of its audience.
Even our guards are startling look-alike of unrecognizable
and trivial people, saints of the utterly plain, forgettable
and anonymous.
On the first floor we feature the largest collection in the
world of what discerning critics in the trade magazine of America
bottom memorabilia, Trash, have justly called Classic Crap. We
have squat and ugly rhomboid Grecian urns, dun and granitic Roman
sarcophaguses turned out by hacks, wretched icons of boredom
without any elegance, beauty or aesthetic effect.
Since they are worthless; there has never been a break-in at
the Museum of Crap We also have badly built Babylonian tables,
Chaldeans portraits by children of stupid, banal and odious
indigent or local clerks.
Our legendary Renaissance wing features a capacious sample
of the lest interesting works of the painters from the time of
Cimabue through Caravaggio, daubers with no talent at all yet
who were busy filling walls of churches with murals that
couldn’t even make colorful torture interesting. One walks
through these dull triptychs, moronic trapezoidal altar pieces
while listening to the bland music of select Renaissance
composers with no gifts whatsoever. One is always below three
ample floors of a library which has culled all the unimportant
and badly written illuminated books of the period from ashes and
landfill.
The modern materials of our third floor feature the
achievements of artists depicting the French Revolution none of
whom could not draw, musicians tone deaf, nearly imbecilic
writers whose pages read like a shuffled dictionary of
disagreeable clichs, absurdities and banalities, and several
broken clay toys fashioned of dogs.
This month features the work of Cynthia Monk of the
so-called Alabama “invisible school”. This exhibition of her
elusive, mysterious conceptual art on blank walls features random
fulsome explanations of immense rusting iron sculptures that are
not there. They are perforce shameless imitations of other
sculptures that also were never there.
The Museum Of Crap features an extensive menu in its smoky
cellar cafeteria, fare mostly tartar sauce-laced, fatty and tepid
luncheon meat, chitterlings and organic scrapple. We feature
cunning carafes of fetid tainted swamp water and digestifs of
blue bionic chocolate.

The Crusade Against Crime by Hypolitte Bourbon

This second handsomely printed volume of Hypolitte Bourbon’s
immense, beautifully written memoir traces his later social
action, his subtle legacy to America: a clarion call to stand
against, punish and prevent crime.
Bourbon, an acclaimed and prestigious statistician and
psychology professor working for Welfare was a frequent expert
witness in Family Court, sometime marriage counselor; he realized
early on that there was more crime among Black males than anybody
else. He is of course the esteemed author of our current
excellent laws which lock up Black men under any pretext.
Bourbon maintains had nothing against Blacks; he was not in
any way a racist. He had the courage to act after proving
irrefutably and statistically that Blacks were natural criminals.
After a while as we discover in subsequent chapters he
realized that crime was ubiquitous in our species; incredibly
enough even middle class Whites committed crime.
In fact we could almost be defined as the only species on
Earth besides magpies and mockingbirds to commit crime even when
we were sated and rich. In despair, Bourbon thought of locking up
the human race; he couldn’t figure out who would be the guards
and wardens.
In this heartfelt testimony Bourbon realized one day that
life itself that was spewing out crime in a universal cloaca, not
merely humans. If microbes could have committed crime, they would
done it instantly; the little rogues lacked the means to be
felons, not the ruling mephitic desire. Plainly, Bourbon thought,
a purging chemical that would destroy all life was necessary to
put a decisive end to crime.
Bourbon dropped psychology; he studied chemistry. He came up
with a powerful and merciless venom made cheaply from rotten
potatoes that would utterly eliminate life from humans to viruses
from our planet.
Then he realized with a sudden melancholy that other planets
probably had even more crime than Earth. Clearly as he says in
his later chapters only total destruction of the universe would
combat crime effectively.
In the last chapters of his reminisce Bourbon became aware
that whoever had created this cosmos could always produce another
infinite den and lair of felony, perhaps even more criminal than
this one. He began to plot the murder of the nefarious entity
that had fashioned this Creation.
Lamentably, this poetically written memoir ends rather
inconclusively. Bourbon was felled while accepting the Pulitzer
Prize by a spate of catarrh, ague, phsisis and black lung fever
in the very midst of contemplating his ultimate attack on our
starry creator.
He has left us this beautiful book.

The Encyclopedia Of Slander

This vast ten volume collection from the New Modern Library
contains not most but all ways contemporaries but even later
commentators have trashed every human being who has ever walked
the Earth. Among its favorite fools and dunces and dupes are
Santa Claus, mom, dad, grandma and Doctor Seuss. All are deemed
to have a disreputable sex life, mental retardation, fits of
lunacy; all are ruled by unnameable criminal perversity.
Our deity who has purportedly been around since before
Creation and even before Creation gets a very well deserved major
shellacking from our contributors; our Creator doesn’t come off
any worse than all other subjects including whales, bacteria.
humans, angels, demons, Martians, arachnids, protozoa. assorted
cats and dogs, all treated with equal disdain, contempt and
mockery by the commentators quoted in these vast impressive
volumes.
The reader will be familiar with the classic impaling of
savants and celebrities of the past of all luminaries and even
ordinary mediocrities one might think would be exempt from
persiflage and scorn.
EOS trashes not only people but things: void, waste, lies.
All human inventions including the bow and arrow, shoes, the
utility of toenails, the intelligence of fish and worms, the lack
of egoism and respectable mein of stones and innumerable motes of
dust all take a big shellacking from our contributors. We lambast
not only all life but lack of life.
The cumulative effect of reading these volumes at a meaty
clip is to assure the reader that all and everything in the past,
rank and insufferable beyond our patience, tolerance or our mercy
and forgiveness, is dead. It allows us all to despise and scuttle
all and anything. It dumps reality itself in a Potters Field
burial ground in Staten Island out of mercy or a quick and silent
interment in impersonal landfill in some dismal corner of
Westchester it deserves.
It also gives all a commodious sense of propriety and
felicity to any modern funeral. The Encyclopedia is often quoted
at modern memorial services in which a succussion of ferocious
choleric eulogists give very good reasons why we should be glad
somebody or something or even nothing has finally shown the tardy
but just grace to disappear from our midst. The Encyclopedia is
used extensively at suburban shopping mall religious services.
With the infinite volumes of EOS we can all feel an inner
security now that we have been saved from our doleful yesterdays
by the benign engines of progress.
The Encyclopedia is constantly being added to by our
stalwarts as new people and things, all vile, rank beyond
measure, appear like chirping locusts on the Earth. Miming the
galloping expansiveness of folly, filth, crime and madness in
this malodorous Creation, this vast borderless encyclopedia of
mockery spews slops into the void with a crass vigor that is
neverending.

A Letter from the Dalai Lama

I hope you don’t mind if I call you up one night and listen
to you and your problems perhaps for two or three hours.
I don’t want anything from you. Not money, not time, not
sex. I just want to listen to you and the story of your life.
Nowadays everybody is listening to me; why I don’t know. I’m not
so interesting. They ask me about God. What does anybody know
about God? Nothing. They want to know about Tibet. Why? I an
hardly remember Tibet at all. I say it’s cold. That sort of stops
them. Tibet probably is cold. You might need a sweater.
Believe me, I’d love to stop being the Dalai Lama. Could I
retire? Nobody would believe me. If I said: I am no longer the
Dalai Lama; find somebody else. In spite of myself, kicking and
screaming, I would still be the Dalai Lama.
That’s why I may even drop by and sit in a chair on your
porch and listen to you, I really have nothing to say to you; if
you don’t know what you don’t know who I am. I don’t really know
anybody. Maybe Lindsay Lohan and Elizabeth Taylor. Maybe I knew
Michael Jackson. I did know Elvis. What do they know or do that’s
interesting? More importantly, who were their celebrities? Jimi
Hendrix? Lili St. Cyr? Tattooed Reality Show glamour girls?
Everybody says they know me. People want to know whether
I’ve slept with Lindsay Lohan, had an audience with Nicolas
Sarkozy or have gone into rehab. Folks, As far as I know I have
nothing to go into rehab for. I’m so boring I don’t have any
vices worth even a half hour sojourn in rehab. Perhaps I have
vices I don’t know anything about. I’d go to a special rehab for
those mysteries, no? Nobody in my court of punks, publicists and
lamb dumpling caterers tells me about them. Maybe they don’t
exist.
That’s why I’m coming over to see you. Maybe glitzy Elvis
dropped in on you, sat on your porch before I did. Maybe you had
an audience with Vladimir Putin over a pineapple-flavored vodka.
Maybe nobody’s shown up at all to listen to you. Perhaps they
might sit there and hear from you that you are as boring as they
are. Then they slink away discreetly to the next porch.
Mostly when I drop by shadows like you think I can’t be the
real Dalai Lama. They say:: the true Dalai Lama would be too busy
to listening to your troubles. What in the world do you think I’d
be doing that keeps me so busy? Blessing people and things?
That’s grunt work that I have my sundry lookalikes doing.
Any competent impostor can do that. My doubles don’t speak
Tibetan. They don’t speak English or any known language. They may
not even be able to talk. I certainly don’t hire these chumps; I
leave that to my staff. These fakes mumble guttural rant; most
people think whatever unblessed garbage they want the blessing
for has been honestly blessed. Nowadays a real high Tibetan
blessing is what everybody but a few Tibetans would think was
wild Martian drivel. I don’t even bother to bless anything or
anybody anymore, even bless myself. Perhaps I forgot how to do
blessings. If I remember it, it might not be worst remembering.
See you. How will you know it’s me? Who knows? How will I
know it’s you?

Fuck You: The New Fucken Declaration of Independence

Yeah, sometimes in the course of human events shit happens.
When it does in my vicinity I haven’t got time or patience for
any bullshit. What am I, a fucken dog?
That’s it. Look, motherfucker. I don’t need a fucken hole in
your fucken Westminster Abbey. In fact I don’t need nothing from
you, asshole, except maybe for a fucken scumbag like you to
fucken get out of my sight.
Fucken Limey bastard! Who do you think you are, King Shit?
I’m going to piss and flush you away, motherfucker, like dead dog
wine. You’ll be swimming in cosmic pig shit forever. You think
you can fuck me over? You and what fucken army?
Son of a bitch robot bastard motherhumping, motherpumping,
motherdumping motherfucker!

The International Museum of Defecation

This important new museum in a suburb of West Peoria,
Illinois houses the extraordinary, bizarre and even very
forgettable feces of many living or dead species that have walked
the Earth.
There is on the massive first floor the celebrated Alberta
Tyrannasaurus dungheap, a gift from the estate of Lord Elgin of
the Parthenon marble bequest’ it is a great clot of ossified
reptile manure left by what seemed to have been an extended
family of the famous saurians in the early Jurassic period when
Canada was a tepid swamp. It’s odd color, a muted and suave
indigo witch pocks of blue and rich rhomboidal specks of oldie
are perhaps the most sensational exhibit in the spectacle of such
important and prodigious drippings from the past.
There is a remarkable show of Triassic colossal fish patties
standing next to an intriguing and unusual display of North
Javanese dululu, the viscid and oleaginous excretions of a South
Seas lizard which the natives often mold into images of their
coarse and merciless gods. The second floor hoses a set of what
para-psychologists at Duke and Austin have archly called
spiritual turds, the spewings of what appear to be marsupial
gnomes, tommy knockrs, elves and the inevitable clique of wildly
screeching Tasmanian poltergeists.

Denial Systems

Denial Systems is the helping company that puts you in touch
with the expert. You’ve got plenty of things you want to deny; we
all do. There’s no reason really not to deny them. You aren’t
after all going to be on the media confessing whatever, or
slandered in the newspapers as you are collared and haled off to
the slammer on the long parade of righteous Americans to some
minimum security jail cell with rotting organic walls. Sometimes
you don’t know how to deny things effectively though, Trust us!
We sure as hell know how to do it.
We have a staff of Denial Experts who can help you. Some of
them are:

Heinz Shlecht- Denier of not only the Holocaust but World War Two
and the existence of Germany.

Robin McNamara- Denier of the Vietnam War. He says his father
actually filmed the whole fracas with tiny hand puppets in a
garage.

Bill Clinton- Denier of ever smoking marijuana who now also
denies he had ever inhaled tobacco. We is also not sure what “it”
is.

Aleister Tyndale- Denier of the American Revolution and even the
discovery of America.

Gloria Phylum- Denier that any of her 23 children had a father,
but they should pay child support. Founder and Vice President of
the New Protozoan League.

Fritzie Ruglach- Romantic champion of the Ptolemaic system of
astronomy.

Reginald Yeats- Denier of any sure answer to any question of
arithmetic.

Gummo Kennedy- the only member of the Kennedy family to deny that
he slept with Marilyn Monroe.

Longsam Sujang- Denier that the American Dream is to tell
everybody you know to drop dead, scoot far away to Kalamazoo, own
a house, a car and go into debt.

We’re here waiting for your telephone call!

The Deniers

The Dissenters

The Dissenters, offering a new run of their sui generis hits
on the ashes of the Staten Island landfill this Halloween and El
Dia de Los Muertos, are an evil rock band that embodies the
negative energy of the universe.
As much as virtue, hope, goodness, love, charity, and honor
are immortal and our need for life, liberty and the pursuit of
happiness is as Jefferson says, inalienable. the Dissenters are
the nacral vessels of all the darkness of anti-matter that is
rooted in the equally deathless realms of vice, despair, scorn,
spite, torpor, dismissal and high ontological disdain. It is a
band that champions death, slavery and the whimpering, craven
flight from any lover, land, community, benison, equity,
consolation or graceful felicity, large or small.
Their golden disc hits, See You In Court, Drop Dead, Baby,
Chew On This, War Zone, The Fourth Reich, Punish Me Softly,
Chinese Ice Torture, Purge of Fire, Mustard Baptism, Kick Him In
the Gutter, Auto da Fe, Broiling in the Frying Chair, Hell for
the Infidel, Slaughterhouse Rag, Canadian Abattoir, Kill It like
A Chicken, Matalo, Double Merde, Basta, Basta, Basta, Litigation
Blues, Subhuman Stomp, One Hour of Power, Cold Turkey, and The
First One’s Free are balanced in concert by their famed
slithering and robotic cover versions of sacred rock classics
like Little Richard’s Slipping and a Sliding, Buddy Holly’s
choice: That’ll Be the Day and of course the band’s rock history
signature piece, the late Elvis Presley’s iconic You Ain’t
Nothing But A Hound Dog.
The Dissenters mirror and embrace the holy force in the
cosmos all of us if only in our dreams honor sometime: negation,
fury, wickedness and rampant slavering nightmare. They have won
Grammys for their deeply soulful The Ballad of Ted Bundy,
Imperium, Malice in Wonderland, Angel of Life, and Rhinestone
Ippissimi of Misery.
Lead singer, the legendary Sid Vicious Jr. is a dyspeptic
psychotic who’s known to spend his day kicking curs into the
wall. Lead guitarist Joe Rage is as rock stars go is a spiritual
man who is heavily involved in voodoo; Rage sticks pins into
dolls eve of his friends as he prays to unknown gods for the slow
and painful death of his lovers, landlord and enemies. Frenetic
drummer Ralph Turd is a more liberal spirit who talks of schools
reeducating both foes and strangers. Strumming away on rhythm
banjo, skeletal Tobias Schmendrick takes picaresque walks in
sylvan glades, plotting coups, scheming against himself, his pets
and loved ones, stepping on every anthill he can find.
The first five hundred ticket buyers at the Staten Island
Landfill Bash will be strangled by Tibetan masters of death. The
next five hundred will get a genuine World War Two issue Luger, a
venomous vial of seeming persimmon anti-oxidants and a manual of
how to make an atomic bomb.

Divorcing The Dead

Good people all over the suburbs after divorce they their
lovers, community and pets are busily nowadays taking strangers
into the courts for some heavy purging litigation of the wallets
of mere bystanders. We at Burdock and Bodanzky run the premier
suits in America against the dead. We serve our subpoenas in
cemeteries. Many have been dead millions of years. We put
cadavers in legal indenture when they are not even dust and vague
memory.
Why bother to turn out these orders of protection against
causal human furniture, having them jailed for months on one’s
charges like an indictment, when you can sue and win cases
against the perished with a total garnet the defendant will never
show up to make another kind of advocacy?
There is no class of people on or under the Earth, even
Black males in America, as easy to make legal prey for your
income, whim, piety and pique as corpses in cemeteries. There is
no legal firm in America that prosecutes your case against the
armies of the scurvy and rank perished with the tigerish
aggressiveness of Burdick and Budinsky.
Everyone else in the cosmos has walked away from you, sacked
you, kicked you in the groin, mocked you or betrayed you.
We alone are your champion.

The Hari Karma Dog Pound Newsletter

Tired of family initiates that seem to be living to make big
and little trouble for you, kids that are moles for shopping
malls, then afterwards tell you to drop dead, parents too busy
playing shuffleboard to drop you a generic flowery card, love
affirms that aisle seem somehow to lead to truculence, litigation
or blackmail, scurvy neighbors that are always moving to Collard,
politicians and credit cards sharks that have big plans for you
on the state dole as an invalid, creep and beggar?
Stop grumbling; get yourself a Hari Karma dog! Our Hari
Karma mutts never grow up, are always mildly incontinent, never,
never sue anybody, never are the corob in your criminal case, are
rarely your betrayer unless they are our clearance sale hound
dogs or our going out of business sale police dogs.
Look, if you don’t like your Hari Karma mutt, if it doesn’t
utterly satisfy you as no human being can or for that matter even
wants to, even if they are a slave, we will give you free not a
banal money back return gerund that will only leave you a little
older and more in a funk but a cunning recheck book that will
make you salivate just perusing the scrumptious table of
contents.
We have a collection of Cajun, Asian-Fusion and aromatic
French generic meat recipes that will keep you very happy with
your justly defunct cur as you clearly never were when the damned
son of a bitch was alive. We even have recipes for blue devil
meat soup from suburban Tasmania that will astonish you as no
merely erotic spasm or even the nacral choric music of communal
death rattles can ever reach your soul.
Do we have anything comparable to satisfy, heal or redeem
you when there’s nothing left of the damned little cur but guts,
fur and bones? We sure as hell don’t. What do you think we are,
Hindu redemptive gurus?
All right, maybe we are all of that and more; that’s why we
say: Hari Karma, Hari Karma around here all day long. What the
hell else is the universe, what are we or you or anything in the
ether, but mineral or animate landfill?
Just throw the rest of the dead dog into the garbage. At
Hari Karma, we always say: what you can’t use, buddy, you don’t
need.
We are also selling pink bio-degradable Hari Karma garbage
pails. You can eat them if you don’t use them. You can throw
those out too.

Okay Dogs

Tired of paying top dollar for a pricy house pet? We have
canines at Okay Dogs, not as pretty, smart, affectionate,
resourceful or intelligent as any dog you might be familiar with;
they are very, very cheap.
Our standard Okay mutts can’t stalk or hunt anything; even
slow moving stupid prey absolutely confounds them. These
imbecilic curs are good for nothing; they have no utility. They
take no pleasure in being themselves. They are frustrated and
baffled by everything. They are ignorant not only because these
ultimately forgettable hounds are not smart; they also haven’t
been trained by anybody to do anything. They are not even very
good at doing nothing. They are even tedious disasters at
sleeping.
We don’t get such insufferably dull beasts from the pound;
animal have to be schooled to be dumb, indifferent and soporific
specimens of vegetation and near death as these Okay pets are.
Okay dogs are always okay. If your standard in dogs, lovers
kids, laws or countries is only that they’re okay, just as you’re
okay, you will be content if not precisely happy with an Okay dog
that’s okay too.

The Downes School

The Downes School of Schenectady and Elmira is a richly
funded college for imbeciles, run by imbeciles, administered by
imbeciles, funded by imbeciles, dedicated to the study of the
purpose, nature, engines and destiny of imbecility.
Courses include the historical role of morons in America as
philosophers, lovers, brain surgeons, bank tellers, jet pilots,
chefs, undertakers, ferry captains and stock brokers. Our science
laboratories stress our telling contributions in psychology,
sociology and chemistry.
The Downes Institute, allied to the Downes school, promotes
the interests, profile and material franchise of dunces. We have
an aggressive lobbyist in Washington and every state capital. We
have a representative in the U.N., though of course we lamentably
lack a country; we have recently sent the first space astronaut
into the upper ether who was a raving certified imbecile.
We discreetly fund a television channel that broadcast
programs for imbeciles twenty four hours a day. We hold midnight
social gatherings for our kindred in every church in America,
usually meeting right after the Twelve Step Programs and bingo
games.
Graduates of the Downes School are routinely hired for most
posh jobs in America. Our degree, perhaps unlike yours, means
something in government and the business world.
Many fake microcephalic among us, seeing the pecuniary
advantages of seeming even moderately stupid, try to break into
our organization, play silent bottom roles in our enterprises. We
root and weed them out like the scum they are.
If you yourselves are not some kind of certifiable dunce,
moron or microcephalic, please ignore this advertisement. Being a
unlucky, a fool, miserable, depressed or a lunatic is not enough.
Feeling vaguely lousy for no reason at all is hardly our standard
either.
If you are not a proven, certifiable imbecile, give us
nothing. Hang onto to your scant dollars if you can. We do not
want your money.

Dulldonium

We progressives at Mumbai Laboratories believe the history
of pharmacy moves naturally and inevitably under the lawful aegis
of Krishna, Vishnu and Shiva from helpful anodynes one needs to
much less necessary simples that do nothing and can do nothing,
then to a legion of pernicious raging meta-venoms that optimally
would act to kill off all life in the universe, perhaps even
destroy life, the faint and feeble consciousness of the dead,
Creation and reality itself such as it is if they could. We know
quite well what drug or drugs could do all of that and more;
since we operate under FDA United States edicts though we are
loyal Indians we honor those pious and stringent drug laws; we
are not currently manufacturing anything but Dulldonium.
It is of course the enthralling side effects that have
cornered the market in its legendary niche for Dulldonium. The
principal harvest of Dulldonium is an instant lightening of purse
that comes with the rather extravagant price of these rather
small pills. We are not ashamed to change such daunting doles
even when they send some into bankruptcy. We have always affirmed
there is no absolute value for a drug, a thing, a person, for
anything at all. Quite sensibly as long as gulls are willing to
go into debt to drop into their throats a few stray lozenges of
Dulldonium en passant we have been equally willing to change them
the very remarkable means to do so. Why not?
To the polloi Dulldonium is the only pill that beyond a few
inexplicable spirits people only take for its secondary effects.
What Dulldonium had been made to do, does, can do, is supposed to
do or is claimed an anathema by its enemies because of what it
balefully does is a subject probably even to God rather on the
mysterious side. We certainly can’t compete with God or even the
lowest of the lower angels in wisdom or knowledge. We have run
very severe tests on the drug in question; we can say that it
very occasionally induces a mild and lamentably brief slumber in
rats. It may produce an equally subtle torpor or lack of it in
small tropical fish.
It seems to be poisonous to even lethal to most but not all
Alaskan desert tortoises and a few salt lake paramecia. Yet so
are other things that are patently not Dulldonium.
It is a sugar substitute in coffee; oddly it tastes nothing
at all like sugar. It can be used in classic Cajun recipes to
spice the local cunning mutton delicacies though those who have
done so claim the presence or utter dearth of Dulldonium isn’t at
all noticeable to anyone; it might not have even been there or
anywhere at all in the first place.
Some say that Dulldonium is a kind of phantom or enigma
whose only reality is its price. Wags claim one can’t overdose on
Dulldonium because it doesn’t exist. Clearly these purblind
dissenters have never experienced Dulldonium; plainly they
probably never will. If they are right or wrong or even neither
correct nor mistaken they certainly will never intuit or guess
much less apprehend the mysterious and subtly equivocal effects
of Dulldonium.

MOD: The Tampa Museum Of Contemporary Dung

Near the famous seaside Steve Allen Aquarium of Tampa
glistening with its giant golden manatees and coppery flying carp
one should not miss the Tampa Museums of Dung, MOD, on the corner
of Jerry Lester Avenue and gaudy Maury Amsterdam Boulevard.
MOD contains no mere sensational collection of feces from
ordinary and improbable animal of the Devonian era on the first
floor to our glitzy celebrates of the present as similar trace of
ordure of gadflies and bishops in Europe.
Mod exclusively collects human refuse from the Devonian age
and is possibly the only such collection of its kind to use the
vaunted Krapola, Thomas Edison’s next to last invention, which
allows us to translate focused neural impulses left by the brains
of the dead now embedded as well in the belly of these dead
beasts and translate them into American English.
We have no famous relics of human begins many of us would
like to know more about. We lack any remains of this sort of
Julius Caesar, Jesus, Buddha, Napoleon, Cleopatra, Pythagoras,
Zoroaster and Loa Tze- of course nobody had thought to collect
them before the Krapola was invented. Certainly if they are among
us they rue they once had ever consigned such offal to their
copious cisterns. Their plumbers might be digging among them now
for traces of the precious lost offal.
We do have in our cellars collections of living politicians
whose feces, vomit, and sweat have been assiduously collected by
private detectives since the uses of the Krapola were known in
the arenas of power. Instead of merely having these gumshoes
investigating their lives for dirt and worse, all our political
power brokers who leave any trace of dung in a napkin or faintly
smearing a vagrant rectangle of toilet paper are now subject to
have epiphanies in their inner lives picked over by sleuths
dedicated to discover whatever sandal they can glean from their
leavings.
Since early childhood trauma leaves conspicuously rich
ionized bundles of such neural records in the duodenum many
psychologists have asked their patents to used the High Colonic
Krapola to trap long ago memories that may scare their
depressions and general melancholy.

L’Ecole d’Eblis

Famed suicide bomber trainer Mullah Abdullah is calling for
students in his new L’Ecole d’Eblis, located in the posh
Boulevard Haussman arrondissement of Paris. Mullah Abdullah is
not one of your crass didacts training dupes to blow themselves
up for some large ideal or journey to an imaginary heaven. He
trains his pupils how to survive as be civil and acceptable
suicide bomber both in their ambles among strangers and in their
personal life.
Mullah Abdullah’s proteges have no causes, no gods, no
ideals, no hatred for enemies, no external adversaries, not even
a pique about bad service in cheap restaurants. They are
impersonally mean spirited and injurious in a way that singles no
one out, judges nobody, is predictable much as the molecular
subjects of the physical sciences are.
Mullah Abdullah runs classes in general nastiness his
students call honesty, impudence they deem to be frank
truth-telling, dismissal of kin, allies, friends and lovers which
one experiences as setting standards that the insufferable
monsters without cannot meet, a scorn for those whom one chats,
cozens or mugs as mice whose very essence in Creation is their
sacred role as prey, a general dyspepsia, a minor irritability
with all and everything one regards as contemptible. One calls
such things fit for poltroons, dismal shoddy goods one finds a
gross ubiquity in the world.
“Only the best of the dead deserve to die.” says Abdullah,
not at all Arab but a British-born native of Southern Patagonia,
one justly contemptuous of the coarse Islamic style of suicide
bombing. “Most of them can only be malicious once, usually to
strangers,” he says. “If they went directly to paradise they’d
blow up the houris, dispatch Allah himself, given their sanguine
desert character. My pupils make people miserable for decades.
They even are injurious babbling in nursing homes, imitating when
they are ghosts after death.”
Mullah Abdullah trains his cohorts in the art of despising
and casually insulting in a mild way even one’s pets. One
cultivates particular a metaphysical animus toward Creation from
its insects to its politics. One is lethal to all who are one’s
intimates. In his famed laboratory sessions Mullah Abdullah
himself teaches the subtle craft how to enrage and injure
parents, mates, children and random neighbors.
“I’d be ashamed to be anybody who can only do something
once. I would even like to be born twice. One has enthusiasm;
one never masters anything including doing nothing, doing it for
the first as well as the last time.”
If one becomes an ippissimus of this surly art one cannot
walk live a tolerable life without making all it is enraged and
miserable.

The New Egoists Kit

The Egoists have been in reliable commercial business to
promote the self for decades. Its famous blue ribbon nuptial
ceremony enabling us all to marry ourselves has of course been
its signature sales success. One has been able since 1826 to be
able to intone alone in a room or even on an asteroid: I now
pronounce myself, MYSELF, till death do I part.
We broke away from Harry K. Pyle, author of the
authoritative Oxford Manual Of How to Marry yourself because,
candidly, we felt the otherwise charismatic Pyle was a fraud and
a quack. This perfumed savant was advocating rampant and
galloping self-marriage polygamy. Harry K. Pyle has run epic
orgies of self marriage in empty baseball stadiums. Frankly we
consider his vaudeville a shameless racket. We think unlike the
nefarious Pyle but like all other decent Americans think that
polygamy is a crime. We think celibacy is a crime too.
Recently we have expanded our classic package to enable our
old customers to divorce themselves. We provide the fumigated
courts, the mumbling lawyers, the sleeping judges, the hot dog
salesmen, the slanderous party line testimony, the crying
children, the gouging bills, the rude and scowling clerks and the
surly and violent metal detector guards to divorce yourself
properly.
Sounds good? All you have to do is show up and be yourself.

The Egoists

The Egoists themselves never make personal appearances; they
are four of the most physically obese souls on the planet. They
are bed ridden globs of flesh sunk deeply in their stifling
weight although they are all under doctor’s care and on spinach
and celery diets.
They cannot move at all; they breathe only with gigantic
respirators. They consume all things thorough a vast white
styrofoam suction machine attached to a Munich-made cuisine
d;’art blender that turns all and everything in and out of the
vicinity to a shiny glutinous mush.
The lamest Egoists CD with its golden goody hit, You’re Me,
is actually empty of anything at all. It needs all the room it
can get to fill itself up with other things including you. It
instantly expands when one puts it into one’s music system to
envelope the entire machine in a pus-like plastic ooze. One hears
merely the sound of the miniaturist digital engines within the
devouring disk chewing and pulverizing mental into gloop.
Then it starts to consume the table the machines squats on,
then the floor beneath it, works its way into the cellar, and
plummets in its hunger to levels of subterranean worlds deeply
beneath the ground until it is engulfed by the very plaint’s
fiery metallic core.
The Egoists have lately gotten into politics. They like
voting for themselves over and over again. They have lovers too.
Mostly they are served to them in traction in a thick soup.

UPDATE: A Message from The League Against Erotic Elder Abuse

We at LAEEA have noticed that all communities in the world
except Iceland, two paltry Arab emirates, Vietnam and Tiajuana
have wisely set a minimum age for carnal intimacies. None of
these realms have comparable passed laws making the same liaisons
a crime after a certain sensible age.
Accordingly we have recently began a campaign in the U.N.
and in certain select countries like Madagascar, Pitcairn’s
Island and the Faulklands to remedy this clear lack of concern of
the governments of the world for the welfare of their oldsters.
In Bolivia we are pressing the new government of idealistic
indigenes to make sexual congress after eighty eight a felony.
We don’t want to lock up crones for their amours; we merely
want to exile them. LAEEA legislation will exile any felonious
octogenarian lover in Bolivia, Paraguay, Ecuador or the few posh
erotic spas on Easter Island. Let them take up their criminal
proclivities in these hinterlands much as the late Cain did in
those nasty Cities Of the Plain.
At the U.N. LAEEA have introduced into the General Assembly
a resolution to make erotic intimacies over forty a misdemeanor.
Each liaison is punished by a pecuniary fine much like a traffic
ticket.
This may seem cruel to some in the West; in most of the
world humanity with poor diet or no diet at all ages fast and
badly; they need to be protected by their governments to whom
they pay taxes from habits that weren’t all that salubrious for
them at thirty.
Most of the politicians of the world are all for our
proposal though they cavil at our age of dissent, so to speak,
proffering the date of measure pushed up to ninety or a hundred.
They see a chance to create many social agencies to educate
the common people to accept this guidance from our experts.
They augur a novel realm of jobs for their clubhouse
veterans, monitoring expects, professionals, educators, probation
offices, guards, wardens, caterers of rice and beans for Erotic
Abuse penitentiaries, even echelon and high salaried benign Elder
executioners and certified competent grave diggers.
Most are ignorant of the pickle-down theory of economics.
Trickle down economics is well known; tickle-down theories merely
absurd. Pickle-down theory has about the same effect on an
economy as trickle-down ideas or for that matter any economic
ideas whatsoever.
Write your Congressman; ask him to pass laws making American
an Elder Abuse-free as well as a Child Abuse-free community. Does
your representative stand for sanity and measure, or is he for
crones gambling, feasting, taking up stray amours in a world like
Las Vegas? Does he want his grandmother making love when she
would be better off baking cookies?
In Tasmania we have made nonagenarian revels an offense
punishable by slow torture and death. In Patagonia of course is
such insufferable folly and wickedness is a mere misdemeanor. We
are the sort of people who have more power in Tasmania.

Matthew Paris For President

I am running for president this year even though there is no
election. I don’t think we should allow our laws to dictate when
we want to have sensible leadership. If we all vote though there
is no election we will send a ghostly message to our despots that
we, not they, will decide when we want America to be as we say
in the schlock shoe business: “under new management”.
In domestic policy I would like the state of North Dakota
declared a national cemetery. I would like the state of South
Dakota declare a national insane asylum. I would like to see the
state of west Dakota honored and legitimized as the site of a
national emergency. We should atomic bomb East Dakota. It has too
many unendangered species. All our hardworking Mexican slaves
should be unionized by the National Organization For Women.
We ought to annex the whole planet and Mars as a generic
seventy fifth state. We can give them all, aliens, Martian
microbes, credit cards, posh sweetheart rates on cars and
mortgages. Peace, my friends, comes from universal ordinary
corruption. That’s God’s way of promoting peace.
Opium fiends and libertines never fight. If we don’t do
this we will suffer the decline and unthinkably rank putrefaction
of White people that is doing in the whole West. I’m White
myself, sort of; I have to admit the Earth has never seen a bunch
of loons, hippos, sloths, ignoramuses, fiends and imbeciles at
the trough lapping up slime and ooze the porcine way White people
have been swallowing, devouring swill for the past half century.
We must import our good neighbors to tend to us while we turn
America into a vast incontinent nursing home for the senile.
We’ve turned the entire West Indies into a farm for aides,
mammies and nurses. We will eventually run out of charitable and
big hearted West Indians; we have exhausted our sources of oil.
We need a new humanistic religion that makes nursing vast daft
armies of White invalids passing through their plastic dotage
into God’s landfill. We shouldn’t call it colonialism; that’s
already been done. We might call it anti-colonialism.
Everybody here right now, even American cockroaches, are
among us because they were chased out of some other place as
resident trash. I would expand the Iraqi War to the entire world,
create nightmare situations in every swamp and eddy of the planet
to inspire all to come posthaste to America .This worked very
well to solve the late Israeli-Palestinian straggle. Many will
open restaurants together like the Chinese and Japanese. If our
new Americans are sick or bums, all the better. So are you. They
will fit right in here.
What is America? We can’t ever be in a league with Egypt in
cults of the dead and quantities of gods. We can be adapts at new
faiths involved in progressive metaphysics beyond worshipping the
dead and deities; I don’t know what that might be.
What are my credentials? What are your credentials to vote
for me? Or anyone? Or to breathe? You can’t even run your own
life, you boob!
Your next president,
Matthew Paris

Der Chaisserengel

Fritz von Teufel, Der Chaisserengel, formerly lead guitarist
of Ohne Mich, Meine Leibe, Meister Todt, Schweinerdammerung,
Tristan, Isolde und Mich, Peleas, Melisande et Moi, Gelt Macht
Frei and Meine Blut Shlaff is the barfing bawling prophet of
Germany’s first miniature robot rock combo.
Bruno Augensblick, the synthesizer player, much as he did in
his first Hamburg house band, the Egophonics, rarely shows up, is
always slovenly and out of practice, is deeply depressed. He asks
his therapist-astrologer for advice when he is anywhere at all.
The ferocious drummer, Max Hochheit, is formerly the leader
and spiritual force in The Litigators, personally serves
mischievous subpoenas on everybody in the audience as they enter
the hall.
Of course Fritz, Bruno and Max aren’t robots at all. They
merely pretend they are. They are brain-damaged midgets dressed
in steel. As the ultimate absurdities or untermenschen nobody
including Germany itself has to take them too seriously.
God knows it has been the singular tragedy of our fatherland
never to find or manufacture the proper slaves. Genug! No more,
meine freunde! Now even a beirschtube lout can order around,
punish and even dispose of this trio ritually with the full
guarantee of the band along with the august state of Germany
itself that nobody and nothing will miss them nor ever regret the
loss of this trio’s equivocal contribution to humanity.

Making Public Executions Public!

California just offed three hundred and forty dash row
inmates last year. Texas ain’t for behind with two hundred and
eight five legit snuffs! Do they really die? Do we really know
what happens to our slavering mad dogs when the media say they’ve
been burned, poisoned or had their necks broken by certified
doctors and slaughterhouse specialists with M.F.A.’s in animal
husbandry?
Baby, we don’t know its real until we see it on television
Even then, who knows? That’s why every American has a right to
see his own local maniacal felons killed just as he should know
where his money is going for war and large scale culling of
scurvy wildlife in our National Parks. You watch them fry; you
know they are being fried;. Simple as that!
When you can see them knocked off you know what we are doing
with your taxes. Otherwise you might think we are stealing it,
spending it on cocaine, telling these poor bums to take a slow
walk, right?
That’s why the sovereign state of Delaware is making all its
executions this year public. You can watch them all on
television, the Internet, later on selective killing marathons
once we get enough of these events together.
Hey. We’ve got to do it! We’re broke in Delaware. All the
fish in the rivers are dead, the people are all on Medicare,
uncondoned, cursing man and God and soft in the head, the kids
are illiterate, catching new mental diseases nobody ever heard
of, our pets are getting mean and feisty; they’re fighting and
eating each other. What the hell are we supposed to do, folks.
all go on Welfare?
We’d do it but there is no more Welfare.
Hey, maybe some of the ratfinks we knock off aren’t guilty
of even a bit of minor larceny. Maybe they’re illegal aliens we
imported from some place, so what? You, me, we’re all imported
form some place, aren’t we? People die better legit when they’re
innocent. Any expert will tell you that.
Delaware is getting out of debt this year bigtime, you
bastards! We are going to have a dumper rampaging financial
surplus! We are hiring experts exploring more humane ways to
kill, and put an final end to a hellova lot more people.
Some call it justice. We in Delaware aren’t crazy or dumb.
Neither are you. We know what entertainment is about. We call it
all business. So do you.

The Mausoleum Of Extinct Species

This month’s display at the Mausoleum Of Extinct Species on
Warren Harding Avenue near the processed oleaginously organic
mulch dump in snug Poughkipsie, New York includes not merely the
usual monstrous but bizarrely intelligent beige echinoderms of
the Devonian and Triassic Ages.
We offer a whole new offering of specialized human beings
of the past resuscitated though sequestered in glass enclosures
through a new technology of DNA samples taken from the hair,
nails, dung and desicately limp genitalia of these long defunct
fauna.
As we have been aware, the gods and Homo Sapiens were not
the only vaguely human species on Earth. Some survived during the
Mayan reign of Tiktetuan. Our findings dug up mostly in
floating remnants of sub-Saharan Antarctica confirm the sheer
variety and diversity of humanity whose unsavory demise has
indeed impoverished us.

Homo Memorabilius- This species apparently could only see the
past. Its amply capacious rhomboidal skull was fastened to its
thin
neck backwards. Some conjured the Devonian age; others were
content to live in a seemingly imaginary way in the Triassic and
Jurassic Period.

Homo Astronomicus- This most peculiar hominid could see over the
lips of horizons all over the planet, its vast vacuous eyes
reading subtle large refractions of light. Unfortunately it could
not see anything in front of itself. Some archaeologists
speculate it expired en masse running into walls or jumping
over cliffs.

Homo Fungosis- This species, disdaining meat and vegetables, ate
a severe diet of mushrooms and truffles. Its search for
subterranean cuisine led it to live at all times deeply
underground; it eventually as a toddler become both deaf
and eyeless.

Homo Porcinus- These great devourers rife in the Cambrian Period
were known for sheer weight, density and Rabelaisian quantity in
their feces; they stuffed gigantic caves with their own green
fluffy dung until they were forced to move. Some claim they
became extinct trapped in their immense chambers by their own
brightly verdant offal.

Homo Subatomicus- Easily the smallest of all our humanoid
cousins. Smaller than a quasar some feel this species may till be
with us in a puddle of atoms somewhere.

Doctor Muraf Rolf Glugima, curator of the museum is of the
very speculative opinion of his Albanian School that all the
species are still extant somewhere, They are either still among
us, discretely mingling with us on Russian Orthodox Halloween
or have migrated in disagreeable haste to Mars during the
Atlantean flight to that sanguine planet some eleven millennia
ago.
Others who call Murat Rolf Gluigina a ponce, jackanapes,
bawd and Levantine doubledealer say all these supposed fossils
are rife among us.
Some claim the chief of these monsters is Murat Rolf
Glugina.

Fatboy Messiah and the Apostles of Consumption at Yankee Stadium

Yeah, yeah yeah, it’s another cheeseburger rockfest in the
Bronx! Fatboy Messiah and the Apostles of Consumption are called
a rock and roll band, a cult, an obsession, a dietary pathology,
a swinish nightmare, an apocalyptic vision of the end of the
world by its critics.
They have been known to devour whole Chinese noodle shops,
not merely the food but the utensils, walls, stoves and the
cooks. Then they gobble down the soil beneath buildings they
ingest, dig holes where restaurants used to be, some fifty feet
deep.
Fatboy Messiah, originally George Marlin of Danamora,
Pennsylvania, weighs in daily at nine hundred pounds; he is the
only American lead warbler who sings the blues from a collapsed
bed soaked with lemon custard, an oxygen pump and a respirator
nearby. Anyone in his company puts on the lard really quickly.
His lovers turn into hippos, marshmallows, more often vast
eyeless sponges.
Fatboy Messiah’s Pulitzer-prize wining The Adipose Prophecy
of Jesus, displays the more serious side of his thought. Fatboy
Messiah says he stands for America, humanity, Creation. The
hungry stars consume all matter they can ingest including
themselves; all life wildly gobbles down vaporous gold from
sunlight, grass is an army of pure open green mouths of brainless
energy addicts. Every eddy in the universe, says Fatboy Messiah,
is either a restaurant, a cemetery or a sewer.
His band, The Apostles of Consumption are seven hundred
pounds more or less, three of them from Fort Leavenworth, they
waddle through their numbers with strange walrus-like movements
some think might be vaguely erotic.
The drummer, Toots Easy, is an Eskimo born on Rikers Island.
The band swims and floats on a lake of chocolate syrup and triple
cream Irish whiskey as they sings their golden hits like You’re
Edible, Potato Chippie and Too Many Dates.
They have represented the United States in Korean and German
musical festivals and have played a sacred concert for the Dalai
Lama. Their annual free double cheeseburger festival spiced with
pickle relish and onions in Yankee Stadium is a televised
national phenomenon always done in the rain, rivalling the
Superbowl.
It’s bigtime chow time in the Bronx! Come barefoot, folks;
don’t bring a napkin!

The Idaho Fiasco Conference

At The Three Stooges Hall in Boise, Idaho, a gaudy set of
leaders met to discos their disasters at the Idaho Fiasco
Convention. Eighth Day Adventist poohbah, the Reverend Terry
Plummet opponent the conference by saying that Christianity had
been the biggest killing machine in history for 1700 years and
had betrayed everybody including itself.
Mullah Mukta El Shabar said the same thing about Islam. Sri
Buktafouco of downtown Mumbai said Buddhism was just a mass
catatonic depression immobilizing all including feral animals in
a death-like comatose stupor; it idiot need to kill people or
dogs. Boris Suputnik weighed in with an even worse assessment of
Communism. He lamented that Communism was a new movement that
hadn’t had the chance to murder as many people as the old ones.
On the second day the wry Felix Natividad of the Federal
Education Commission remarked that he had run a didactic
institution dedicated to perpetual illiteracy. Fritz Hoot of the
IMF and Bank of Columbia stated in his peroration that the world
could not be run by a class of privileged debtors with the inner
life of insane compulsive swine.
Jamie Fitzfulke of the Ivy League affirmed that his elite
had failed all beyond the wine and cheese catering business on
the Hudson River. Big Tom McCann of the Progressive League
claimed his aim was to create a global hoosegow filled with
ox-like smiling slaves and had only succeeded at all in Albania.
He called both keeping pets and running zoos scurvy Animal
Welfare.
The suave and urbane Swami Radsha Bundiwundi revealed that
Hari Krishna means:” Yankee, good Home” in Bengali. Grete van
Greer of the Alberta Feminists Consortium claimed she had chased
more people out of courts who were looking for lawful remedies
for private woes than the Third Reich and the Confederacy
combined. Howard de Klunk of the Mineral Legion admitted he had
failed to give all machines in America a rejectable legal status
as illegal emigrants.
In the Afternoon Woo Zhing Park asserted that all the
developing nations wee committing suicide; most of the free world
was starving to death. Doctor Googie Mumbles of the Collegium of
Certified Therapy complained his cabal had controlled courts and
schools all over the West but not garbage, buildings and the
water supply. Nigel Tudor of the Round Table suggested urbanely
the world might be far better off indeed were it ruled by
England.
The Fiasco Conference was wrapped up that evening by a fiery
closing speech decrying the lack of excellence in the world of
potations by Louis de Bourbon a.k.a Jacques de Boeuf, the self
styled Compte de Birdhouse Nouveau of France.
Then fiascos were passed around and guzzled rather
immoderately by the participants. Scandalously inebriated, de
Boeuf talked of bottling millions of very affordable imitations
of these powerful cocktails, purveying them to the rubes in
volume like canned tomatoes.
A fiasco is a mixed drink of rum, creme de menthe,
grenadine, absinthe, a miniature onion and one pickled olive

The Financiers

The Financiers, four crazy guys playing the same Aeolian
Harp, have been electrifying the whole Wall Street, Bourse,
Exchange and various funky Malaysian circuits for years with
their signature killer rockers: I’ve Got a Yen for You. They
issued their Take Franc to the Bank; Hounds Bound For the Pound,
Hark, Hark, the Mark, Queso de Peso, Rupee Whoopie, Zurich, Mon
Amour, Take It To The Bank, Swiss Kiss, and Doing The
Continental.
Now they’re offering their new singles to a new crowd of
bankrupts with a new Latin beat. Wok in Hock, Spastic Plastic,
You Make Me Feel in Debt, Underwriting Mama, Take The Credit,
Baby, Inflation, Schlock, Stock and Farrell, Mrs. Money Honey,
and Big Papa’s Foreclosure Blues are being played in every
portable men’s shelter set up in vast burlap tents on the icy
marble floors of abandoned banks everywhere.
The Financiers are appearing in their first live
concert in weeks at the- where else?- the Financial Center in New
York. They are giving out old army blankets, Champagne bubble gum
bowls of lentil soup, luncheon meat hoagies and a half full bag
of raw peanuts to the first thousand music lovers who show up.
On the silver screen near the palm trees they will be
offering the premiere of their new movie, Two Coins, No, One
Coin, No, Zero Coins in the Fountain, and their terminally
addictive video game: The Treasure Trove of Kang.

La Frontera Pharmacy

At La Frontera we don’t cure or have the remedy or even the
palliative for anything. We don’t hawk a key to even a minor and
hasty delight. We leave that up to your doctors too busy beating
Medicare to pay even a little attention to you.
We won’t make you sick either even if you ask us. We’re all
high and spiritually oriented people. We only took up their
business after a terrible set of lethal venereal plagues closed
down our prior enterprises. If you want to get sick put your head
in a hospital toilet and swallow. If you want to die jump off the
roof of the damn hospital building. Don’t leap from the cellar
window. Please.
Believe me, we’re very aware of the money our competitors
Australian Home Made Farm Remedies and Lil” Grandma’s Rhomboid
Liver Pills have made putting out their damned Ultimate line:
Ultimate Laxatives, Ultimate Carminatives, Ultimate Aphrodisiacs,
Ultimate Abyss, Ultimate Galloping Death.
We think there is something coarse and death loving about
the wale trendy fashion in radical pharmacology. We will not take
your dollar if that’s what you want. We know a penny has no
memory. We do. We have a conscience.
We offer drugs beyond either pain or any superficial relief
from pain. We aren’t mad masters of pleasure either. We did that
gig for thirty years; we had to pay off the Mexican police, we
almost got locked up forever. Nothing is worse than a quiet old
age in a Tiajuana jail. In the end our clean cut erotic services
nearly killed all our customers. We are out long gone of the
pleasure business.
Nothing is habit forming. Not even life or hot sauce. We are
at the edge of the unimaginable. Take a pill and breathe in an
awe beyond any astral design.
We will never waft you either to paradise nor nightmare. We
are pill-making ambassadors of the unknown. They are the ordinary
stupors of the future. You probably won’t remember they ever
happened.
We are offering the following lozenges from La Frontera all
for free. Believe me, we’ve made enough pesos out of many
perished revels and good times. We don’t need more pesos. Unlike
your leaders we have enough money. Here it is to pick up like a
heap of silver dust in the street:

Dybaskop- Put it in the coffee up of your worst enemies.
Then give it to your friends.
Gugafed- an experience that can only be gauged by the
passage of time. You won’t be able to fathom what has happened to
you; you wail notice from the clock it is three hours later; you
are a tad bit older.
Kuladryl- All we can say of this drug is that after
extensive Tiajuana testing we have discovered it has a soporific
effect on the Albagensian giant mink. On you, baby, hey, who
knows?
Dellapane- More or less identical to Gugafed. The pills are
in grayish colors coated with a iron-dark candied veneer tasting
like perfectly well masticated bubble gum.
Gloogadrek- Totally identical with all Kuladryl. As they saw
at la Frontera: “When you run out of Kuladryl, there’s always
Gloogadrek.”
Zephybud- Use it instead of sugar. Sprinkle it on Kuladryl
for a sinister chilly taste of the winter midnights on Pluto.
Zugblad- The intercellular eye opener that allows you to
experience yourself as a cellular, atomic and sub atomic
absurdity flashing in and out of existence. Not for the
terminally vague.
Enjoy.

New Frontier Music

America has changed, folks! We aren’t the same sleepy little
country we used to be. We have a funky papulation who all need to
dance!
New Frontier Music is offering them the dance music of
Cryptkeepers, Medicare, The Rikers Island Social Club,
the Silver Cyberwhores, Recuerdos del Carcel, Faith and Family
and The Illiterates. Beyond them there are the Reactionaries, the
Surgeons and the Blips.
Most of the people on this planet who count in commerce
are in the suburbs or dead. The Cryptkeepers do shopping malls
battlefields, cemeteries and divorce litigation;
they also have a catering firm. They make the best potato salad
on the planet. They have played marathons at Pere La Chaise,
Family Court, Auschwitz, Hell, Vienna, Gettysburg, Levvittown
Trump and Century Village and assorted posh nuthouses as well as
the legendary monkey concert at Forest Lawn.
Medicare offers soul music for the majority of our
population now over sixty years old. Their hit are Shuffleboard
Rock, The Old Incontinence Rag, Memories of Nothing, Life Without
Hope and My Son, The Serial Killer. The do the big Klezmer-Salsa
hit: Bissel Nachas Fun Nadie. They give you a free blood pressure
test at the door. If you can’t afford the ticket for a Medicare
dance we have Medicaid; it’s the same music, out of tune.
The Rikers Island Social Club produces the sound of the
world below the bottom. Their big hits are Pass the Soap, A
Hellova Vacation, Solitary Love, Breakout, and their legendary
single: A Death Row Christmas.
Cyberwhores is the electronic digital band that only appears
on the fastest computers. They’re a compilation of thousands of
people who play random mixes of thousands of songs. The Recuerdas
del Carcel band are hard nosed warblers who have had to get tough
in a tough world.
Their hits are A Long Way From Nowhere, Brain
Surgeon from Hell, Stevedore Whore, Green Card Stomp and Voting
For Yourself. The Reactionaries play treacly music with a smile;
they play any kind of retro tripe you want including their one
minor hit: Nostalgia for Amnesiacs.
Faith And Family specializes in sentimental holiday music
you really can’t listen to without a near robotics clan around
you, a xix pack from the frig, a trailer camp suite with a
television set in every room and a seeping or perhaps long dead
dog close by.
Their religious music is the sub-genre the insiders call
Suburban Porcine. Their top forty grand slammers are I’ve done It
All, Rhinestone Virgin, Vinyl Mamma Wants a Plastic Rose, Fish
Tank In the Sky, and of course the single mother family favorite:
Disney Does Dallas.
Hey, pretty baby! Let’s dance!

Happy Day Funeral Parlors

Ever wonder why even the good and combatant funeral parlors
don’t advertise? And obtuse oft his busies failure to let the
market know one is selling acceptable death many undertakers are
out of baseness and working in Junior High Schools as
para-professionalist and heavily armed lunchroom attendants?
They’re craven and discreet word of mouth operations like
chewers of Yemeni qat; unlike politicians and fistfight hamburger
chefs a little ashamed of their occupation. Why should they be?
The success and baby booming like in the Untied States means
a hellova of lot more death? We’re gung-ho for life. We’re for a
long life too; we’re patriots who don’t want one American bases
to lose a single customer. We are for settling Mars and the
universe with species like us. Eventually even monsters will all
be our clientele.
We are certified by everybody, even our enemies. Our
workers have graduate degrees, mostly mail order, in Hurricane
Home Economics. The rhinestone snowfall as you go out the door
puts real genuine synthetic jewels all over you as you walk out
grinning into the sunlight.
How can Happy Day foyer you the kind of rock bottom prices
for a death bash that we do? We are uprooting in volume and with
the Mexicans we have working for us., we have optimal low
overhead.
All the music is done by grizzled jazz greats on Medicare
working for nothing. The scrumptious flood is from trash bins
from bankrupt Chinese restaurants and leftovers from suburban dog
bar mitsvahs.
We are non-secular; we offer rites and generic metaphysics
satiable for all regions including the terrorist ones you ante.
We value your terrorist dollar; money has no memory. Of course
the coffins are-biodegradable; we don’t use pink plastic
overcoats as our dastardly competitors do. The dandelion displays
are flown in from Patchogue, along with the crushed and polarized
weeds for our patented thistle e sprinkling ceremony. What can I
tell you? Dammit, folks, we have a calling.
At Happy Day we bring a note of guffawing to giggling
halyard and joy to the send off that our patron saint,. Al
Capone, would have enjoyed in his Chicago fortress. Nothing at
Happy Day is elan spirited, dismal and dumbly despairing.
We don’t have earnest and pious dour-faced minsters to
deliver a tearful eulogy; we have clowns and stand up comic fresh
from stints in vaudeville and failed daytime gymnasia television
show hosts working a day job to amuse a crowd looking for
entertainment even in the death parties. Happy Day is a joints
where you can enjoy a funeral.
We don’t run those closed coffin affairs where the body is
really in some morgue cut up by Third World medical students or
eaten with curry sauce by aficionados of long pig in our well
known Jackson Heights emporiums We charge people in tiny credit
payments easy on the purse. Put a hefty down payment on your
ticket to Happy Day; get the funeral you deserve!

The Museum Of the Future

Tired of old bones, darkening Flemish paintings and
mill-scented mummies of a long expired heap of triceratops?
In the mood for a museum you can go to for free that is
worthy of you?
Come of the Museum of the Future. Where are we? We are
everywhere. Where are you? You are already in it.
Everything you see or don’t see here will be skeletons and
ghosts. When the future becomes the past it is lucky if the
museums will take them. There are worse places to end up after
death than stuffed and behind a glass display.
Pilgrim, when you enter the Museum of the Future you are
hurtled into a pitch blackness palpable as solid licorice.
Abruptly the door shuts silently; you cannot see the passage to
light behind you.
What is in the museum? You can’t really tell in the ether.
You hear sounds of leviathans moving on clawed feet, a terrifying
wail, a mineral roar, a cry of some recondite and ineluctable
arachnid rapture. Perhaps these are recordings which mean
nothing. You might mean nothing as well.
You have the feeling you have always been in this august
hall. You had in your vanity hardly noticed it. It had after all
seemingly cost nothing at all to enter.
After a while you are in your ordinary sightlessness hungry
for the museums of your youth. You want well-lit paintings by
frumpy flocked geniuses who are securely dead. You are eager to
see the skulls of gigantic saurian fossils. You will never see
them again.

The Genteels: The Thanksgiving Fast at McDonalds

The Genteels only perform at designated National Parks. They
are offering the first celebration of Thanksgiving this year by
starting a national orgy of celibacy and fasting.
They are a rock band who wants to make life better for all
of us. At their concerts they give out hundred dollar bills and
credit cards to all with the price of a ticket.
The Genteels are the first genetically altered rock group in
America. They are human, sort of; they have genetic material that
comes from tomatoes, herring and onions. Tough Tony Genteel has a
taste for wheat germ, safflower oil, orange gatch and braised
to-fu. Frankie Genteel likes to watch the United Nations debates
on
important issues on cable television. Two Ton Tony Genteel is the
only rock and roller who advocates and sometimes practices a day
a week of celibacy.
Vinnie Genteel also sells a brand of organic disinfectant at
the concerts. Lithesome Angie Genteel is a Chicken Rights
expert. Papa Doc Ralph Genteel is worried about unendangered
species. He thinks rats might be one deserving our attention.
He’s involved in ecologic imbalance. He thinks nature is never
completely itself unless it is filled with devouring monsters.
Terry Genteel, the lead singer, is against termite
infestation. Mama Doc “Che” Genteel has written their biggest
hit: Music for Nobody.
The big hits of the Genteels are: I’m So Clean, Bower
Invasion, “Raw in Your Maw, Put Out That Damned Fire, Reggie the
Veggie, Soap Dope, Gimme That Diaper, Twelve Step Tango, Celibate
Mate, Alter All Alleycats, Hospital Meatloaf, and Quirky Turkey.
You may not enjoy the Genteels; you will feel cleaner when
you leave the concert. John Denser used to say the Genteels made
him feel like a sleazy pornographer. We could all do with being
innocent twice.

Take My Life, Please -A DVD by Bill Bass

In a magic vessel much more than a memoir the late Bill Bass
posthumously invited you to live his life in a way only possible
with our Get A Life technological magic, available now at our
annual Columbus Day clearance sale for only 29.99.
Bill Bass from his infancy has always been a media addict.
His first memories are watching ceaseless loops of Sesame Street
and many hours as a toddler of taking in educational television
about the eating habits of great white sharks.
He has collected videos of all the television programs he
has ever watched the animist and boring suburban routes he took
to and from school, his arithmetic and early reading manuals,
ceiling motel videos of his love life including real time
marathon clips from three marriages. There are glossy highlights
of his five curt and brutish affairs, holograph interiors of
various latrines and very long telephone communications he’s had
with some rather tedious people.
He even has a sample day with small variations one can
experience over many months of a job he held as an accountant in
Boise for twenty five years. One can be Bill Bass for every
minute in his cell where he had spent three days in jail for
ignoring unpaid parking tickets and smoking a suspicious brand of
tobacco.
This was the late Bill Bass’ life. It can be yours too. All
you have to do is plunk down 29.99 to Get A Life Productions, zip
it mutely into a machine, and inhabit it.

The Scarlet Ghosts In Concert: Now at Charon’s Black Barge

Charon’s Black Barge is located conveniently in an
underground cave beneath the grey and filthy surface of New York
only accessible by subway, is hosted by funnyman Steve Jaws, a
recent recoverer from massive electric shock treatments who jokes
with a guffawing audience about asparagus.
The Fabulous Erectiles open the show: four adolescent
musicians in recovery from priapism at St Leis Obispo Hospital in
Maudlin, Missouri.
The Scarlet Ghosts have been voted by the Frank J. Campbell
Athenaeum are the ultimate retro band. Likened to by happy
incontinent nursing home residents all over the country to fading
rose petals, the Otosteal, little liver pills, Lydia Pinkham’s
opium-laced vegetable elixir and the Smith Brothers cough
tablets.
They specialize in all kinds of jazz, do-op, boogie-woogie,
lounge lizard mild sleaze, cocktail tinkling, faraway toilets
flushing, the faint bell-like sounds in crummy hotel lobbies in
Seattle. They will bring you back to a memory of woozy
bibilousness, boredom and mild pique you’d thought you had
forgotten.

Glitter

Glitter is the glitzy star spangled celebrity game of role
playing mayhem and havoc you’ve been waiting for. You can be or
hunt down and kill any celebrity you choose with any virtues,
quackish eccentricities and vices.
You can storm a rehab and knock them off with grenades or
simply atom bomb the rehab center from a plane. You can also be
in the rehab center in the cocaine pavilion and be blown up or
atom bombed by other player on line playing Glitter from Salinas
to Poughkipsie.
You can digitally give birth to your own celebrities, make
them moderately intelligent and talented at low amusement,
insane, saintly or wicked, androgynous, or simply a nosegay of
feckless imbeciles.
We have simulations of real living and dead celebrities from
Michael Jackson to Lindsay Lohan you can track down like wild
animals, torture and dispatch or even consume in a curry sauce
revelling in an authentic Jeffrey Dahmer cannibal feast. We of
course have a virtual Jeffrey Dahmer himself as your chef.
At the center of the game is the mysterious and sinister
Enoch Falco. Who is this apparently anonymous and terminally
uninteresting mandarin from the outskirts of Tiajuana whom all
the rehab celebrates themselves are obsessively fascinated by an
enigma about whom one cannot get enough information about, though
they read about Enoch Falco incessantly as we all do in their
media organs?
Will we find out at the end of the game? Perhaps, perhaps
not. This game is knotted with infinite loops to outlast the
mortality of anybody, even sea turtles
You are dust. Glitter is forever.

Graffiti Scrawled On the World Court of Intellectual Bankruptcy

Uber Alles? Bitte, bei mir, unter alles ist besser
Seigfried Augensblick

Die mille anni di pace and amore? Basta.
Papa Grappa

Les dieux qui sont fous
Demi-foutus
Fait ce que on veux
La plaisir, c’est pour tout
Aux le fin de la jeux.
Vichy de Bourbon

Tierra de esclavos,
Sol, muchos pavos:
Quien es el dueno
Del poder- y sueno?
Zephyro Maldonato

Yeah, I believe in family values: stunned, fatherless
strangers in an electronic stupor gobbling plastic buffalo
burgers, staring at communal psychosis on a dead tube.
Zeke The Geek

Recht ist shlecht
Reise ist chaisser
Der Kleine Fritz

I’ve made my last damn toy. I’m plotzing in Florida.
Sick Nick

En la luna-tierra
Lejos de la guerra
La gente espera
Manzana y pera
Cerca de cocos
Donde los locos
Son muertos o pocos
Esta donde nosotros
Sentaremos con otros.
Hector Magog

I want to make Las Vegas the capital and necropolis of the world.
I want my tomb to look like a ghostly casino.
Bubba Hubbard

I never was a vegetarian until I saw an onion cry.
Zoot Suit Knute

Llamame ladron?
Soy senor Colon
Cristobal

Gumbai

From the clean and flawless pharmaceutical laboratories of
Mycroft Systems of Alberta, Canada we are offering the first
private sales of the certified and approved Endeared States
government snuff-powder used in ridding our inner cities of the
human vermin infesting the major financial citadels of America.
Once half the population of most American metropolises, Gumbai
simulating all the classical symptoms of AIDS, has eliminated a
pestilence created by unskilled and illiterate populations
graduating with honors from American schools with nothing else to
do but get funky to bottom degenerate. Gumbai quietly introduced
into their fatty hamburgers and cholesterol-laden french fries
rid the world of most of these artificial monsters enough to make
current American cites a real estate haven for refurbished homes
bought by Yappies making big buchu in the burgeoning information
field. Now Gumbai is available for them and for you.
Gumbai is not longer a way to cure poverty for the poor.
Gumbai can be introduced into the huge portions and cunning oily
sauces in the fancy dinners of the suburban middle clad and posh
spirits who will never notice the difference. They will all
assume with rue they were infected with a plague from their
clandestine drug habits and unspeakable erotic tastes without
questioning whether they have been done in by a tactless and
undetectable venom such as gumbai.
Just pour a little into the porcelain teacups of your
intimates or even strangers and say in a soft voice: gumbai.

GUP

Joe Bananas here for GUP. G.U.P. Get You Pregnant. I’m the
president and I do all the work too. I can make anybody pregnant,
even statues. I specialize in everybody. Grandmothers, twelve
year old girls, even paintings.
Yeah, I can make a cartoon in a comic book blossom like a
Canary melon. We don’t even have to have intercourse. We can do
it with a kiss. I’ll tell you how to kiss. You can just shake my
hand. You might have shake hard.
A lot of your women out there need a companion, Not a dog, a
bird, or a mangy cat. Something that looks like you and looks
like me. Something that might grow up and support you.
Some of them still do, baby. You’ll like my face. You’ll be
looking at it for twenty years. I’ve got a track record. You just
look around. You’ll see my damned face all over town.
You can be Black, brown, yellow, white or even green. You
can even be dead. I’ll give you any kind of courtship. I can be
very save and distant if you want an English gentleman.
I can be drunk or metaphysical if you want somebody German.
I can doing everything upside down until you’re right side up. I
can bring in my therapist, my grandma or my boyfriend; I even
throw in a few whores or friends and two enemies I met in the
street. We can drink beer or Armanac. Maybe we’ll smoke dope. I
can grunt like Tarzan; I fall on you like a safe from the roof.
Hey, I don’t care who you are. Or what you are. I can do it
all. It’s just a job to me.
Don’t start making love at one minute to five. You might be
disappointed in all that instantaneous pleasure. One good second
is more than enough instants for me.
I will get you pregnant. When you’re tired of diapers, when
ready to sue me for child support, here’s my address: Joe
Bananas. General Post Office, Atlantis.
Don’t forget to put on a stamp that won’t fall off
underwater.

Take It Easy: A Message From His Divine Excellency Sri Gupta

I am touring America with my entourage, appearing on Oprah,
offering America a simple, free cure for their miseries I can sum
up with one phrase, the very title of my new book: Take It Easy!
Americans are lunatic hardworking fools. What is their
hope? That they will live to see one more Superbowl. What is
their dream in heaven? Sipping gallons of lobster bisque and
playing the baccarat tables in Las Vegas with endless troves of
money.
What is their American hell? Chomping on ratmeat hamburgers,
playing the nickel and dime slot machines in Las Vegas without a
rupee.
America works too hard, thinks too hard, even plays and
drops dead too damned hard. Who is your god? Rambo. What is your
honest religion? Football. Who is your messiah? Michael Jackson.
With all that frenzied dancing didn’t that poor son of a bitch
work too hard? Even though I am the veritable Sri Gupta I might
start sweating thinking about Michael Jackson.
Sri Gupta says to you, honest Americans need to make a new
America based on perpetual amusement, transcendental meditation
and a focus on piously, earnestly doing nothing.
Send the grandparents to Florida. Put the little brats in
daycare, then school, then prison, then rehab, then a hospice,
then the grave.
Cheat on your mate even though she’s been through several
years of cosmetic surgery, has studied Hakasatra, Calcutta’s most
notorious Kamasutraraptagrogga, to please you. Burn down your
office. Set fire to your home. Turn off your heat and
electricity. Let your lawn become orchidaceously rife with weeds.
You are free. You stupid Americans don’t even need organic toilet
paper.
Remove your clothes, your shoes and your socks; sit in the
middle of the street with a begging bowl, love your soul, wave at
the passing cars with a beatific smile.
Feel good, very good. Empty yourself of pain. Relax, go to
sleep. Drop dead if you feel like it. With your compassion, you
can help others even more heavy with grief, even cattle, cats and
dogs to drop dead if and when they feel like it.
Unwind your mind; don’t be blind! Don’t you know that
Krishna loves you? Do you think if you quit your absurd job
filled with carping strangers, cleansed your life of ties, shoes,
clothes, woe and trouble, that Krishna would allow you to starve?
I am down on my knees! Sri Gupta himself begs you to be a
beggar!
For God’s sake if not your own, take it easy!

Hamurabi’s Farewell

There is a new exhibition of classical Babylonian speeches
at the fabled Warren Harding Library of Political Disaster, a
formidable tourist spa not to be missed if one is for some
mysterious reason in Columbus, Ohio.
The central display offers proudly the fabled “Hamurabi’s
legacy”, the legendary farewell speech he delivered in his final
year while wafting such weekly orations to the tumultuous rabble
from a high palace balcony.
The translation is by famed Sumerian expert Otis Z.
Driftwood.

I really was a conspicuous disaster as a leader of Babylon.
I never was qualified to be even a cockroach or a starving rat. I
couldn’t even run a bankrupt fish store.
I’m a totally synthetic public image, an opacity, an icon of
painted granite who really should have done something else with
my life: maybe nothing. That’s safe, isn’t it? Or is it?
Frankly I did it all to you and Babylon out of weakness,
even emptiness. I was never ambitious though I am a failure at
all things including doing nothing at all, to be palpably
somebody I clearly wasn’t.
Farewell! I leave that ultimate vice to other people. Gods,
salesmen, actors and tarts are good at that. The world is either
a divine dream, a whorehouse or an abattoir. Most of us on Earth
prefer a port town brothel to a celestial fantasy or a butcher
shop.
I’m not even sure how it all happened. Fancy people picked
me because if they felt if they could flimflammer the rank and
noisome populace with one like me I could be king for awhile and
go-fer for them accommodating their trial whims, I guess.
They didn’t mean you any good either. Ironically, my skein
of etudes in inertia and sanguine spasms of catastrophes as your
one visible leader made it exquisitely lousy for them too.
At least my secret managers deserved me. Maybe the people
deserved me even more; one by one, their stupidity, jejune
innocence or torporous indolence put me, kept me in power.
If you didn’t pick me, you didn’t fight for me, you didn’t
praise or even notice me, you certainly didn’t deserve me.
I’m sorry. Goombye.

Next month the library will feature the “No Apologies”
discourses of Sextus Sixtus.

The Hangmen Inc.

The Hangmen Inc. are the legendary stalwart and fearless
democratic and libertarian guerilla recording media organization,
originally a guild of lawful dispatchers of the most nefarious
felons on Earth, that has surreptitiously broken into prisons and
sundry miliary compounds all over the world to give the public a
taste of executions as they were meant to be seen by those who
have honestly and openly passed laws to make them happen and have
the just right to see what they are paying for.
Thanks to us you are able to watch innumerable public deaths
all over the globe, not merely the U.S.A. as a result of these
models penetrating the complex fortresses of such pious abattoirs
with their tiny especially designed West Korean camcorders. We
then broadcast them on La Corrida, our own web site located in a
satellite hovering above the southern coast of east Tasmania.
We have in an ancillary site been offering the usual fare of
our oddly epicurean clientele: the death of cattle, chickens,
dogs, cats, assorted lizards, whales and, of course, Thanksgiving
turkeys.
Some say our schools, our politicks, our cults or our
amusements are all one slow and rather tedious public execution.
We leave such waggish philosophers to their own dour reflective
amusements. In other words, drop dead.
Believe me, we don’t want money from you. We have enough
money. People lamentably want to see these public acts of human
destruction for the worst of reasons; they are willing and happy
to fund us. We want only your attention and your approval. We
don’t believe you are satisfied with any law or any executive
action by any government whatsoever that you don’t have the right
to observe at your leisure, view on a snug screen again and again
till you tire of the massacre if you ever do, monitor, subtly
critique it all in your own patrician and unhurried fashion.
You have the right to know where every penny of your taxes
are going.
We want you to contribute not money but your idiosyncratic
responses to our already huge blog site. Did you find the
executions optimally done with every scintilla of fastidious
bloody punctilio? Would you have preferred they lasted longer or
were otherwise dramatic in some sanguine and colorfully gaudy way
you might prefer? Do you like authentic last words from the
felon, often all too laconic, or the rather effusive blank verse
confessions scribbled by our more over the top showoff
wordslingers?
Are you ready to expand the laws to have more human cattle
for these spectacles? Are there animals or even cartoon fictions
whom you have never seen die whom you would like to watch expire
violently and under raucous duress before you die yourself?
We are eager to know what you think. We want you to honor
your freedom. We know you respect and want to embrace our sacred
common franchise.
When we don’t know what the public wants from its government
we no longer have a democracy.

The Warren G Harding Library: Recent Acquisitions

The Warren G, Harding Library, located in the ashy wastes of
an abandoned but authentic bauxite factory outside Stuebenville,
Ohio, has recently acquired the Dannemmora Coaction of legendary
warden Hyppolyte St. Beuve, a vast labyrinth of memoirs of
felons, imbeciles and lunatics locked up under the beneficent
aegis of the flamboyant Paris-born penologist.
St. Beuve determined that the production of memoirs of all
his resident would crystalize both the parlous situation and
necessary anodynes internally for a metamorphosis of his dunces,
maniacs, monsters and miscreants. As a result of fashioning this
watershed collection he cut down prison recidivism quite
dramatically; over half of his connects and assorted inmates
returned to society when free men and became respected realtors,
brokers, politicians, lawyers, automobile manufacturers, Jungian
therapists, evangelical ministers, jockeys and select munitions
manufacturers.
After 1945 and in seeming retirement St. Beuve shifted his
attention to inspiring the more austere monastery habitus, the
more devoted Academic college teachers to take up the same deep,
healing and reflective solitary enterprises. He realized while
living in his posh Yucatecan Club Med Senior Citizens home that
some people do happily on salary what others in his cages and
chains had been coerced to take up grudgingly sequestered in a
dungeon. That numinous phase of St. Beuve’s polyhedrous activity
is amply taken up in the Tenure Room of his Dannemora collection,
now housed in the ample sub-cellars of our library.
The final wing of St. Beuve’s immense and prodigal trove
comes from his third phase, the High Art Pavilion located in the
Chester A. Arthur Tower adjacent to the crumbling cinder-crusted
main building. St. Beuve realized that almost anyone in the world
would be happy to write novels, verse, memories, plays, would
paint all manner of epic oils, pen any music from blue pop songs
to gigantic and pious choral symphonies, alone in a room, though
they never had been convicted of anything, were not even near a
loony bin, cemetery or penitentiary.
These three Herculean collections have been catalogued,
digitalized, mostly by enthusiastic typists working on minimum
wages in Barbados; they are now available on-line at our
capacious and friendly web site.
Our customers of course are nearly all criminals, the
severely daft, Academics, all of whom who naturally want to know
about and savor the parallel lives of their collegium. Of course,
unless you can prove you are a felon, a provable madman or a
professor and can show you have a state drivers license this site
is not for you.
If you are tolerably sane, inclined to virtue and
respectable, you might be interested in our equably voluminous
collection of the private papers of Warren G. Harding.

News From the Hellenic Society

We stalwarts at the Hellenic Society are deemed by both our
friends and enemies to be either the least severe and radical or
the most sheathed but revolutionary of all political utopian
groups. Yet our intent is merely to offer the world a relatable,
known and concrete stable society, a powerful science of
ultimately manipulable integers fashioned by translations of all
phenomena known and unknown by translating Creation into the
suavely oiled engines of mathematics, and promoting a sane world
we can all imbibe cognitively with an irrefutable confidence
that our harvests are real if not of course utterly substantial.
We are true Hellenics, hardly college fraternity apologists
nor vulva-like apostles of nefarious and puerile pagan sexual
practices. We advocate no chartered organizations, coups,
usurpations, laws or even a discreet and demeure turn in
intellectual fashions. Our initiations to what other blithely and
inaptly call a revolution are discreet, private and circumspect.
We ask only that our adherents and their sundry courts
change their name to a set of pellucid numbers that stand for
them properly as no mere words ever can. Most of us have names
that are meaningless, even presumptively deceptive to the world
and ourselves. We are indeed yclept by fanciful cognomens either
grandees or numinously referential to a dour or imagined past, to
puerile hopes that sensibly enough we all want to forget.
Consider for example the name Jonathan: god-given. Who can
live up to Jonathan unless one thinks that a mischievous God
locked in his hermetic non-phenomenal mysteries still parses out
endless oodles of opaque mendacities to babes to baffle us?
We advocate in a honest spirit of reform a name like
1684527. Each numeral stands for who one is in some way. One is
male, six is poor, eight is traumatized, four is feeling lousy,
five is being pummeled by irreparable loss, two is being trapped
in some coprophilic social matrix, seven is being incontinent,
flea-bitten, randy, rabid, ready to kill or be killed.
We have more such numbers in all varieties for any
combination of life. With the proper post-modern numerical name
one can offer oneself to society in a way that speeds up
intimacy, or for that matter wild spasms of stark panic and
precipitate flight all in a hasty wonderful dizzying way.
We are as you might augur democrats in a generic way; we
believe the chance to sport numerical names should be given to
all our citizens whether they like it or not. Give the vast
battery of codes and our capacious manuals we provide for a very
modest honorarium, one can after much study make up one’s own
name. Names given by demure white coated professionals on salary
at a reputable government agency are after a relentless
investigation of everyone’s private life are preferable for all
of us. Afterwards one can change one’s name only showing to a
tonsured government official that one deserves it.
Are we Hellenics going to be described by these names?
Never. We are ultimately nameless. Believe me, we are real
enough. Luckily for you and your family you will never know who
we are.

Who Was The Real Ernest Hemingway?

An Expose Nouveau by Lord Neville Lumley-Dauphin

The best selling author of the compelling, riveting Who Is
The Real Me?, a scabrous polemic that shoos that vine his own
lack of formal education except as an itinerant gentleman he
could not really be who he is, has finally and triumphantly
turned his tough minded and iron focus on literature.
Beginning with the spurious character of Ernest Hemingway,
working his way through George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, Walt
Whitman, Jack London and William Shakespeare, Lord Lumley-Dauphin
proves conclusively that none of these impostor leaders and
writers could have ever lived as they did nor done the high
achievements they are credited for; none of them had graduated
from more than a shabby provincial high school if that.
Most of us know that Ernest Hemingway was a cover story for
an ad hoc committee of gout-ridden PhD’s sojourning in Dartmouth,
that Shakespeare’s works was penned by Francis Bacon or the Mad
Earl of Monmouth; Lumley-Dauphin really shocks us when he claims
that George Washington was a fictional republican aristocrat
concocted by the communal deluded mind of Alexander Hamilton and
Thomas Jefferson. Lumley Dauphin, author of Who was the Real
Jesus? Who Was the Real Hitler? Who was the Real Zeus? and Who
Was the real Mohammed? is as always startlingly accurate in this
hard edged scientific proof that the American Revolution like the
Holocaust could never have happened; Walt Whitman’s supposed
etudes in pornographic free verse was really penned as a goofy
labial jape by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, PhD, that Edgar Poe’s
stories were scribbled in a funk by his Radcliffe educated
mother-in-law.
The evidence Lumley-Dauphin amasses is of course all based
on his presumption that without the education provided by our
excellent schools in the West nobody can really do anything much,
think much or write anything of value. In fact teaching slaves
how to read and write is a terrible mistake.
Lumley-Dauphin is currently writing Who Is The Real God?, a
vast tome he is amassing while under arrest in a high security
federal detention center in South Dakota for defacing the
adamantine head of George Washington on Mount Rushmore.
Lumley-Dauphin will prove that God could not be God; God like
himself
never got a proper education to be a servant much less God. On
the other hand, quips Lumley-Dauphin dourly, the Devil can’t be
the Devil; he was the ultimate dropout. Both of these immense
grandiose fakes or imaginary beings, says Lumley-Dauphin in a wry
Latin-inflected epilogue, might be tolerably competent
honeydippers, pizza delivery boys or butlers.
Download the free role-playing game today on
Lumley-Dauphin’s web site: Who Is the Real You?

The Complete Henry James: The Definitive Oxford Edition

Henry James? Fuck a duck! I don’t know why the Brooklyn
Eagle asked me to review this enormous piece of shit. Sixty two
years on death row in a minimum security jail in Miami; my fucken
appeals haven’t even hit the lowest court yet. God knows three of
my fucken lawyers died of old age. My grandchildren have
Alzheimers.
Henry James? I’m maybe an expert on Harry James. I’m
guessing it’s the same guy. I read this Henry James while
listening to Harry James, throwing darts at pictures of Jesse and
Frank James. Something about that fucken name- James. It makes
people famous. I should been named James. My mother never thought
of it.
A lot of people named Henry do okay too. Let’s not get into
that.
All right. Fucken Henry; not Harry James. Henry James is
some big talker. He is the biggest bullshit artist I have ever
come across. He should have been a Coney Island used car salesmen
with his line of first-class bullshit.
Hey, maybe he has got a feel for foxy bitches, no question.
I’d sure as hell like to get into the pants of most of them,
maybe all of them. He’s got this broad from Albany, Isabel
Archer, turning into the fucken Princess Casamassima. Some kinda
queen, maybe. Well, why not? Look what the fuck we all turn into.
Look at our squeezes. Terrible, ain’t it?
I gotta like the guy though for his fancy talk. If I had a
lawyer like that I’d be out on the fucken street killing a lot of
people. I’d be out and gunning them down fifty years ago too.
Boom-boom-boom! Yeah! Not stuck like this on king shit death row
in goddamned Miami! At least I gotta lot of time to read Henry
James- even twice here.
Minimum security isn’t bad; it’s like a damned fancy hotel
with too-big toilets. Hell, I want to be free. God, I hate this
fucken burg! Miami!
Son of a bitch; if these Justice System bastards ran fucken
Creation it’d be postponed- forever. There never would have been
any kind of James, Miami, or even me. Is that fucken Justice?
Depends how you like any of us, don’t it?
I’m big into Proust now. So are a lot of people on death
row.
Well, that’s fucken it. And by the way, fuck you.

Understanding The Holocaust

“If God is the ultimate executioner, human beings are
masterly adepts at torture,” Gopal Chandraputra says in his
epigraph to this volume. The late Sri Gopal Chandraputra’s
farewell tome, filled with such metaphysical insights into
holocausts, or sagavatra kuudrapatra as he calls it, illuminates
the massive genocides of the 20th century for all of us.
The famed mystic and senior chairman of the Psychology
Department at Calcutta University had won a Pulitzer Prize for
his acclaimed best selling Black Hole Planet or Anti-Foucault, a
volume claiming that everyone out of prison or a hospital was in
deep exile from benign authority and guidance.
He gives examples from his own life while serving a jail
sentence in Gatramanda Saguntaba. a fabled maximum security
penitentiary in downtown Mumbai for serial murder and arson. He
also liked to kick cats and behead lizards; the mystic was never
tried for these magic acts of liberation. They are not a crime
under Indian law.
Sri Chandraputra notes in his last autumnal tome that God
himself had created the Great Flood that killed off nearly t
whole human race, had destroyed whole Creations innumerable times
before he came up with one that he thought was good or at least
tolerable, all major prestigious religions are based on wild
maniacal murder. Krishna advises Arjuna to go to war and kill and
be killed, Jesus was publicly and lawfully executed, Mohammed
slaughtered millions with his pious armies, Buddha had a powerful
ruling taste for fresh and highly spiced tandoori chicken.
Leaders of mankind who order sacred genocides even if they are
atheists become immediately closer to God. Their slaughters at a
whim imitate the hunger of our divine Creator to destroy and
devour us all along with sundry life forms all over the
universe. Even stepping on a cockroach embraces one’s godhead;
one joins the company of heaven itself at least for five minutes.
Chandraputra complains in his labial addenda that only lack
of means made him less than amass killer; he is however not his
foes call him in their slyly mocking lampoons: a failed genocidal
maniac. Chandraputra of course was only able to kill his wife,
children, his local extended family down to his third cousins,
and assorted neighbors, cows, horses, elephants and dogs before
he was hauled off to the fabled subterranean prison he had spent
much time in Mumbai.
There he was hanged, his body burnt in a sacred ghat by the
authorities a half hour after he had penned the last beautiful
words to this very book.
Many America acolytes of sundry Asian savants feel
Chandraputra should be awarded the Bollinger and Nobel Prize
posthumously for this sterling work alone. Chandraputra had
murdered the whole Pulitzer Prize committee hat had awarded him
his first honors; he had as well slaughtered with a rusty butcher
knife and stone ax the very committee that appointed him to the
prestigious Ezra Pound Chair at Harvard exploring Deconstruction.
Perhaps the Nobel and Bollingen people are better off
generally for honoring dull or even certifiably dead authors.

Hyacinth Hall: The House Of Internal Perfumes

Hyacinth Hall in the line of English fragrances for the
inner you.
As we all know we are host to a variety of visiting
microbes, delightful little creatures who live in us as God’s
tiny gifts from the very diverse bacterial and arthropod kingdoms
who haply inhabit our stomachs, duodenums, jejunums, personal
nether cloacas, even wander around our arterial circulatory
labyrinths if they get lost.
They have until the advent of our select range of internal
fragrances we have developed in our deeply subterranean
underground plants east of Liverpool been subject to the most
foul, rank, most disagreeable to insufferable and unholy stenches
one can imagine whilst they amble through an inchoate human
digestive system.
Hospitality is not a strength of our human anatomy. Our
innards are merely built to ferret out oxidizable elements from
our lunches and destroy them whilst we turn all else into our all
too banal micturations and manures.
We have a mercy and compassion at Hyacinth Hall on these
doughty bits of consciousness lamentably missing in our lives
even toward lovers, neighbors, enemies and strangers in the
adeste world, so to speak. We look out for those who have no
other champions but ourselves. If we don’t these microscopic
little tykes will take revenge on us.
We offer the following organically pulverized chemical
digestive sprays for your guests, each of which has a charm that
might suit your little residents.

Lilac- essence of processed sulphur metholonide
Forsythia- crystals of auricular chloride
Purple Rose- patriot lead hydrate
Pansy- crushed shards of arsenic
Orchid- a finely smooth flour of hydrogenated zinc
Magnolia- stifling vapors of stale Barbados rum treacle

They say charity begins at home. If one is home one should
be all the more charitable.

Hypertext Contest

Ever wonder what would have happened if Keats would have
broken the Grecian urn? Or whether Hamlet might have been a one
scene play in which a son dismissed his father, telling him he
had his own agendas?
Ever think what would have happened if Oedipus could have
accepted sleeping with his mother and killing his father? Maybe
even liked the idea? If old time poets had had the sense to write
their verse in your hypertext we would know what they would have
made with second opinions on such themes.
Send us your hypertext poetry and we will publish the best
of it. If it is hypertext version of an ancient poem, you will be
doing some dead bard a favor. If it is the hypertext of a
fictional poet, an imaginary poem, you will offer us more of
yourself in your travesties than you probably have offered your
lovers- which is close to nil.

Mycroft Systems Presents: I-God

Fitting snugly over eyes, ears, hands, nose, feet,
genitalia, the I-God offers not a Jurassic ambience of listening
to moronic music while commuting to nowhere, watching television
in a soda pop stupor in a poorhouse terminal ward, on death row,
talking all day long on a cell phone about nothing to your dog.
Our customers disappear into other worlds as efficiently as
one flushes a toilet. Consider these options; then thank God you
can purchase the sleek, affordable I-God.

Love Potion Number Ninety Nine: Make love to Greta Garbo,
Marilyn Monroe, Monica Lewinsky, King Kong, Tallulah Bankhead,
Rock Hudson, John F Kennedy, Robert Kennedy, Bruce Lee, Brando
Spike Lee, Osama bin Laden, George Burns, Orson Welles, Peter
Lorre or any DNA mix of any, all of them you choose at a whim.

Bombs Away: Make war all by yourself against Vietnam, Iraq,
North Korea, Cuba or any blend whatsoever of these exotic
countries you fashion at your caprice. Eat your dead or even
living prey like a savage or a lion with five flavors of sauces
prepared by master South Sea Island chefs after you kill your
despicable foes. Make war on yourself. Eat yourself with catsup..

Inner Star Trek: Travel to planets and worlds you could
never imagined, designed by our priestly masters of the
fantastical and observe, make love with monsters or slay aliens
that are at once terrifying, baffling and reliably erotic in
enigmatic ways that tickle your intelligence if you have any as
well as your ruling oleaginous glandular oozes.

Joe Finklestein’s Silver Yesterdays: Outdo the famous
ippissimus of nostalgia in a season in the happy past of our
wonderful species. Work fourteen hours a day, six days a week,
sweat like crazy, eat peanut batter sandwiches and scrapple,
drink near beaker, age fast and die quickly while singing
sentimental ditties grandpa used to warble and love. Get sick
from huge epidemics. Our past will bring tears to your eyes.

Loose Bruce Zeus’ World Creator: Make your own reality. Make
it beyond language, beyond sense, beyond palpable design or
anything but sanguine chance atrocity and uncontrollable spasms.
Give your mad universe a vertiginous random set of celestial laws
with appearances and disappearances of lovable monsters and
erotic amorous provender that will always keep you very alert.

We’ve love to say otherwise; the I-God is completely
addictive. We have a large hospital, Mandelbrot Towers, ready to
serve you when you are completely amputate of sanity, left a
giggling and incontinent husk by our machines. We also have a
program, I-God anonymous, which meets every night at 3:00 AM in
every laundromat and video store in the country.
Don’t be odd: prod your bod, you clod, with I-God!

The I-Chair

Tired of waking up ready to devour all and everything
ravenously even if it’s sand and treacle?
Weary of hungering for strange flesh whose capacity for
amusement will turn stale quickly enough while their penchant for
theft, sloth and litigation will only expand? Mad about being in
debt, unskilled at anything but doing nothing, untalented even at
slumber, looked upon as a schmendrick, chump and fool by even
your dog?
Sit down, push the gaudy plastic buttons in an sumptuous
Malaysian I-Chair. Modeled after the legendary and authentic
Kurzweil electric chair in Sing Sing, The I-Chair is now
available in volume to millions of customers at a no questions
asked clearance sale steal of a cellar bargain price.
Can’t afford a new I-Chair even at our ultimate bottom
price? We have used refurbished I-chairs sold mail order from an
abandoned Texas cattle processing depot in St. Louis.
MMMMM! Feels good! A mild shock runs deliciously
through the normally tepid neural system to short circuit all
those nasty old habits of lunatic artificial hunger; it leaves
one sane and measured as you really are, ready to meet the world
as it self-evidently is.
I-Chairs are Good Housekeeping certified, Zagat-rated; they
have been awarded the Conrad Pulitzer Prize twice at the West
Larchmont Festival For Universal Chair Design. They are family
oriented; your whole household can sit in I-Chairs, let the
exhilarating electrical flow though their innards like a
clarifying cleansing purge while your clan grins at beatifically
each other, prodigally bathing in celestial smiles.
HOWEVER, whoever you are, whatever you do, DON’T buy a
Taiwanese I-Chair. Of course they are cheaper, look like
Malaysian I-Chairs, even smell somewhat like them, rank with a
mockery of our subtly insinuating lily scent; they are just
shoddy low end plastic foreign clones of our genuine electric
chairs: they mostly shamelessly market the klunky old fashioned
kind that killed Sacco and Vanzetti.
DON’T buy an Australian I-Chair either. They also seem
and are perfumed identically to our I-Chairs; after you sit in
them, put the steel cap over your head, strap yourself in and
press the buttons commanding the soothing flow of electricity to
pour like a soft caressing blow of balm into your system.
Nothing, NOTHING AT ALL happens.
After a while you get up feeling foolish. These machines are
alien fakes. They do absolutely nothing. They won’t make you
happy. They won’t even kill you.

The Museum Of Illusions

Founded by Harry Houdini, located near Xarq, a rocky
hermitage in a remote corner of Patagonia, the museum is only
open in the very nadir of moonless nights for most of us; it is
of course accessible at all times by the imbecilic, the dead and
the blind.
There is no visible building, no sign of anything at all
there or in all directions even if one were lucky enough to see
them or for that matter anything else. Its legions of labial
guides are all merely computer voices of people who either are
long dead or who had never existed in the first place. Yet its
legendary collection contains within its vast immeasurable maw
the most massive collection of famous fakes available to the
tourist on six continents extant in any known or unknown world.
This month it offers directly above the Money and Credit
Wing the Confessional Exhibition of Swami Chatraputra, the
sinister adipose mahatma who has claimed all reality was an
illusion. The Swami has revealed that since he himself though
foully and grotesquely overweight doesn’t exist, claiming other
things are also at bottom vaporous portly fakes even when they
are plainly the very center and hub of the fabulously unreal is a
celebration of the ultimate divine paradox: one swinish mirage
describes another one.
What is in this featured exhibition? Nothing at all, of
course. It is at once an very windy enormous void. a very
portable nothing. Next month it will be simultaneously offered by
curators who don’t exist to the public in four famous places
which also don’t exist: Zacata City, Morphopolis, Zug and
Byrentium.

The School For Impotence

The School for Impotence is a fully accredited and
sumptuously equipped university with graduate centers all vomer
the world including the legendary Schola di Impotenza in Milan
and Palermo. We are no barefoot provincials who train our
students to a narrow embrace of mere private terminal erotic
ineffectuality.
Our classes teach our pupils not to do anything even when
they are asleep. We have a special center in Berkeley, a posh
place of study in New Haven; our home classes for the
hospitalized, indigent or insane are held during life itself
after we attach a loud buzzer and plastic pain generator
implanted into the brain of our students anytime they want to do
anything at all.
After four years of such training they are invented to talk
up advanced courses is being nothing and doing nothing in
graduate schools all over the world from Harvard to Cambridge.
We can place even the worst and most moronic graduates below
the bottom of our classes in positions of power and leadership
all over the world with a steady income in any government,
school, court and any other institution from asylums to prisons
to unthinkable nameless places.
It is almost true that one cannot be hired by these citadels
or even employees as a publican in a gutter alehouse without one
or two degrees from our college.
One can major in several areas of impotence, specializing in
cosmic ineffectuality, doing nothing in one’s own bedroom to the
United Nations. One can be America’s president, America’s vice
president, a big time CEO, a famous conceptual art painter, a
daytime game show host or a beleaguered administrator of a
malodorous and crumbling city hospital.
With our all-everything degree one is qualified for all
those important positions and many more. We have gradually
eliminated from most of the world the merely incompetent,
replaced them with those who do openly, boldly and plainly
nothing at all.
We also for those who do not take to our expertise maintain
a School for Pleasure in Las Vegas. We’re only superficially the
Half Moon Casino on Silver Dollar Street. Send for either one of
our catalogues. You can be what you want to be. Something. Or
nothing.

Insecurities

Insecurities is the ultimate investment, not quite a stock,
not really a bond, almost but not currency. We are not so scurvy
as to be associated with any sweaty country, greedy corporation,
bankrupt manufacturer or disreputable pharmaceutical firm.
Insecurities represents nothing; it never claims to be
anything
like Bolivian Oil Stocks or Trans-Canadian Treasury Bonds.
It is transparently, absolutely, unquestionably, pellucidly
nothing and worth nothing.
Instead of softly textured fancy paper with semi-floral
half-abstract engraving, tedious pictures of our dull and
humorless black bearded founders mimicking the legendary
insufferable fossilized twins on boxes of common licorice cough
drops, spidery signatures of grey suited executives, Latin
mottos, dullish epigraph supposedly from the fecund pen of Aaron
Burr, all suggesting substance and respectability about dust and
vapor, we offer you zilch on an old foully scented blank piece
of paper.
Looking like refuge from an long abandoned toilet on an
Outer Mongolian army base, the scant paper is yellow,
fly-specked, cockroach-dung stained, faintly, sourly redolent of
mildly rancid schmaltz and clots of blue chopped liver. The
iron-grey roughly honed surface itself is oddly one dimensional,
perhaps haply nonexistent like a sham quasar..
Nameless, shabby, tattered, opaque and enigmatic, one might
wonder: why would anybody but a few terminal masochists and the
ontologically challenged want to buy Insecurities?
You might be able to sell it to somebody else at a profit.

The Intellectuals

The Intellectuals, playing to a select audience of
Academicians and muggers at the Morningside Heights bandshell
this week, are a sleek funky rock band that usually plays the Ivy
League college and advanced church circuit in America with some
aplomb. Its lead guitarist, John Ashberry Junior, wrote the hits
Drop the Slops Gently, Foxy Doxy that became the school anthem
for the Miami U. philosophy department.
Drummer Rachel Lindsay scribbled the famous bit of
foot-twitching ambiguity, Strumpet with a Trumpet, a ditty very
hard to avoid were one were sitting in a sylvan spot in downtown
Lancaster.
Catarrh Bar, Awful Offal and Mrs, Phthisis were three gems
in the oldies but goodies style strain rooted in 5/4 Bulgarian
rhythms by banjo player Hood Menu. Harmonica virtuoso Calvin
Chang, love child of legendary menage a quatre, et peut etre le
cinq, je crois, avec le chien, entre sagacious William F.
Buckley, Bella Abzug, Dick Cavett and Erica Jong, contributes the
heartbreaking ballad If I Weren’t A Rich Man, as well as
interminable up tempo hip-hip numbers like The Blue Pox, and Me,
Bobby McGhee and Jerry Mandrake Hopkins.
The Intellectuals are the Hubble Telescope’s Official Rock
Group.
The Intellectuals are all staunch monarchists. They are of
course as well non-practicing Flatland Episcopalians who honor
Jesus and the Holy Ghost but find the very notion of a God
absurd. Amahl and The Two Sided Trinity is their signature album.
The first five people to buy tickets for the Morningside
bash will be given a free if tepid carafe of Australian
Chardonnay along with a certified back copy of the New Yorker.

The Invisibles

Tired of being young, beautiful, instantly interesting-
looking to a horde of drooling equally garages erotically
tireless strangers? What to be invisible, private, able to bend
light like a stale greasy hamburger or a piece of very
forgettable furniture plunked in a corner of a dumpy hotel lobby?
You don l want to give up your beauty. at least when all else
flails you can admire yourself on an asteroid. Yet you may want
to join us: we are the Invisibles.
We aren’t going to tell you where we meet if we do encounter
each other at all; we’d stop being invisible. We aren’t even
about to reveal to anyone, even ourselves, who we are. Confessing
in a locked room whether we exist or not if we are utterly
enviable would be the beginning of the end of our utter
unfathomable ineluctability.
How do you then in fact, comely as you are, become one of
us?
Wouldn’t you like to know!

The Irreplaceables

The Irreplaceables are offering you now the usual line of
shoes, pants, cosmetics, vacation spas and bottles of booze that
you will find literally irreplaceable as ripe poppies were to
opium fiends once you try them.
Our products aren’t addictive, are light-year leagues beyond
drugs, never tether anyone to a coarse ruling taste that commands
one’s life like a bearded Assyrian god-king.
God forbid we should ever do that to you! After all, this is
America; we are a free popular republic, the world’s moral
democracy.
Our merchandise is simply better than anything else to the
point where it can only be hungered for avidly as fat dogs chew
on meaty bones. It never has to be imposed upon anyone with the
ugliness of force nor embraced in a synthetic carnal epiphany
because it is seemingly stunningly beautiful or awesomely
dazzling in its charm.
We don’t sell thins that stick to your epidermis forever
like a tiny eyeless leech or invade your innards at night with a
tapeworm’s sly smile.
As soon as one tries our items one will be aware as a free
and rational adult that one should drop one’s life instantly and
seize the product while it is available; if not one may rue the
day forever one hadn’t acted with haste as well as speed in
acquiring it immediately.
What are these absolute necessities? Could one imagine a
lifetime anymore without a sacred haj to Disneyland and murmuring
in a confessional way about one’s woes to Mickey and Minna Mouse?
Could one simply pass by the immense casinos and posh brothels of
Las Vegas?
Would one want to miss a view from the top of the Grand
Canyon or the vista in a barber shop of a calendar garlanded with
a lovely photo of the young and nude Marlin Monroe?
Could one out of laziness or stupidity ignore a diamond ring
in the street, not notice the moon or the stars on a clear night,
never read the Bible or the newspapers, be lackadaisical about
earning money, not even be aware one is long dead of apoplexy, be
incontinent out of what one deems a tolerable and picturesquely
lovable sloth or forget entirely to have a sex life?
We aren’t satisfied with giving you a line of products you
can’t do without if you are awake, sane and have a few brass
shekels to pay for their delight.
We have people as well for you who are equally
irreplaceable. We will give you a wife, a husband, a lover or a
nosegay of many lovers, a broker, a landlord, a plumber, a set of
adoring and affable children who honor you, a fluffy dog, a
television set with varied educational channels with news of
giant flora living on Alpha Centuri and Mars, air conditioners
that never break down and a lifetime supply of root beer.
We are indeed the Irreplaceables. You male love to us, kill
us; lock us up, elect us as your leaders and ministers, you can
sue us, even be sued by us. You damned well can’t replace us.

The Jerk Encyclopedia

This vast collection of stories about husbands from divorced
wives of the late 20th century, an epic of former mates told to
drop dead, sued and indentured, is one of the fastest growing
archives since Kafft-Ebbing’s Psychopathia Sexualis. We have
catalogued these testimonies under the following categories: The
Monster I Married, Take That You Rat, See You In Court, and I
Piss On Your Grave.
These meaty, fantastical stories all by themselves would be
enough to have some benign autocrat nuke the planet. Layers make
use of these entries very commonly when they tell women what to
say about their husbands in court. The charges range from murder
to perversion, rape, arson and incest. Many modern divorce
proceedings use our indictments without quoting their source.
The Very Reverend Orville Buck of the Sixth Day Adventist
Church of Baptism by Phlegm says about this uncommon trove: “Its
doubtlessly veracious picture of males as slavering degenerates,
louts, imbeciles, meat-eating predators, lunatics, incest freaks,
drug fiends and diverse colorful perverts is enough to make one
wonder whether men are made in God’s image. If so, God must be
some violent and extraordinary nefarious libertine beyond our
ken.”
The Jerk Encyclopedia is standard reading for any
compassionate lawyer, any reflective prosecutor in the Justice
System, any thoughtful teacher in our schools and any serious
professionals wording for any social agency. Many progressive
professors assign it to their college students. There is a
special legal section, a sensational addenda of fashionable
accessions for litigants to make about one’s mate, all of which n
our courts have the legal force of an indictment.
Perhaps the most important chapter in this massive million
page resource is Anna Freud’s: A Protozoan Future: a plan to
replace old fashioned sperm with clean and hygienic laboratory
stem cell DNA material found in Albanian-simian hair follicles.
The Addenda: Alien Epithets, includes all racist charges
about our Aztec neighbors one might want to savor. It covers not
merely Blacks, Jews, Arabs, Germans, French and Hispanics but
various Hottentot and aborigines few of us knew existed. The Jerk
Encyclopedia even has unpleasant things to say about dogs, Santa
Claus and God.
The Jerk Encyclopedia is free. We only ask you to contribute
your personal slander of others, even women and kids, to our
capacious and ever expanding web site. There is never enough
liberation in this world.

Heisenberg Jigsaw Puzzles

Heisenberg jigsaw puzzles are for young and old who want to
explore the ultimate meaning of opacity, fierce implosive
density, severe indeterminacy along with the mischievous
random movement in and out of what we innocently call reality
of everything from the human spirit to quasars.
The designs if one could call them that in our puzzles elude
any analysis whether one is a genius, a mediocrity or an
imbecile. None of the individual jigsaw pieces in any Heisenberg
product fit together impeccably; some seem to connect with others
in a vague and marginally disconcerting way that foals at best a
nagging inner anxiety.
Many pieces in the vast pile of Heisenberg shards of
nothingness defy any pattern at all. They seem to be perverse
singularities that at once fill the veteran puzzle addict with
bewilderment and beyond that a near lethal mix of discomfort and
dread.
Jigsaw fans have been known to manipulate the pieces in
Heisenberg puzzlers for months and even years before throwing
them all into the fire in a fit of rank disgust, rage, pique,
disdain and scorn. Nobody, not even large computers, has ever
solved any of our puzzles.
Yet these superficially perplexing riddles have a wonderful
long term effect in honing the analytical gifts of our furious
customers to the frontier and beyond of finding tenuous logic and
subtly vague patterns in our more crepuscular enigmas.
We also offer an ancillary sputtering flashlight with a
hissing weak bulb to make even the surface visual appearance of
our puzzles shadowy and mysterious.
Heisenberg puzzles generally are known all over Germany for
their earnest capacity to remind all of the inexplicable. Our
catalogue includes video games that not only seem oddly endless
and insoluble; they are indeed riddles unhampered by solutions.
We purvey books with random words with apparent spiritually
profound mantras computer generated for ultimate ineluctability.
We have on placards decorating the walls of our Heisenberg
firm in Upper Darmstat a company policy that affirms that nobody
will ever be happy, even other than wretchedly, grumblingly
miserable, with any of our products. We say at Heisenberg:
“Dissatisfaction guaranteed!”

The Jonah Foundation

The Jonah foundation rescues people who have been literally
swallowed by video games, television and various other machines
from their lightless place in the mephitic stench of such
hungering mineral devices near the jejunums of such devouring
silent but killing robot predators.
We will filch from the very large aluminum intestines and
leaden cloaca of the catatonic, soporific, consumed and eaten the
baits as well as the spirits of the perished in these leviathan
innards by our residant killers of myriad weak souls and
alchemical plastic necromancers transforming life itself into
static niches in these steely limbos.
We will rescue your loved ones kidnapped by these ordinary
harriers but only of course for a whopping fee. You can contact
us at our off-shoer flatting casino ship usually maundering in
placid tropical seas near the Bermuda Triangle and contract to
send our Barbados experts diving into your television set,
computer and other all too lethal immersion engines to remove
your loved ones from their nylon maw.
When they go back as they nearly all do into these
sanctorums after a short season we will take them out again into
the bright world of nature. We wall free them from such baleful
intestinal indenture as long as you can pay us to do so.
Our computerize offer to bring your beloved and even your
enemies out of these abysses for free. Nothing is for free. Not
even slavery. Not even freedom.

Kidnapping Yourself

For years Abu Mazda, the international importing firm
formerly specializing in bringing giant dried figs to the select,
has also brought its cognoscenti the Gold Leaf Suicide Bomber
Kit, a must for our intelligent zealots who want to blow
themselves and others up for no reason at all.
Now legendary Abu Mazda lets you be kidnapped only by
yourself. Our Patrician Platinum Kit gives you access to a push
ranch home, endlessly entertaining electronic delights, a
refrigerator filled with sugary frozen goodies, Jamaican servants
and spotless plumbing, a convenient impersonal shopping mall
nearby, an impeccable Korean car, a knotty pine den with a ping
pong table for moments of reflection, and a set of raucous
demands for your release that are fantastical, banal and almost
metaphysical.
One can also kidnap oneself in the People’s Silver Economy
Kit by disappearing into the Americana hinterlands, taking up a
discreet residence in a small hotel in Cleveland or St. Louis
under the name of Smith or Jones, brings beverages and solitaire
cards for low-end amusement, calling for room service from sleepy
bellboys in dirty livery when one is incontinent, hungry or
thirsty. With the Abu Mazda Brass No-Frills kit even beggars can
take up American life as a captive patriot.
One can post one’s demands for freeing oneself as a captive
on the Internet, making sure they cannot be met by anybody when
they are noticed at all. Some of our satisfied customers have
been kidnapped for years and decades. All expect to die in
captivity.
Abu Mazda Corporation of fabled Baghdad and Teheran is
selling in all stores the high and low end Elite and Popular
Kidnapping Kits, Platinum, Brass or Silver, one kit fit for you.
Nobody should wait to be kidnapped, be dependent on strangers,
even foes, to do a job one can accomplish all by oneself better
than any enemy.

Kids and Mutts Inc.

We at Kids and Mutts Inc. aren’t satisfied anymore than
children and animals these days themselves are with the rights
and privileges giving to them under our laws and fashions; how
could we be? Until a kid or a mutt becomes president, governor,
senator, makes a million dollars on some not too kosher stock
deal or can break our laws with impunity like the Kennedy clan
they are third class citizens or just poorboy furniture.
Enough!
We are starting the first private kids and animals army to
work in securing our style of life over Creation itself, a select
legion of children, cats, dogs and assorted fauna worthy of our
sacred nation.
Instead of our current feral and dumb small town bullies and
punchboard town trollops we pack andante uniform to live or die
in the outlands and slaughter the Hottentots for a pittance, we
are going to invade Mars and maybe a few moons around Jupiter and
Saturn with a battalion of our best fighters we have in the
United States.
Ever see a pack of dogs going at each other? Ever notice the
venom and fair of kids fighting in a school yard? Ever study the
crimson warrior ants battling to the death on our shaven lawns,
how termites can destroy a building more saliently with more
efficiency than an atomic bomb?
We need to have armies of curs and brats all over the world
to stand for us. They have something to defend here. If they
don’t risk their lives for us, who will?

Korean Genocide- A Video Game

Fight the Korean War long after its over! Invade a bunker
filled with North Koreans or South Koreans and take them out with
knives, a machine gun or even napalm in the ultimate shoot em
up. Talk with General McArthur about the meaning of life, death
and the dark glories of being a soldier.
Attend a Presbyterian barbeque of rancid beef and
red-flecked spicy kim chee with Syngman Rhee.
Take up rest and recreation as only you know how to have fun
with deaf-mute nine year old girls in urbane and posh Seoul.
Drink putrid rice wine with Matthew Ridgeway while you both
torture your flayed and screaming enemies with red hot pincers in
a discreetly hidden away prison camp.
Korean Genocide by Moon Park Productions is the only
outrageous violence-rated game on the market to do for the Korean
War what other video game companies have done for World War Two.
Moon park has previously brought you only peacetime games with a
mild suburban flavor.
Enough is enough!

Shacking with The Krakens: A Memoir by Georgie Octopolous

This ghost written sports hero confession of Triple Hall of
Fame third baseman for the late Miami Krakens, tells it all from
his home on the Atlantic coral reef deep in deep, deep water.
With eight arms and a legendary fluid motion as he scoops up the
ball Garage was a gerund for two decades for any team he played
for that nothing goes through the right side of the infield,
ever.
His four bats when he’s at the plate have given him a broad
range of simultaneous swings that some compare to Ted Williams if
he had been an echinoderm.
Georgie is the first invertebrate infielder in baseball and
probably the best; he has been compared to Honus Wagner and Honus
couldn’t even swim much. Garage doesn’t hold anything back in
this so call me pisher reminisce he dictated while on meth and
champagne in his underwater palazzos. Nightclubbing with Lindsay
Lohan and Britney Spears, a folie a cent with a rabid clam bed in
Honolulu, wild rebellions in Pleasure Rehab with Rush Limbaugh
and Mich Jagger, a picaresque boy scout hike with Amy Winehouse
up and down a virtual Appalachian Trail, what really happened
between him, the IMF, the IDF and the IRS, and of course his
menage du rien with a silicon semi-nymphet but Demi-senescent
Madonna lookalike.
Georgie gives you the real dirt about the Miami Krakens, a
bunch of tomcats, hypocrites, sham teetotalers, glue sniffing
crypt maunderers, shambling sleazy miniature lizards and sinister
snake stalkers as have ever graced the real world in real time.
He talks the talk about his UFO trips to Io, his five marriages,
some of them to human beings, his troubles with a nearly lethal
carp caviar habit, his spiritual journeys to seek out the hidden
wise men of the world in Newark, Detroit and East St. Louis.
Hey, once baseball was only for White males who were
supposedly such good guys they would bore God. First they hired
college-educated Black good guys, then high school educated
fumigated Hispanic and Japanese good guys, then Junior High
school dropout White bad guys, then a bunch of perverts, louts,
clowns and satanic rogues we don’t even want to think about.
When they got to Georgie he was just a hick giant kid squid
from a Tasmanian Sargasso Sea who never thought of himself as a
baseball hero the planet’s fans would look up to while they
chewed their bubble gum and waited for death. If he wasn’t able
to handle baseball celebrity right away, who did? Who the hell
could?
Georgie will be signing and giving readings of his books in
the prestigious George W. Bush Library and various Tex-Mex diners
in El Paso. He wants to star in the Joseph E. Levine movie.
“I don’t think Tom Cruse looks like me.” he says.
Georgie denies that he, God or Lindsay Lohan is left handed.
He admits in a stage whisper that he sleeps in the nude.

The Justice League Of America

The Justice League of America is a real cadre of much more
than gaudy comic book superheros; we are organized by the FBI to
penetrate radical terrorist groups of all kinds as we once
successfully inundated the Communist Party. We infect that bunch
with our ranks to the point where even their pets, house plants
and Mexican fast food caterers were all FBI Agents.
To make sure you are ready for the elevated standards of the
Justice League of America we will ask a select few of you to blow
yourselves up in our elite training camps.
Later we will ask a few others to assassinate their loved
and close intimates from tireless bedmates to wise, ancient and
beloved kin. Before we will put you into the battlefield with
sinister paranoiac foes like these we want to be certain for your
sake you have been properly trained by experts for your mission.
Today we are dealing with a much less naive group than these
hapless and defunct Bolsheviks. Our recruits in the Justice
League of America will be required sometimes to lull the wariness
of our foes by blowing up women and babies at weddings, set bombs
in animal hospitals and nursing homes.
A few may even offer the ultimate sacrifice, destroying
themselves in a cloud of fertilizer powder. These saintly
patriots will leave a vast cloaca with a mephitic stench in an
empty desert for apparently no reason at all.
As a soldier for the Justice League of America you may even
blow up our own offices, machine gun our President, kill all of
us more overtly in the FBI.
You can atomic bomb America, leave our country, the whole
planet and Mars a dead world like choice New Jersey landfill.
Who would suspect anybody like you would be secretly working
for us?

The League of Disappointed Men and Women

If God didn’t despise life why did he create nearly the
whole universe without it? Maybe God knows something we don’t
know. Plainly if he exists he clearly very politely avoids us. We
can’t as easily elude our own social company.
The League of Disappointed Men and Women of the late 20th
century are holding a formal and august war to end all wars this
Fall. It will be everywhere. Some of it will be staged on the
moon and Mars.
This war will certainly resolve their long term rage at each
other; it will also balance the tipsy budgets of the world. This
massive despatch of crones will be a glial event promoted all
over the whole planet, either currently bankrupt or going quickly
fashionably broke.
The honest and pain purpose of our war is to kill everybody.
Of course if there is life after death they can continue the
struggle in Heaven and Hell.
Each of our feisty grunt solders will be provided with a
daunting arsenal of guns, bombs, rockets and rocket launchers,
Abyssinian poisons, Montenegran stilettos. There will be stone
clubs for the node nostalgic cognoscenti steeped in the annals of
authentic human warfare, ready to trundle down Memory Lane with a
wicked wistful smile.
For the League, for everybody, the aim of the game is self
destruction. The solitary survivor of the last battle, after
crowning himself Arnold, is obligated to kill himself or herself
with an infallible cyanide capsule developed by the Third Reich,
classical masters of such craft, we shall of course generously
provide.
Critics of the League of Disappointed Men and Women have
said waggishly we cannot prevent the fracas spreading to humans
of all ages. Well, what if we can’t? What if the ultimate
brouhaha expands even to battles between stray dogs, cats,
lizards, assorted wild life down to paramecia?
Does anybody want to continue the miserable, insufferable
lives of depressed and enraged men and women with whom we are
lamentably all too familiar, for that matter any grumpy and foul
mouthed curmudgeon, any of our current life forms at all?
The doors of The League of Disappointed Men and Women are
open to all. We believe in equality. Life, peace, fortune makes
us unequal, if only for awhile. Death or never being born is the
ultimate equality.
Join us even if you aren’t a buck private in our armies of
nasty, furious and disagreeeale crones. Be one of us- even if you
are a dung beetle.
Our holy credo, our sacred common cause is simple, decisive.
Drop Dead.

The Lenin Code

This remarkable novel which has intrigued a whole army of
readers in the past week claims that Lenin had covertly put into
code a secret ciphered document which reveals not only Karl Marx
but the entire Communist Party over its history including the
heavily vodka-drinking Stalin were all capitalists with a heavy
investment in weaponry stocks and a gourmet fancy for wine,
cheese and cunning noodle dishes prepared by clever smiling
Asians.
The author of this bestseller, Achille Beauregard, asserts
that Lenin admits that these apparent soldiers and martyrs for
Communism were all good time party animals apparently ferocious
Reds because they loved the easy sex, cheap red wine and funding
engines they had mimicked from public charity machines run by
Quakers. These tireless revelers regraded the actions and success
of Communism as incidental at best to their passion for the
amorous transports of young and not so young lovers always
offering miles of decotelage, costumed in colorfully printed
pleasant dresses.
I admire the persuasively felicitous prose of Achille
Beauregard, one who no longer has to work as a freelance dentist
in inner city hospitals after he had sold the movie rights for
this book to Mel Gibson, I am however troubled that his readers
cannot any longer tell the difference between leis and truth. T
them in their television torpors fiction and data are
interchangeable.
Beauregard has of course admitted he had completely invented
his novel though he has claimed on bigtime televisions shows that
for all he knows his fictions may be real. We can all say that
about our fantasies if we are crazy as loons, can’t we?
Yet the notion that Marx, Lenin, Stalin, even Cats and
Engels, along with scurvy Anarchists like Bakunin and Kropotkin
were all egregiously party animals only out to feast and slake
the lusts on pliant faithful rather trivializes a large cause,
Communism, one for which teens of millions of human beings have
died for, often whether they liked it or not.
Were Beauregard to write innumerable sequels claiming he
found comparable ciphers about the bibulous capers of Jesus,
Mohammed, Buddha and Santa Claus, which given the greediness of
the New Modern Library who publishes his effusions is inevitable,
he will make enemies of real soldiers and martyrs he won’t find
among the slothful and fatigued Reds. Beauregard might have to go
back to work doing his itinerant dentistry from a pushcart on the
streets.

Leviathan

Leviathan is the ultimate disposal machine.
Gaudy, capacious, large as a cathedral, it can gobble down,
digest immaculately and spit out armies of atoms in a barely
appealable either immense items large as a car, a house, or the
sourly odorous festering contents of a town landfill. It can
offer inner shocks to the skull that will infallibly dissolve
unwanted memories, reduce the very bones of extinct animals in
fortress-like museums as well as shred whole ancient cities to a
barely perceptible to a colorless impalpable powder.
The Leviathan comes in various decors; The Westminster, the
Notre Dame, the Beige Hippo Boneyard, the Aztec Temple of Crimson
Skulls, The Burnt Sienna Vatican, The Inverted Pyramid, and,
naturlich, the Ice-Cathedral of Pluto. The subtle colors range
from a nacral white to a discreet and surprisingly modest
vermillion.
Everything in Creation including Leviathan inspires nature
to foal its proper enemies. The Kali for example is a vessel of
dissolution even large than the Leviathan, invented by Canadians
precisely to destroy all Leviathans as if they were vermin. The
Kali of course is always itself being reduced to a faint
invisible ash wafting in a mauve mist over the sulfuric planets
of the Andromeda strain. We know a bit about the Indigo
Meta-Jahveh; beyond that nearly unimaginable stellar spa of
faraway
catastrophe we assume there are even more massive engines of the
same sort in exploding concentric nodules in all directions haply
unknown to Earth
You can have your own Leviathan without charge of course.
You don’t even need to order it. It will come to your door in the
middle of the night squatting on steely imaginary haunches and
sit on your lawn silently, ready to go to work.

The New Modern Library

The New Modern Library, the people that brought you
Tolstoy’s War and Peace- What’s the Difference?, Ptolemy for
Dummies and Dante’s The Divine Limbo, has finally brought up that
old curmudgeon Bible up to date in a progressive new edition!
Nobody can read the old Bible anymore without dismissing it
as an odious collection of outdated, defunct tales filled with
unpleasant people, unhygienic bawlers, monarchism and lunatic
notions about the existence of God.
Our New Modern Library Bible is God-free. We also have an
elite-free edition in which God is equal with everybody else in
the story. He votes, eats noodles, is in debt, gets tired, shops,
complains, lives and dies, and feels lousy about nothing like
everybody else.
We make sure half the characters in the story are women.
Most of the kings are now queens. Samson is now Sherry Very few
of the characters are Jews. Some of them are mentally retarded;
at least half of them are Chinese, mirroring life itself.
The new Bible text is written within a scope of 800 worlds
to make it accessible to everybody.
We also are offering a Bible that is wisdom free. Since
everybody has some point of view, nobody knees anymore than
anybody else, everybody is right, we leave out any opinion that
might smack of narrowminded and provincial ethical piety.
The Ten New Commandments are a Pentecost for our time. We
tell everybody to do the opposite of those silly old Jurassic
edicts. Celebrate only the Sabbath: do nothing all the time till
you drop dead. We are for a Sabbath after Death.
We honor all the equality, moral relativism and hare of
bigotry of any kind that makes our enlightened age if still a
nightmare, better than the past.
The New Modern Library has already quietly replaced old and
fossilized books all over the world with our zippy new versions
of the classics and sacred books in stores and libraries.
Know what Art Haggard and Billy Graham have said about the
New Modern Library Bible?
“Thank God!”

A Christmas Newsletter from Lupine Freres

We aren’t any more spiritually elevated than we have to beat
Lupine Freres t run the world’s fanciest mail order pet business
but we do honor Nepalese scrabble player and savant Swami Hugga
Ikahara’s remark to one of his more torporous canasta playing
disciples “When I come back in my next life, tell the Unnameable
Ones not to give me a good friend but a good enemy.”
We’re not swamis; we aim to do precisely that for you in
your choice of pets. We are not going to sell you some illusory
tiny hirsute child which, puppy, kitten, fiction or lizard, never
grows up, or only shows up slavering and feisty as your loyal
companion for your fox and wild boar hunts.
We are going to provide you with a close up enemy worthy of
you.
We have in our huge store in Toulouse every kind of stealthy
or sinister adversary you might want to cuddle and embrace while
inviting them into your so-called intimate life no matter what
your tastes, recondite amorous persuasions or level of
intelligence might be.
We have on our Pavilion of Immortal Enemies a selection of
starving and desperate wolves, grizzlies, lions and cougars that
will stall you in your living room, trying to devour you in one
slash to your throat as you sip your Beaujolais Nouveau Wine and
nibble dollishly at your simulated process pig cheese.
One our Oldies But Goodies Pavilion in the cellar we offer
our Good Housekeeping approved DNA reconstruction of the great
white worm, the saber toothed tiger, dire wolf, and a bevy of
assorted miniature raptor killers that will make your home a
place in which you are continually alert for danger.
Most of the more fey pet cognoscenti we know prefer our
Sloan Kettering Bacterial Wing. We can offer you there a choice
set of microscopic brainless animals from nature’s chamber
cornucopia of horrors including the almost-authentic Sicilian
Black Plague bacillus which is our bigger seller in volume to
those lightless mercurial contagions of an unclassified sort that
will make you dance the tarantula, even make love to curs and
assorted vermin as you loudly and incontinently expire.
Dante says justly en passant that betrayal is the worst of
sins. Our pets are never betray anyone. You know exactly what to
expert from them. They are honest avatars of woe, murder and
death.

The Lynch Brothers New CD: “Music for Hanging”

The Lynch Breathers, the premiere rock and roll band for
background sonnies for chalkone, pig and cattle slaughterhouses
over America have been awarded the exclusive contact BTU the
United States Justice System to provide the music for all the
public executions in America by cyanide gas, lethal injection,
electric chair, crack rifle squads, stoning and now: hanging.
“We used to work for the Mafia,” Daniel Lynch says., “They
always liked our easygoing style. We always got a good pasta feed
too. Those papal don’t have to kid anybody. They like to kill.
They can cook better than any Cinnamon or Mexican I’ve ever
known.”
Willies Lynch talks about the warm and close family history
of the band. “The family name was Snyde. We changed it to lynch
by a vote. Even the kids had a say. We liked the sound:.Lynch. It
sure is better than Snyde. There were originally twenty Lunch
brothers., fifteen Lynch sisters too, five :Lynch wives and three
Lynch daddies. It was a big Appalachian family. We had to knock
off most of them though. When we started to make a nickel they
all got lawyers and were ready for serious litigation,”.
Why would you want music people and animals die by? Maybe
you want to snuff out somebody too. Why not, everybody else does,
and they do it to the sinister satin sound of the Lynch Brothers.

Dear Machmoud

I don’t normally ask anybody to convert to American
consumerism and drop their habitual views of the cosmos. You seem
to need my help .Machmoud, I used to be like you.
By Allah’s will I was more inept at running my life than you
are as the latest poobah of Iran. I wanted to be a famous serial
killer; I tried hard. I couldn’t kill anybody. Bombs fizzled,
guns jammed; knives fell apart, poisons turnout to be covert
vitamins, diarrhetic , aphrodisiacs,
I couldn’t even kill myself. I got jobs for hot dog salesmen
outside the joints wares I was always on trial for something. I
was great for mustard.
Finally out of charity I didn’t earn or think I deserved
Mother America made me into a consumer.
I can do that!
Now, Machmoud, unlike you I squat like a Hindu god in my
subterranean castle keep eating, drinking, playing fancy video
games, snoozing whenever my divine caprice tells me to rest and
slumber. Unlike you, you poor Suni dunce, I am isolated from the
world of the Great Satan, mostly a hellhole for rancid salty
food, lousy lovers and grey temples of bellicose litigation.
Unlike you, you purblind boob, I envy worry about anything.
In a word, in spite of myself I am free.
You, a Suni idiot, are a beleaguered footman to fictional
caliphs, ghostly courts, a lover of fake virgins a vaporous cur
in a coarse imaginary world.
Listen to me, Machmoud:; you need not merely to threaten to
destroy Israel or America but to seem to try to do it and fail
like me. There are several empty cells here I hear about from the
rats, isolated from each other as residents of a far off asteroid
beyond the methane rings of Jupiter.
You need to occupy one of them. Allah knows I do. This
buried heaven is not prison; it is consumer glory. As long as you
are a zealous and pure consumer like me now you will be even
happier than I am here.
Come, Machmoud, to America, to the inner heart of lovely
Colorado. Join me, in Allah’s deepest paradise, in his American
glory, in compassionate grace and perfect peace.
yours,
Zacharias

Mamaliga Azuma

Mamaliga Azuma is America’s premiere organization providing
charity for the rich.
We all feel a simple and perhaps patronizing compassion for
the poor that is unworthy of us. How did the poor get that way?
Our largesse should stretch out to people who deserve our
generosity. The rich show by just being rich they are proper
vessels for our highest emotions including love, kindness, and
even pity.
We don’t want to offend the gentry by offering these
millionaires baksheesh as if they were leprous and scrofulous
beggars at some Third World ancient city gate. We have a civil
mode of giving way money to the rich that will never offend their
piteously fey patrician sensibilities.
We run invisible corporations in strange places that feed
their bank accounts discreetly. We run little get togethers,
support groups for them in near Olympian banquet halls to console
them for whatever loneliness, depression and licorice-tinted
despair they may be suffering as we all do because sadly we all
are defective mortals.
We import genuine Japanese plum wine to sip over their
delectable meals. We give them stunningly lovely women or
catamite in posh brothels that your crass poorboy levers who run
Welfare apparently never thought of. We hand out to each of them
all scented pink foam rubber toilet seats. Our free pharmacy
offers them while expiring in style a thousand guaranteed pain
killers.
If they are reflective and feel the triviality of life and
complain as some saints and fools do that all is vanity, we name
a street or two after them. Why not? A street has to be called
something, doesn’t it? Otherwise even the Champs Elysee is just a
nameless filthy allay. Hey, everybody is a winner at Mamaliga
Azuma.
Our labors cost money. We need your contribution; we are
getting it. Thank God, you your forints and kin are supporting
Mamaliga Azuma whether you like it or not through your taxes, the
inflated prices on your goods and property, and occasional
imperial wars that protect our engine of love and compassion.
Believe me, we add on a fat skim of everything sold in
America, the world and even the southern tip of Andromeda that
slides silently into their capacious pockets.
Perhaps some of you are wondering how you too can be the
beneficiary of Mamaliga Azuma. Well, one big cocaine deal in
Jackson Heights might do the trick. Otherwise, you are all our
patrons. We have to be grateful to you.
We are.

The Six Mancini Brothers

The Six Mancini Brothers are offering a new dimension in the
moving business. They will move every item in your house
identically to the same place. You will not see them move
anything; you will not hear them show up to do the work. You will
not be aware in any way besides getting the bill that you have in
fact moved.
In an offer that makes such easy and cheap moving impossible
to turn down, the Mancinis will for the next month in a once in a
lifetime bonanza move you twice to the same place for the same
very affordable price we would charge for one such big move.
We guarantee everything in your home will seem and be
identical to the place you moved from. If you’re not totally
satisfied, probably the very dynamic Tony Mancini will show up
and move whatever sundry items you please you have claimed we
missed on the job, as long as they are there in the first place,
right back to the very same place they are and you also claim
they came from.
Tony or maybe even the charismatic Vinnie will be there
without charge; either one of them of course will expect a tip.
If they’re too busy moving other people to the same place, you
could even get handsome Joey, a guy who never takes tips; he
usually won’t show up much less move anything.
You could even get Santo but he isn’t a Mancini. Currently
none of the Six Mancinis is named Santo.
When we aren’t working all of us Mancinis constantly move
each other even in our sleep. We value leisure; in a society
where these days nobody has any skills at all, we Six Mancinis
never want to forget how to do business.

The Oxford Manual Of How to Marry Yourself

By Harry K. Pyle

Doctor Pyle’s latest best selling opus, obviously done in
haste after the success of his excellent and all too well known
The Oxford Of Manual of How to Kill Yourself, is hardly as
persuasive as its treacly yet well received Oxford Press sequel:
Give Birth To Thyself.
This new, sumptuously illustrated volume with classic four
color woodcuts by Vinny Franzetta, a Forward by Aram Kevorkian
and a fawning Afterward-Appreciation by Fritz von Weissenegger,
oddly written in an eccentric Cyrillic, is doubtlessly the last
word, one must say, in easy nuptials.
If one follows Pyle’s pellucid directions one can marry
oneself anywhere: while one is asleep, on an alien planet, a pig
abattoir, even after death. One is at once in Pyle’s awesome and
baroque ceremonies the groom, bride, minister, caterer, the
choir, the snippety bathroom attendant, the smiling, unctuous
florist.
The meat of the book of course is Pyle’s trashing of the new
fashion all over America of multiple marriage on the sacred
institution of self-marriage. Pyle claims that marriage of more
than seven among anybody at all, people, dogs, cats, lizards,
passing mice are simply a seasonal madness or fad like the Edsel.
Most intriguing is the last chapter in Pyle’s opus: How to
Divorce Yourself. One can be the two or more teams of tigerish
lawyers, the legions of snarling judges, the imbecile courtroom
guards, the half-dead rats lurking in the back chairs, the
sleeping clerks, the insects crawling on the benches as well as
be both of the irate and bellowing litigants.
Doctor Pyle of course is the acclaimed successor in
reflective and thoughtful Westerns to the late great Louis
L’Amour. There is a certain resonance of Tiajuana and Juarez in
his descriptions of immense rococo self-marrying chambers for
those who want a candied self-marrying cathedral worthy of their
pledges to be faithful and love no one else, and their immortal
and enduring love for themselves.
Pyle in fact speaks with barely concealed awe of the blurry
echoes in these empty and desolate temples, the formally shod
beloved alone in these vast herculean holy places, saying in a
smoky and passionate whisper: I do.

Mayhem

Mayhem is the dating service for people who are tired of
indifference. We know how many of your are fed up with erotic
satiety and civil accommodation to your kinky hungers by polite
and soft spoken lovers who at bottom could not care one way or
another whether or not you are happy or miserable. We don’t sell
you strangers; you cant find these aplenty on the street, can’t
you? We offer you a chance to meet your true nemesis.
We can through computer searches connect you with your
proper foe in life, the antagonist who will try to kill you, rube
you, rob you and loot you asleep or awake. We will even give you
children and in-laws who will do even worse to you. We can
guarantee you neighbors who make a kind of personal war on you,
often by poisoning your cisterns, putting feces-eating termites
in your homes. We will place your entire community in a quicksand
marsh that is not all that slowly defending into a morass of
swampy ooze.
If that doesn’t miff you at all, we can settle you in
countries that will see you as cattle, given you political
leaders riddled with galloping dementia, put you proximate to
oleaginous lakes field with diseases that will infect you with
horrible pain and nausea, acquaint you with the doleful woes of
droughts, pillages, famines and execrable hygiene, or simply put
you among the quintessentially torporous where sloth is a kind of
fine description of their static ultimate indolence.
This is a free service. We make you miserable for nothing.
Don’t forget to say thank you.

The McCarthy Award

We’ve all heard of the McArthur Genius Award. We are
offering the McCarthy award for banality much in the spirit of
that sacred search for some ultimate quintessence. Of course the
trouble with our quest is that the most banal people we might
give this prize to must of their character utterly escape us.
They are indeed ordinary to the point of utter invisibility.
Luckily for us we skim 98$ for administration in our
foundation. It doesn’t matter to us whether we find a proper
recipient for our prizes or not.
If we ever find our prize winners, what will we give them?
What else but a very forgettable and laughably minor job. A bunch
of tedious family members anyone could easily do without. Lots of
medical benefits. A discreet condo in Miami.

Mediapedia
A Game by Mycroft Systems

Mediapedia is the ultimate video adventure experience for
computers that allows you to live deep inside the worlds of the
New York Times, ?he New Yorker, The Village Voice and Time Out
You live the same exciting story in four ways, all embedded
snugly in this very affordable priced but exquisitely canning
program.
As Tab McNatt, United Nations repeater of the New York
Times, one moves through a realm of dismal greys and mild sepia
fogs meeting ambassadors from desert sheikdoms, all of whom
mysteriously speak fluent English, whimsical Episcopal prelates
with odd porcelain doll collections, bemused child-like opera
stars, laconic but genteel sports celebrates, experts and
certified observers commenting airily on violence and the latest
colonial war, psychologists with opinions on all and everything,
slyly amusing stand up comics who have a curios depth in their
dense and arid humor.
The realm is blissfully liberated from all carnality,
slavering malice and the inner life of the crass. All of the
amours are celebrated decorously an out of view between
sentimental married lemans. If none in this program are witty and
less than none are amusing in any loutish or lurid way, it is a
fine refuge from a world in which we all too often pay for our
entertainment by accommodating ourselves in the sane world to a
general scrambling vulgarity.
The goal of this fascinating game is to live in the
Hamptons or Westchester as a patrician in near silence, then
after a sipping a buttered rum toddy take up a tolerable slumber.
Timed of the Times? As Ian Clyde you ramble through the
chilly, cruel and derisive New Yorker suburban world, flush with
broker’s cash, sozzled, feeling quietly sorry for yourself,
pitying others for no reason at all, and wondering why oodles of
money hasn’t made you happy.
Exhausted by the New Yorker? As Jack Spatt you honky tonk
through the Village Voice urban sleaze complaining that to sober
and earnest degenerates all the old perversions have become
tedious and respectable.
Piqued with the Voice? As Time Out’s nonagenarian Melville
Hawthorne you wander though chamber spas of tireless
entertainment.
Mycroft Systems also offers in the program the legendary
Mediapedia for Dogs. One doesn’t have to be a canine nor even
remotely a human being to play it either.
If one has a media imagination one can be a mutt almost
anywhere.

Medical Money

Doctor Ben B. Bupkis will write you a prescription giving
you the ultimate remedy for feeling lousy! Don’t take it to your
pharmacist; bring it to the bank.
Doctor Ben B. Bupkis has a 97% rate of cure for any physical
of mental ailment you have. Bupkis is covered by all reputable
insurance companies; Doctor Ben is licensed by the Mexican
government and five drug cartels; you don’t have to plunk down a
penny for a consultation.
People in armies come out of our offices happy and ready to
be happier. Imagine a posh meal or a shopping spree in which you
never look at the prices for items you don’t even want, lolling
on fancy hotels with miniature craven liveried servants and a
prodigal open bar, doling out unthinkably generous payments to
lovers to get more than intimate and enemies to leave one the
hell alone, always aloft on ceaseless business class trips to
Patagonia or Antarctica where you can forget the things and
people you’d be crazy to remember.
With offices in Tiajuana, Ciudad Acuna, Nuevo Laredo and
Juarez you can pick up a handy prescription from one of his
barely teenage lithesome and nubile Filipino nurses who will
service you in any and all ways you might hunger for plus a
couple of unsettling consolations for mortality you never
imagined, without ever seeing the charismatic and legendary
Bupkis himself. Malgre lui, a man like Bupkis is always busy.
Some of our customers don’t want or trust money; they prefer
gold bullion. Bupkis doesn’t carry gold; Doctor Ben knows who
does. He will send you to Doctor Zephyro Z. Zapata with gleaming
offices in Switzerland, the Cayman Islands and Panama City near
the donkey acts for a sun-gilt financial rehab session you will
treasure forever in many ways.
Some of our clientele have asked us what happens to the 3%
still unhaply and irreparably blue after a consultation with both
Bupkis and Zapata, unaffected by their anodynes. We don’t know;
we don’t care.

The Microcephalic League

Forced mainstreaming of microcephalics into our common
society as a mandate is for the good of all humanity itself.
We’re been bringing them into the class rooms, We have made them
expensive brain surgeons and airline pilots. They are often the
last vapid face you’ll see on the way to the Styx. We’ve been lax
is providing them with suitable entertainment and pleasure in the
Arts. We’ve paid for it. They run amok in their insane asylums.
That’s why we’ve been funding the Elmira Microcephalic Arts
Museum with individual grants for macrocephalic epics, poetry,
and contemporary conceptual Art installations in Ossning,
Plattsburgh and downtown Buffalo.
Our legislators from those area vote on our funding. They
have microcephalics, all underachievers, slow, mentally
challenged, perverse in the usual banal ways just like urbane,
cosmopolitan folk like us. The only industry in Elmira and
Plattsburgh these days outside of us is the unbreakable new
fluffy penitentiaries and the new Teflon lockups for the
criminally Insane.
Every other business has gone to Malaysia. Even the silicon
web spinners are thinking of setting up in Pathogene and leaving
us with nothing. We all can’t be selling pretzels in America.
What Arts or entertainment or whatever is proper for
microcephalics? It has to be something simple. The simplest.
It might be a little boring to us. You don’t want to make
microcephalics feel bad, do you? Probably our whole planet is
boring as we are to aliens and angels. That’s why God doesn’t
come here. When was the last time God showed up here? It’s been
weeks. Where the hell is he?
God he can’t stand the tedium here. The hell with God; it’s
good enough for us. We need to open negotiations to the
microcephalic world, Buck; it can’t go the other way,
If we want to be one species on the same level for the
greater good it has to be on the worst, dumbest downright
terminally stupid level we can take, maybe even lower than the
lowest rung of mineral motes lurking and empty in almost
imaginary abysses. A little social slumming is good for all of
us. I should know.
Why do we exclude even simpler life forms than
microcephalics from our funding? Shouldn’t there be Arts councils
funding for music for viruses? I’m not a microcephalic or a virus
either; I sure as hell know what’s good for them.
If we’re all at the worst common denominator we can all
enjoy everything, can’t we? Most intelligent people stay out of
Plattsburgh, prison and the loony bin That’s where we need the
arts. Cemeteries too. The dead are going to get the vote someday.
We should move over to dogs, cockroaches and wild rats, a
few not so intelligent mushrooms. I’m for vegetable rights. I’m
for mineral rights too. I’m for life too.. I’m also gung-ho for
death. Death is natural. There’s more death in nature than
anything else. I’m for anything beyond life and death if we ever
find it. I have a simple narrow dream, With the right money and
power we could fill the cemeteries with beautiful music.

Minus

Minus is the computer anti-browser that though modern brain
purging techniques always leaves you blissfully with less
information than you had when you had naively and innocently
opened the program.
Minus cleanses you of armies of supposed facts that are
almost certainly false and might even lead you to a picturesque
if flamboyant act of utter destruction.
The first levels of Minus are to rid one of a belief in
Santa Claus, the astronomy of Ptolemy and the medicinal value of
liver pills. If one watches Minus for a while one is
quasi-surgically at a gigantic remove from anything one might
have
learnt or believed.
What is the value to you or the world for that matter of a
competent anti-browser like Minus? If one leaves Minus
incontinent, babbling, something like an imbecile, armed with no
skills at all, not even how to manage or destroy a computer, it
is mathematically impossible to be gulled or dispatched by
anything or anybody that is less than nothing.

Mithrades

I interviewed the famed talking horse Mithrades when I was
trying to find my way out of Persia. The beast was grazing on the
borderlands of the country, a huge shadow in a dense forest.
Larger than any equine one has ever seen, he also was
adorned by a cunning and intelligence rarely garnered by human
beings. I noticed though he had once been ridden by gods and
kings he exhibited no sign or marks of saddle on his rippling and
enormous muscular back. Even his glossy skin lacked a visible
memory of the glorious and long seasons of his prior bondage.
“There is never going to be a life of anyone, even a buzzard
or dung beetle, in which they are not going to have to fight or
elude an enemy,” he said. “It doesn’t do one any good whether one
is a horse or a human clod to put up with indenture, or even a
wealthy slavery some call it civilization as educated Persians
often do. Even a mushroom cannot bear at bottom to be other than
free. A man has a sword and a bow to aid him to at liberty; a
horse has gigantic size and four very swift feet. I can eat grass
or survive in a desert. With my stony hooves I joust with lions.
Yet I prefer to outrun my foes. After all even I cannot destroy
all of them.”
I asked Mithrades what he thought of ants.
“Not much,” he said, munching on a bit of dried thistle. “It
has occurred to me that God values drones if he created them.”
“Perhaps God has children that cannot be redeemed,” I said.
“They said that once about me,” Mithrades said.

The Moloch Ha Movis Concert: Death After Death

We of the Gang Of Two at the Tango for Nickels Foundation
are raising money for Moloch Ha Movis. We are sending their
nacral music though not the band in person to do a concert on
Titan, an uninhabited moon field with methane lakes and
ceaselessly descending golden drops of sulphur. It all falls into
a cloacal abyss under a golden sky ripped with a vast and
terrible wind with much scarlet lightening grumbling in a mineral
horror and howling eternally. Titan revolves in a very
lugubrious and beautiful elliptical orbit around Saturn.
The band will record their songs on earth in Antarctica,
then place it in a snug rhinestone capsule on an unmanned rocket
ship; this lethal sonic lozenge will be dropped by parachute onto
the famous Indigo Oleaginous Sea of Titan. The group has donated
its first stellar music to the universe, all for free. It will
pay for its own transportation to and from the South Pole. The
only cost will be the all vinyl rocket ship.
This show, the first of its kind, the only music event the
history of the cosmos in which nobody will be there, not the
performers, not an audience, not even white worm vendors with a
candy concession pitching black silicon popcorn, will be the
First Annual Death after Death Astral Concert.
It will never be heard even by monsters nor by visiting
minor angels; there is nobody to hear it on Titan or any of the
other moons of Saturn, not even on Saturn itself. We want it that
way. We feel as Shakespeare did: heard music is sweeter, unheard
music is sweeter. We’re not sure what music Shakespeare was
taking about; we’re know the big S wasn’t just taking nonsense.
Moloch Ha Movis is the premier band one hires for music on
Earth in hospitals, insane asylums, death rows, crematoriums,
cemeteries, private mausoleums and now for musical rites on
inhabited pallets. The band has played in the Happy Trails Wing
of the world famous Forest Lawn Cemetery, the Ted Bundy
Institution for the Criminally Insane, the Warren and Sara
Harding Memorial Library, the Jack Kevorkian Junior Lethal
Injection Room at San Quentin and at the posh Lebanese War
Pavilion at Arlington National Cemetery. It is the last music
that anybody wants to hear. It is a vast consolation of the
planet to all who are heavily sedated, handcuffed, bed ridden, in
solitary confinement or simply but brutally chained to the walls.
You all know its big CD: Songs for the Mentally Retarded.
You’ve all danced to its legendary singles: Macrocephalic Stomp,
Jeffrey Daumer Blues, Adolescent Dementia, Leave Her To Herman,
Knee Condition, Down’s Sitcom, Lord Yama’s Lament and Headless
Horseman. Moloch Ha Movis will never play for the measurable, the
merely irritated, the marginally piqued, the tolerably peeved,
the subtly annoyed, anyone in a short lived small funk. You’ve
got to be hurting in a major way or you cannot hear this music.
Please send your pledges and contribution to 800-Moloch Ha
Movis. The band will only accept money of defunct currency. We
will honor only Confederate Bonds, Hellenic drachma and Lemurian
hackisinki. Of course it’s all tax deductible. Maybe.

The Momsers

Who are they? Urban survivors. How do veteran musician look
and feel? Beat up; life is tough.
What the hell do they play? Music that breathes swaggering
scruffy New York, the cutting edge Lower East Side where drop
dead eccentricity and lunacy is king. What kind of music is that?
It’s an in-your-face mixture of New Music, rock, free jazz, salsa
and Beethoven.
It’s an alley somewhere where Mongo Santamaria meets Leopold
Godowsky for saltines. Sometimes it’s like background music to a
lowdown Bowery shelter where Einstein liked to talk over quantum
mechanics with Anthony Braxton.
Why do they do it like crazy loons when everybody else
watches the Sopranos? Why is the Lower East Side their bailiwick
when it’s so damned uncomfortable? Since they can play at a high
level why aren’t they saying goombye to the local rats and
strolling barefoot to midtown and Carnegie Hall? Maybe they just
love a hardnosed life in recovery.
Doctor Mojo, their leader, not only fronts the band with his
suave reeds but runs legendary ABC No Rio weekly in the heart of
the Lower East Side near a pickled watermelon rind emporium.
Impeccable, his run of endless melody comes from decades of
working with the ilk of Lightning Jones; he’s lately toured Korea
bringing American music to the animistic outlands. Bubba Coke and
Little Elvis Dobro can both be seen savoring the sonic feasts in
New Orleans; Bubba’s day job killing dogs at a local pound means
he is at least not currently helping the helpless.
The rest of The Momsers have done heavy time at some form of
government institutional charity: as the staff, not the patients.
Elvis’ aesthetic runs to Mali and the Caribbean; he is a demon
philosopher and theoretician of Martian funk.
Doctor Mojo plays every style there is, he is also master at
some styles which don’t exist. Bubba’s samples when isn’t
offering soulful melody bring realtime tonal noise of a subtlety
one usually finds in Beluga caviar.
Mad Dog Tareyton’s grandma was scared by an Art Tatum radio
broadcast from which he as a mere mewling babbler never
recovered. As a guitarist he talks to Charley Christian on ouija
boards; Charley never talks back. His big hit is Medicare Mama.
George W. is always humming it.
A heady mix? You betchum! Are they gaudy and slick? Nobody
but a team of slumbering HMO proctologists could be more without
any glamor. Can they make good music? They are becoming a Lower
East Side legend for strange music and wild playing from the
sushi vendors on Rivington Street to the mystic modongo makers on
Second Avenue.
The Momsers are all too available for outrageous interviews
and sinister articles; they even give advance copies of their
hermetic CD to radio stations, newspapers and other media
cognoscenti on the nocturnal prowl for a few freebies.

Classic Hits Of The Momsers:

1. Starfruit Jam
2. Milton Berle Elegie
3. Galactic Tactic
4. Stalking Stephen Hawking
5. Dancing On A Dirty Rhomboid
6. The Rhinestone Metaphysics
7. Pass the Salt
8. Catsup Stew
9. Mofongo Mood
10. That Ain’t Even Root Beer
11 Memories Of Me
12. Ashram of the Dammed
13. See You In Court
14. Saltpetre Blues
15. Some Call It Intimacy
16. A Taste For the Gutter
17. The Girl From Antarctica
18, Insatiable You
19. Cockroach Stomp
20. Planet Of The Bores
21. Iraqi Khaki
22. The Noodle Caper
23. Wadda Fugami
24. Ascetic Diarrhetic
25. Green Light District
26. The Feast With Five Fingers
27. Sez You
28. Butterfly Blues
29. Binging At Bickfords
30. Automat Rat
31. The Old Non-Euclidean Con
32. Doing The Reimann Funk
33. Bug With A Quantum Lip
34. Young Girls Laptop Dancing
35. Post Coitus Omnia Criste
36. Five Nights in Khartoum

The Momsers Hall Of Fame Albums:

Saddam, Saddam. What did Saddam Hussein do sitting in that hole
in the ground with a CD player and a hot plate for canned tomato
soup for six months? You guessed it! He spent millions of dollars
in U.N. Food for Oil cash to commission The Momsers to record
thousands
of hours of vintage music. This twenty CD set is the best of that
2003 marathon month-long recording session.

You Fucken Dumb Bastards! The official music played in every
American unmanned Z-2 bomber when on a run bringing democracy and
freedom to Iraq.

The Bob Hope Afghani Tour. The legendary music the late great
comic entertaining the troops in Jelalabad insisted on. Vocals by
Xerk, a computer-based Janis Joplin clone.

Gotcha, Yuh Dirty Gook! Music, lyrics by “Mojo”. An album
American Martial Anthems. Rip-roaring numbers tickling every
booted foot: to be listened to on many fronts and by patriots in
the suburbs on A-Pods while sleeping.

Aaaeeeiiii!!!: Music To Torture People By. Commissioned with
pride by the General Jay Garner of the United States Army this is
the official music for interrogation at all military prisons
including of course the master inquisitions at Guantanamo. It is
a loving evocation of all spiritual disciplines based on treason
and pain.

Rapture. Tangos directly from heaven noted down meticulously by
thirty five American mystics and elected politicians of the
heartland. They have talked to God, then heard God talk back. You
voted for them! They can’t stop doing the tango. This is Intense
metaphysical stuff from your leaders; get up little plastic
pacemakers ready for this one!

Dog Wedding. Nuptial music for an orthodox service of any
religion whatsoever including Atlantis, Juju and Kali rites for
late July canine heats. Contains the hit single two years on the
Country and Western charts: Dry Biscuits Again.

Elegie for Wynton Marsalis. This one will make you cry. Retro
culture goombyes for those merely physically still among the
living.

Drug War Music. Tunes recruiting American youth for all sides of
the drug war. Get involved! Includes the most downloaded single
in web history: “Hold That Coke, Bitch”.

Venus Has A Thousand Legs: Incidental music to the sequel to My
Hearth Is An Anthill: soulful sonic meditations on the love life
of teenage caterpillars. You’ll never step on one again. Includes
samples from Tasmanian orgies of the giant preying mantis. A big
seller in Canada.

My Hearth Is An Anthill: Incidental music to the soppily
sentimental Sun Dance Festival award winning documentary about
familial life of some very cutsy insects. Features the legendary
gospel single: My Arthropod is God.

Music to Work By In America. Guaranteed numbing rhythmic and
brainless songs to take in while working at a minimum wage
futureless Third World job in a department store. Voted the
Golden Grapeshot Award by the prestigious Memphis Society of Dead
Rappers. Lyrics by “Special Ed”.

The Church Of Money

It’s not easy to start a new religion, as L. Ron Hubbard
once said; sometimes you’ve just got to do it!
The Church Of Money like Scientology is a giddy and
insouciantly delightful departure from any dour and mean religion
you have ever heard of, any angry and dyspeptic god you have
worshipped, any tonsured and lobotomized juggernaut of ninnies
you have been persecuted by.
Our sensible priests never talk about piety, virtue: only
interest. They are of course the sort of achromatic and unctuous
grifters and drummers who suavely lie to you, discreetly steal
your silverware when they are your guests, in close-up wizardry
walk off with your socks, quietly cheat out of view on their own
mates, steal oodles of shiny coins rom the poor box, seduce you
if they can into expensive addiction and debt, pick your pocket
with a wan smile, after a season roundly kick you into the gutter
if they can’t figure out instantly how to eat you, drink you,
make love to you, or otherwise make a decisive use of your flesh
and provender like a richly succulent deep fried chicken.
Our more exalted bishops supervise their own classical
clerical penchant for swinishness, inebriation, unnameable and
recondite sexual tastes, rapt desert etudes in galloping
solipsism; they even give our more enthusiastic monks bonuses of
cellophane-wrapped troves of ink-scented heaps of fancy embossed
paper if they hustle enough rubes our way to throw them some cash
at the higher-ups too.
Tired of the arid ministers, ancient cults with
their nacral mein of austerity? Yowie, jeepers creepers, holy
moley, hallelujah, praise the Lord, son of a gun, Allah
Bismillah, your goddamn troubles are over!
For those of you who have had enough of money priests, the
Church of Money will supply you for a nominal free, payable in
gold, with a spanking new Qoooz. What is a Qoooz? It is a
designated computer-printer for diarrhetically turning out not
just authentic oodles of American and foreign money but
certified and genuine stock certificates, commodities
contracts, derivatives, credit cards, baseball cards,
crone pornography and winning horse racing tickets.
Once you have a Qoooz and a mortgage you will never live
without either one again.
At bottom the Church of Money makes not only people happy,
it wafts an equally savory blanket felicity out to angels, dogs,
raccoons and even assorted lurking nocturnal reptiles. We know
the satanic smile on the faces of our assorted faithful when our
minor priests tell them they are richer and more powerful than
they were yesterday and they have done nothing for it. It isn’t
hope or optimism. It isn’t magic. Or is it?
Of course nothing has happened. Only one’s aery perception
of one’s material clout in a shopping mall has changed. What if
it is rude country carnival magic? It works.
Join the Church of Money. Don’t you want to be happy?

PRINCIPLES OF HAI-BAI

It is all Literary History now: the emigration of Chinese
intelligentsia from the Old Country over a century ago-the
formation of Asiatic poet-cook societies West of the Mississippi,
the diffusion of homophonic Chinese language values through the
cowboys, the gold miners-the subtle influence on such Westerners
as Mark Twain, Ambrosia Bierce and Istvan Ferenc but now to
celebrate the Bicentennial in Brooklyn the First Annual Hai-Bai
Contest celebrating the publication of the Foo-li: the legendary
treatise on poetry circulated among the Ko Wang or poet-cooks.
Entry is free-the poems must subscribe to the rules. The
winner will receive a free meal for three at one of Hew York’s
most sumptuous Setzchuan restaurants.

Extracted from the Pho-Li the rules are the following:

1, No stresses, no weak syllables, celebration of the
homophonic word as the line.
2. Total rhyme- use of imagine packets to embrace like It
and Such,.
3. Emphasis on lotus words: homophones with a thousand
meanings.
4. No poem must be over two thousand lines or less than one
line.
5. Gnomic, evocative, gnarled, understated, mystical,
laconic:

Sample Hai-Bais from the Pho-li

Still
Will
Kill
Thrill
Still

Fate
Wait
That
Fat
Bit
Sit

Ho!
No.
Ho!

The Heptagon- La Musee de High American Art

At the most eastern point of the United States, rocky
Montauk Point, half of its vast structure submerged into the
tumultuous Atlantic Ocean, the most stunning thing about this
mixture of mausoleum and hermitage is its motley and oddly
eclectic architecture,
From the West it looks somewhat like a Hollywood set of
Westminster Abbey, from the northwest it reminds one at once of
Stonehenge and Les Deux Magots on the famed Boulevard
Montparnasse; from the north it resembles the Pantheon in Rome.
One side is flat, empty, blank; another is a posh ranch house in
the Hamptons with a licorice-tinted satellite dish.
From the south its grey mein apes Oxford on an authentically
English rainy day; from the southwest it mimics the eldritch and
uncanny semblance of the Taj Mahal. From the east its Russian and
pagoda-like appearance shifts bafflingly between the Kremlin and
Kubla Khan’s onyx and emerald Winter Palace.
Each posh porch of the six sided structure has its
look-alike: Winston Churchill and Ronald Coleman for the Western
portico, Dante Alghieri and Caligula from the north, a
Columbia-certified T.S. Eliot impersonator and Oscar Wilde
flamboyant impostor for the South, Nicolai Lenin and the Dalai
Lama for the East pavilion. Sometimes the look-alike recite their
often iambic dysacouses at the wrong pavilions when, dizzy with
ontological vertigo, they lose their sense of direction.
One can only have access to the snug and well appointed
parking lot if one drives a Studebaker, Edsel, Hudson, Nash or
Dusenberg. Most of our people arrive on a bicycle.
Below the sourly fragrant and mossy Ivy League Library with
its Morocco leather bound collected works of Louis Auchinclos,
Ezra Pound, John Maynard Keynes and William Buckley, lies the
immense necropolis containing simulacrum mummies of Bonis
Kropotkin, Sri Rundraputra, Piotr Gurdgieff and Heliogabalous
among the fallen faithful. They are dancing the foxtrot forever
to a serenade of loops of serial music by Karl-Heinz
Gonischt-Helfen. Directly behind that tableau vivant iconry is
the medical wing of Doctor Pauli, Doctor Savanna, Doctor Spock,
Doc Savage, Doc Watson, Doctor Seuss and Albert Willis.
Most of the museum consists of musty and fetid subterranean
layers of crypts hosing the famous John Updike suburban wing, the
Susan Sandhog Memorial wine and cheese Upper West Side exhibition
with real California brie by Zabar’s. There one can drink a
Truman Capote authentic and inimitable black raspberry mint
julep.
In the wax museum of American High Bibiliousness one meets
Edgar Allen Poe, Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald Jackson
Pollack and William Faulkner tippling seemingly forever at a
genuine vinyl bar.
One sips a martini with a perpetually sozzled John
O’Hara, a liquor-laced clone made of paste and marzipan; don’t
expect his conversation to be glittering. At a coercer table a
drunk as a skunk John Updike look alike lip-syncs his short sound
byte loops of ho piteous and miserable Anglo-Saxon lushes with
lots of money in a country of peace, order and affluence are when
they live east of Patchogue.

The Museum Of Ideological History

The Museum of Ideological History on the corner of Grover
St. and Parsons Drive in sylvan Passaic, New Jersey is a trove
for retired oldsters whose hobby is collecting fashionable ideas
of the past, each tableau suitably displayed with their
appropriate credos, flags and sundry gewgaws.
Our museum is open all night. We are a favorite haunting
place for insomniacs.
The first floor concerns nobility, celery diets, saints,
fish liver oil remedies, Eskimo master races, noblesse oblige,
demonic possession, fat-free phlogiston, debt, White Man’s
Burden, The Great Vegetarian Inquisition, chivalry, the Great
Chain of Being, compulsory life insurance, Bolshevism, English
civilization, gnawing root rituals, consumerism, therapy and
underwater suburban hermitages.
The second floor deals with ancient faith systems such as
Kali, Astarte, Zeus and Jango.
Our third floor legendary Exhibition Hall offers this month
a show of 1960s Nostalgia. One can experience the power of sex,
drugs and rock and roll in the Jefferson Alcove. One can chant
classic Buddhist hymns in the old nasal chatdratpuntra style n
the Eastern Pavilion. You can be drafted all over again and
still not go to Vietnam. You can be a helter-skelter cokehead
and butcher paper mache dolls with marshmallow
rhinestone-sprinkled scimitars.
Next month we will feature fossilized ideas of the future.
Can you guess which ones they are?
We have comfortable subterranean green-glowing theaters to
leave your grandchildren while you amble through our halls. The
little tykes will be watching random loops from digitally
remastered Mister Rogers marathons.
It’s easy to find. We’re right next to the Joyce Kilmer
landfill.

The Emigration Application to the Nameless City

We will accept any application to the Nameless City for the
next thirty days; whether we will act on it later or at any time
is another matter. We aren’t like the United States which has a
near medieval faith that all the trash of the world are good or
in any case redeemable.
We don’t disagree with that high if sentimental axiom; we
don’t care. Our aim is to create a fathomless city beyond ken and
language in which none in our keep have spatial interstices,
name, definable action or discernable character.
We will only allow anyone into the Nameless City if they
have at all times had no effect on the world whatsoever. They
must prove of course that they have never been the newspapers,
they are unknown even to their kin and indemnities, as lovers
they may be recalled even once with a mere snickering shrug, as
achievers they have contributed nothing and destroyed nothing,
that they have not diverted history in another direction one
inch, that nobody really can remember what they looked like, said
or could even desire their clothing even through they had just
unseen them five maenads ago.
They must be en fine the sort of forgettable people whom
nobody can recall anything as much as one does not conjure the
details of ultimately rundown hotel furniture.
If you have ever drawled out in spite of yourself one witty
sally, felt and expressed in a whisper either a minimal pique or
a sigh of torporous satiety, either been amusing or notably
boring, have aided or injured a passing insect, are notable for
comeliness even for a hasty Arctic season, offer a stale dour
mein or a memorable ugliness you are not the sort of resident we
want in the Nameless City. You cannot vote or own property here.
You may not know who we are if we are entre nous in fact
anybody. Ask away if you dare. We are more vaporous than
interstellar ether. We have to be somewhere; wherever that is you
and people like you will never know it.
Send all applications to the Nameless City. If we notice
them it’s plain that you are not one of us. We don’t reject you;
you won’t be acknowledged at all if you are one of us or most
transparently should be. We won’t be aware of you.
In fact perhaps like us you would do well to sneak into the
Nameless City without any certificates, passports or identity
papers whatsoever, steal into our innards like a thief or
parachute into our fortress at midnight, disappear into the
silence and forgettable buildings of the Nameless City while we
aren’t looking.
If you answer this application you have disqualified
yourself as our spiritual kindred; lamentably you have identified
yourself as having honored a passing desire, a seductive caprice,
one last clandestine itch deep in your sheathed character, a set
of quasi-Babylonian or post-Sumerian notions of honor, ethics and
manners, a tack not merely repugnant but illegal among us, stark
atrocity and horror beyond our rather expansive, tolerant notions
of civility. Stay away! Spare us! Honor your own vile nightmare.
You are real. You are also insufferable.

Natural Foods For Cats

Natural Foods presents Jeremiads, the first little tidbits
for cats that are nature’s very meals your little friend takes in
the wild. We also have natural foods for wolves we lovingly cull
from selected booze-fed bodies in Potters field.
Our delectable Jeremiads, aptly named after Jerry of fabled
Tom and Jerry cartoon fame, our easy-to-munch nibblets of chopped
up, powdered, pulverized. lovingly dried mouse innards, shaped,
colored with vegetable dyes in our impeccable silicon molds from
bloody ooze in our vats, look startlingly, exactly like nature’s
own little munchy rodents.
One delighted critic in American Home Companion Magazine
says our Jeremiads look more like genuine mice than any authentic
mice look like themselves!
We also have individually canned miniature Patagonian mice
floating in their own blood for your cat’s birthdays, perfect for
your home on American holidays like Halloween and Valentine’s
Day.
Our scrumptious Irish oat-fed mice grown in our underground
warehouses in famed Plattsburg, New York are authentic owl-tested
field prey; we are of course outside of tourism, Indian
moccasins, maximum security prisons and peanut farms Plattsburg’s
only industry.
Natural foods is clasps conscious. For the middle calls we
have frees frozen mice we’ve slaughtered with Nasi gas chambers
to feed almost alive corpses to their felines. For the expanding
Millionaires Club in America we have Cat Heaven, a cage filled
with living mice delivered to your door suitably doped
for your cat to destroy at their whim.
We also have virtual mice in a video game for cats that
are scrumptious because they are unreal.
If your poor spayed, declawed cuddly cat has only been
dining artificially on cream, fish, bits of diseased beef,
gurgling as it gulps down artificial and perverse feasts that
give your pet legendary Arctic diseases with very scary Latin
names, you and your furry mate are in for a hellova a fine feline
taste treat!
Give your little friend one of seven varieties of gourmet
Jeremiads; then listen to her purr!

La Musee de La Neante

Some say this museum, a notable fixture in tour guide books,
at once located in Clichy, Passy and Raucombert, is an etude in
fleecing rubes who clamor to be insiders about the hermetic
mysteries of Parisian life.
Certainly this museum is about what is not in it, not what
it has collected. It trumpets its lack of any information about
the past, its bafflement about the nature and purpose of life,
its almost piteous paucity of data about anybody from Babylonian
deities and their enemies to the shadowy growth of white fungus
and giant mushrooms, its profound and irreparable confusions even
about itself, its lack of even tentative or surface opinions or
evidence about anything and everything.
Currently Il Museo di Pieta, an ontological cousin of this
Parisian hermitage, has opened in Marchand Le Grand near the
quiet and sinisterly discreet suburb near Sacre Boeuf. Run by
Italians formerly in the pasta business, the familiar decor or
utter lack of it is of course the same. Some claim this new
museum is a granite quarry or hidden parking lot.
The staff leads the tourists through a vast lightless cavern
informing their purblind flocks that they should be grateful they
are not being offered people and things in garish displays that
would irritate or bore them insufferable. It is en fine a museum
famous for what is not there.
Yet what is demonstrably accessible to all in these ghostly
tours is the brassy parlay of the guides. As one glides through
the dense umbras of these odd and ultimately nocturnal sinuses
one is treated almost to a surfeit to a kind of brassy labial
vaudeville from all these masked nacral priests, wry palaver that
might be more amusing if at once more mercurially meaningless
than any exhibition whatsoever.
Even if there were nothing, nobody at all in these
unfathomable severely unlit sanctorums, we can count on the
celestial banter of these saturnine hierophants.
Voici le neante! Vouz avez ici le rien absolutement!
Quelque fois vouz avez beaucoups de gens ignorantes qui dit comme
le fou St. Jean et les autres de cette type que le ciel c’est
plein du luit.
Non, Monsieur! La palais de le dieux c’est comme Le Seigneur
moi meme un monde veritable, un cite sans nom et sans character.
Allez! Promenons!
With those weirdly clarion words the crepuscular guides to
La Musee de La Neante, cloaked in nightdark capes, wearing an
adamantine smiling carnival domino, lead armies of Japanese and
earnest German tourists through invisible and perhaps imaginary
halls of a hoary edifice, one which may or may not exist.
The prestigious Japanese Tourist Bureau has complained that
in this museum there is nothing to photograph. Savants at the
German Reiseboro have remarked one cannot make a science or a
museum out of the unknown and unknowable; to offer to lambs such
humorless opacities as an amusement is the height of folie a la
francaise. Vraiment? Peut etre.

Noodle Dating Systems

We folks at NDS never forget the old Brooklyn saying that
even spaghetti gets pretty boring if you eat it every day. We
give you in our Dating Service the mate you deserve or at least
if you were better than you are, should deserve. We don’t saddle
you with some swinish lunk or shrew who after a week of domestic
bickering and needling is going to kill you with tedium if they
don’t make you want to die with their overt contempt.
We offer you in our dynamite fast-feud Luckshen setups the
civil and forgettable one night stand date that absolutely
guarantees you that you will never see your amorous partner again
after one bumpy night in the back of a Chevrolet or a quick one
with take out fend chickens and a bottle of iced Gypsy Rose a
cheap motel renting a damp cot by the hour.
We offer you this non-negotiable pledge: we will kill that
pesky mate with guns, infallible decoctions of venoms, even a
grenade tossed upward from the bottom of their commode if he or
she makes a telephone call or even comes within visible sight of
you for the rest of your life!
Our Aluminum and Titanium Cup Members don’t even have to go
out with a partner for amour in the first place to have that
contract with Noodle Dating systems. You can avoid people you
don’t even know about. Our Magnesium Cup Members can have people
dispatched at random, up to fifty the first year, people who
don’t know who you are and could care less.
For our billionaire costumers we offer a slightly used NASA
rocket ship that will waft you out of the solar system altogether
into the nothingness of interstellar space. You wail never even
have to think of intimacy in this solar system again.
For our consumers looking for an affordable way of doing the
same thing we have moderately priced poisons that will act with
the precision and speed of a guillotine.
Our competitors say in their scurvy ads on television that
we aren’t a Dating Service at all; we are in the business of
isolating people. Call it what you want, we have more customers
that all other Dating Systems combined. In a world hungry for
love, could that be an accident?

The Nopal War Prize

The prestigious Nopal War Prize has been awarded to Genghis
Kahn, Hitler, Stalin, Mao, and Idi Amin. This year we are
concentrating on chamber wars that escape the more grandiose
historians. We are not even interested in tiffs, divorces, minor
piques with storekeepers and some disagreeable rabid neighborhood
dogs. We are concentrating our focus on bacilli. We are giving
our current prize to a single nameless bit of protoplasm who
sorrily never lived long enough to injure anybody.
We call him Keats. As John Keats said, his name is writ in
water.

Nut City

Nut City, brought to you by the off shore makers of Knee to
Knee City and Back to Back City, is the complete online package
for getting on the government dole as a mental invalid.
It contains copious letters of examination by our Tasmanian
staff psychiatrists, Arizona hospital certitudes from Indian
desert rehabs, damningly lewd confessional journals all
ghostwritten by Pulitzer Prize winners, anguished epistles about
one’s insufferable daftness from friends and relatives, Alabama
police reports are tailored to fit your personal needs.
We include Hawaiian records going back to near infancy or
even before birth, medical treatments and documents attesting to
countless lockups in Hawaii’s legendary and wide open Pineapple
Boulevard institutions.
With our computerized randomization of symptoms taken
directly from world famous and justly prestigious manuals of
common insanity no two packages are ever the same. Your
particular run of venomous cognitive diseases will be not only
publicly define you; they will like a social security number or
DNA be utterly singular to you.
A branch of Gut City, Butt City, Smut City, Slut City, Glut
City and What City, you sure as hell all know what our products
are. We will give the first eight hundred instantly certified
nuts a year’s supply (unless you get addicted to them) of
slightly moldy Georgia roasted pecans.
Crunch, baby, crunch!
Even the nuts are really nuts and loving it!

Joe Oblivion

Joe Oblivion is not giving a concert anywhere, anytime,
anyhow. Of course if Joe Oblivion did he wouldn’t show up. In his
last year of giving concerts Joe never performed at any of them.
Of course his audience didn’t show up either.
Before that Joe was there like a vegetable at his shows but
didn’t seem other than the furniture much less sing or play any
instrument. His public didn’t sit in their seat and listen to him
either. They mostly had fist fights or went to sleep.
Joe is only happy if nobody, even gnats, rats and pigeons,
attends his spectacles, ghosts hears his old hits, historians
even think of him momentarily. He is certainly not available for
signing autographs. He is hoping to settle the last cases against
him of pesky litigation.
He occupies an ebon fortress embedded in the furthest
frontiers of Creation. not only unreachable but unimaginable. Not
only does Joe manifest as it were the night-borne spirit of chaos
itself; he also mirrors the cosmic lightless inelectablity of
both the known and unknown universe. He is while not quite being
beyond existence itself totally unavailable, invisible, seemingly
silent. Joe has gathered into his nocturnal hermetic maw all the
mute resonance of anti-matter, the rich, densely opaque umbra of
dark energy.
However, for the cognoscenti and a few select aristoi who
can afford his very patrician prices, Joe does occasionally do
divorces, wars and memorial services. Joe is still not available
for barbecues, weddings and bar mitzvahs. For the moment Joe
swears he never will be. Joe certainly doesn’t need the money.
His next gig is being absent at his funeral.

Obsidian Towers: The Retreat Of the Church of the Noble Surface

The reverend Sri Chandraputra, mystic, architect and Bengal
escargot gourmet pas excellence, has erected in the swamps of
South Bronx a citadel in which the faithful can contemplate the
sacred epidermis of reality in a way unthinkable outside its most
doorless and windowless walls.
The inner monks, cyborgs, and androids, are ultimately
shallow acolytes of a world even ideally superficial than they
are. They are beautiful, empty, sheathed with predictability,
mindlessly noble, always earnestly dropping banalities, very
fashionable, talking like souls trapped in an endless television
commercials, shod with a clever mix of subtle cosmetics, misty
with deodorants, always erotically available, offering no more in
their elegant chambers but an impeccable but meaningless amorous
performance even if they are dying.
The severe arthropod diet, lobsters garnished with Sri
Chandraputras’ famous recipe for snails served in a cunning
marshmallow sauce, the giant astral crabs, even selected ciliated
covered insects and endangered Tasmanian spiders, all dressed
expertly with lacquered hollow shells of walnuts, reflects the
pellucidly metallic exoskeletal decor of the oddly titled
cafeteria.
In the garden, discreetly pocked with horse chestnuts fallen
from nowhere and a diverse nosegay of elephantine cacti, the
matadors talk with spiritual zeal about the holy surface. They
anointer about the next meal, movie, spasm, micturition, cruel
television program and tinselled gaudy chances to go into
terminal debt with an unctuous music in their reedy voices that
may make one think one is listening to aboriginal metaphysics.
At night one hears Sir Chandraputra speak, usually about the
redeeming value of doing somersaults, and conching like a snail
in a shiny vessel of truly impermeable Teflon.

The Eight Mancinis Moving Company

The Eight Mancini Brothers Moving Company specializes in
moving interlopers from occupied territories out of their
current habitats. We have moved out thousands of aging
Progressives from California, Arizona, New Mexico, Nevada, Utah
and Texas in occupied Mexico giving back those states to terr
rightful Olmec and Aztec empires. We have cleansed the whole New
World to be Indio Puro.
Last September 23rd on Liechtenstein Thanksgiving Joey
Mancini released millions of buffalo calves over the so-called
Prairie States. We have helped to move scurvy White Europeans
into the sea. Tony Mancini has have moved most Black people back
to Africa where they can reclaim capacious ancestral lands in
Nigeria. Tony is sending White people back to Africa. Our
scientists tell us we are all descended from one mutation of long
dead Ethiopian perverts we are sending not only White people but
all people living in occupied West Africa back to East Africa.
Innocente Mancini has cleansed the Muslims and East
Europeans from Eastern Europe. He not only divided Germany into
East and West Germany but North and South Germany; feisty Mama
Dolorosa has added to North and South Korea the bellicose fascist
regimes of East and West Korea.
Angelo has moved the White population of Australia back to
England, the aborigines aback to South India; obviously none are
certified or even uncertified marsupials. Nino is transporting
Indian tribes including the Apaches and Navahos back to Siberia.
Julio has sent the entire Palestinian population occupying
America back to Palestine, settling them again in ancestral
palatial estates in Gaza. Luigi sent the pope back to Rome
steerage class, the Dahlia Lama in a dirigible back to Tibet.
Thanks to our third cousin Zephyro Mancini to Turks are back
in the Gobi desert where all too often dissolute nomads belong.
Uncle Carlo Mancini has sent the entire population of Iceland
back to Denmark. Baby Paolo has put the Irish have been forcibly
back to Brittany or India, the land given back to the
leprechauns. Grandpas Pio and Pietro have told the Welsh to give
up their criminal settlements to the elves.
Ralphie and Frankie Mancini isolated enough Neanderthal DNA
to produce via surrogate mothers our cousins’ rightful place on
Earth, they now live in caves in France once feloniously occupied
by casks of alien champagne.
Dante Mancini preaches the trek on land from water of
tadpoles was a terrible mistake; he’s equipped the faithful with
No Child Left Behind snorkels, giving them a life back in the
ocean. Ralphie and Frankie’s Victimology Laboratories have
produced DNA of animals, mostly insects, bought back to their
rightful place on Earth. Among the returning legends are the
giant snowy pterodactyl, indigo dire wolf, Tasmanian headless
sabre toothed tiger and of course the mini-dodo.
Ralphie, not Frankie, has resurrected selected victimized
bacteria to reclaim their rights to bring back whooping cough.
Where are The Eight Mancini Brothers going? To Mars! The
Eight Mancini Brothers are on our way to occupy a planet.

The Festival of Opacity

We are selling blank unlabeled DVDs as a signature
remembrance of this bash.
The big winners this year were The Veneers, The Shallows,
The Masquers and the Bukkas. The hit singles were Superficial
Mama, Stuffed Shells, Holy Ravioli, and Season of the Worm.
There was of course no audience for the event; sadly,
perhaps luckily, nobody could find any of the doors to Yankee
Stadium.
The School for Opacity is setting up a rock conservatory in a
Patchogue landfill, hard to find, not on the map, to train young
people in the subtle arts of musical circumspection. Among the
invisible teachers will be Akbar ibn Dross and Muktabandi
Sagaristyata; if you have never heard of them you may augur they
are quintessentially apt didacts for taking up an impeccable
celestial anonymity.
The first hundred certified enrolled students will be given
nothing.

Kangaroo Track

The prestigious Tasmanian Symphony Orchestra and its
Slurping Marsupial Evangelical Chorus brings you Kangaroo-Track,
the internal music of the soul broadcast from a miniature implant
on your brain enriching your life with all the music our
criminals and bonkers fiends in America need to live a modern
orchestrated mortality.
We have been selling Kangaroo Track to prisons and nut
houses all over the world; there is of course a vastly bigger
market for us of many good Americans who haven’t been locked up
who need Tasmanian Marsupial Music as much as the incarcerated
spirits on our planet in a cage do.
We assume you are injurious and crazy; we have sonics for
every big and tiny felony and heist, every gory and ghastly spasm
of slaughterhouse raving lunacy you fiendish maniacs can take up
in your daily life.
No criminal, no lunatic can be without these snazzy little
Kangaroo Track implants and still be fashionable in whatever ward
or walls you’re chained to, inside the slammer, outside it with a
gun, poison, a bomb, howling, drooling, shrieking or laughing
crazily as you dizzily walk the streets.
Our latest hits include:

The Paranoid Symphony You are one of a crew of swinish,
melancholy, choleric, overweight spirits living on a rank planet
of poor, desperate bomb throwing gnostic. Your job: drop your
hamburger, easy on the pickles. Kill them all.

The Catatonic Symphony: You are living inside a sealed ten
dimensional envelope, unaware in your fashionable stupor of any
other life. Your job: please don’t break out. Who knows who or
what’s our there? Maybe nothing.

The Hebephrenic Symphony: You’re locked in with zillions of laugh
track ghosts who will not stop guffawing at a deafening pitch no
matter what you do. Your job? Strangle them all. Stop the damned
laughter.

The Serial Killer Symphony: You are living in a world of prey. Y
are a monstrous seven foot tall slavering Colonel Sanders. They
are turkeys. This Thanksgiving they must all die. Your job; deep
fry the fluffy bastards forever.

Being Black and Male Symphony: You are arrested for nothing. The
cops say apologetically they have to make ten arrests a day. You
are told to plea bargain, do a few months of easy time in a
free government hotel. Your job: walk.

The Fabulous Ordinaires

The Fabulous Ordinaires are offering their latest hit CD:
Shopping Mall Blah with the hit single: Milkshake, along with a
soporific remix of their legendary novelty number: Double
Cheeseburger Limbo. Their salsa hit Nacho Piccu is very blandly
spiced with a few surprise guest stars from Bolivia. You can
maybe find the release at your record stores- or can you?
The Fabulous Ordinaires are silent humanists; they make
Music to Live By. They never distract you from your banal
existence and insufferably puerile hungers with their exotic
warbling, never stand between you and embracing some cause or
lover or whatever. They accompany your slumbers with music whose
plastic lack of design reflects the lack of anything even trivial
happening while you take a quiet snooze.
The Fabulous Ordinaires have been known to do Las Vegas and
Yankee Stadium; yet nobody can remember them even though they
were cheering the band at their concerts. Their fans sometimes
are not aware they are listening to the Fabulous Ordinaires while
present at such very forgettable fetes. When asked why they are
present at all their groupies usually say in a haze drawl they
showed up to take in the opening act.
The Fabulous Ordinaires have been known for their
invisibility even as pure packaged merchandise by everyone in the
music business. They are the serenaders you where in clearance
sales in furniture stores, the pallid siren-like music in
anonymous fast food delis, the nearly unnoticeable traces of
bland sonic at the margins of your ears as you shop for a package
of nails at a hardware store, they are vaporous clouds of pure
sounds between station as you fumble with the slippery dials one
your car radio.
The publicists of the Ordinaires, accustomed to attributing
all sort of kinky tastes, marriages with statesmen and poodles,
divorces from the dead, Gorgonzola orgies and gorging on whipped
cream in porcine feasts as the saintly lives of their clientele
since the public likes to hear such things about those provincial
divinities they like and admire, have been totally at a Laos at
how to represent the Fabulous Ordinaires.
They can’t find their lead singer, Joe Shallot; they don’t
know what to say about drummer Ghip Surface, one who seems to
have the effect on all of one who can generate a terrible case of
sleeping sickness on even passing rats.
What can they make of Vinny de Veneer, the bassist and
occasional kazoo player, so he says, whose past is only, he
grunts, being a stalwart since birth and even before birth in the
audience at daytime television game shows?
Yet the profits roll in because the Fabulous Ordinaires are
nearly silent defenders of life itself. They never interfere with
the most boring passing of time including multi-maximal prison
sentence and immortal death row vigils by offering anyone
anything like coarse continuous amusement; they in fact produce
no entertainment at all. They have anything about them worth
talking about; they don’t even embrace a scant and vagrant
memory.
They are somewhere deep in the background of reality itself
like a faint scent of rotten eggs coming out of the kitchen of a
shabby diner set off a shadowy federal highway.
Shopping Mall Blah can be found or not found at any
shopping mall record store. The Fabulous Ordinaires will be
appearing in masks at one in Patchogue signing the covers of
Shopping Mall Blah with invisible ink.
Don’t miss it. But if you did, baby, would you know you did?

Saskatchewan Origins

This extraordinary and uncomfortable book by Doctor Lulu da
Silva asserts that human beings evolved from a single mutation
five million years ago in present day Saskatchewan. These hirsute
locals developed a civilization based on solar power, machines
made from dried lizard ooze and writing on broad knu-knu leaves
with powdered bat guano; they were the moral equal of any culture
we have today.
Doctor da Silva has translated much of the literature of the
Gnutchi, as they called themselves, into English. Some of it is
scientific, others elements of it religious.
The Gnutchi were seemingly fascinated by the number five; it
was the basis of their finger-laden mathematics, even the
repetitive fulcrum of their spiritual parables.
They were the unacknowledged inventors of the ancient tales
that the Grimms had collected in Europe many millions of years
later. Two of the original fables the sagacious Gnutchi had
taught to their children were about the Five Bears and the Five
Little Pigs.
Doctor da Silva believes we should ask all our grandmas to
tell the original Gnutchi stories to our kids instead of the
Grimm versions. They prepare our progeny for their quests better.

The five bears include a sort of lawyer, a sort of shadowy
hierophant psychologist.
In the Gnutchi immortal swine legend the fourth little pig
scoffs wryly at the existence of the wolf. He is of course the
first to be eaten.
In this elaborate Gnutchi parable the fifth little pig
builds an immense fortress of stone surrounded by moats with
hungry crocodiles. He craves out a deep labyrinth and doorless
castle keep within it; there he presides over a nacral
underground court, a mole-like life lived in the shadows and
misty flickers of smoky candlelight.
On one phony midnight in his adamantine artifice the fifth
little pig walks by a small obsidian mirror; he stares at his
image with horror. He sees the red eyes, the bloody large teeth,
the fierce lupine sadness of the wolf.
If we want our kids to survive, says da Silva, our children
should know from our hairy ancestors in Saskatchewan all the
bears, pigs and wolves that slink, crawl and maunder over the
Earth.

Widows and Orphans Anonymous

By Byron de Radcliffe

This futuristic thriller about an assault by team of
Neanderthal serial killers on a religious organization in Salt
Lake City cannot be put down until one savors the last page in a
rank feverish sweat. WOA, founded by former artificial widows
orphans who’ve decided they can no longer manage their lives as
survivors oft he monstrous dead or protozoa produced by mitosis
or were beyond being created altogether like God.
They have hit the bottom in Utah and cannot bear it. They
form a society living on the salt flats and garner a living
quietly digging for nameless Cambrian shellfish fossils who once
thrived in this now defunct ocean. Eventually they are funded by
several Korean and Malaysian Liberal Arts universities in their
perilous digs after they discover hundreds of new species of long
extinct water-going echinoderms.
By accident when technicians among them sink a great steel
torpedo plummeting vertically into the ivory slat flats they
learn they are sitting in an immense underground lake of crude
oil left by zillions of long dead Cambrian arthropods. They are
attacked by cadres of maniacs, mercenary solders and darned
imported felons from the mosquito-laden jungles of Panama to the
eerie bluish woodlands of Tasmania.
They are led by the one-eyed Neanderthal Colonel Jack Dee
Ripper. This fiery half-mad half-simian warrior turns out in
several astonishingly sensual and heartbreakingly revelatory
scenes to have been the lover at one time or another of all of
the wolves in WOA and the father of the whelps that live in this
peaceable commune.
The denouement in which the swaggering Colonel Ripper
confronts al his former wives and whelps is one of the most
extraordinary scene in any literature since Homer wrote tellingly
about Odysseus’ return to Ithaca. This Neanderthal prince goes
though literally thousands of confrontations of varied character
in healing family scenes that climax this ultimately sensational
novel.
For the illiterate Widows and Orphans Anonymous is available
in a Masterpiece Theater adaption made suitable by certified
media experts for British educational television.

Orthodoxy Limited

Once nefarious groups about which the government persecuted,
ran sting operations, locked up a half century ago are now
embedded in the Academic institutional system as our leaders,
professors and moral guides.
Orthodoxy Limited identifies the criminals of our time
knowing they are imminently about to be our savants and leaders.
Who are they now? Obviously Islamic terrorists and marijuana
peddlers. We are filling our colleges with both groups at all
levels, students, professors and administrators.
We fill universities, high schools, kindergartens with an
exciting and stimulating mix of these supposedly felonious
cadres, groups with whom we clearly have a amiable and lawful
rendezvous in our future.
An appreciable season in jail should be the only standard
for teachers in our schools, not an absurd college degree. We
would like to tear down prisons and put our so-called felons to
work. Unless our employees can prove they have been locked up at
least a few times we won’t hire them for anything more important
than porters or swabbing our office floors.
Each felon among us, licensed as a teacher, gives our
country the kind of fearless critiques we can’t easily come
across among our peers, nor the easy pleasure we can get the
altering of consciousness our generous marijuana salesmen offer
all.
Many slackers among our young generation looking for jobs
claim they are incipient suicide bombers to get a teaching
sinecure. We ask them to prove it.
Our critics say we are going further than merely riding
these obvious tidal movements in our long legal history. We are
indeed the first organization to legitimate murder, theft and
arson. We honor Americans whose actions have never quite been
legitimate.
Thanks to us Klu Klux Klanners, Communists, liquor salesmen,
homosexuals, Chinese herbologists, Blacks, Hispanics, Native
Americans, vegetarians, abortionists, opiate hawkers, celery
tonic addicts, whores, gamblers, glue salesmen and lottery
operators, all once bad guys, now have become stalwart members of
our society. We are patriots. We extend the American franchise to
all.

Oswald Lee

Oswald Lee is the author of Boob With a Tube, a volume of
memoirs in which the pages are totally blank.
He claims he has never done anything at all in his life,
interesting or tedious, but watch television. His parents set him
in front of one to take in endless programs of Sesame Street at
birth. He has bean staring at the babbling box ever since.
Lee has a sallow, pasty look; he has absolutely no muscle
tone. He has done nothing after arduously since making his way
out of the womb; He never looked at me once.
He has never made love, Oswald? It seems kind of sad in an
epicurean world like this one for whom amusements are central and
whose gods are always whores or clowns. Of course he’s thought of
sleeping with innumerable beautiful woman, famous ones too. Some
of them were legendary In this society one can’t avoid sex
anymore than one can stop breathing.
He doesn’t say so in my book because he has nothing to say,
he only reminisces about television shows he’s watched. That’s
the past. His present is the wonderful show he’s watching. His
hope in life is to watch more of them, even bad ones. One day if
he become famous he hopes people will watch him watch television.
His enemies say he’s been married four times, fought in
three bloody wars, observed a zillion atrocities that have
attracted the attention of the Hague World Court, smuggled
yourself into the first manned expedition of Mars, have had
metaphysical epiphanies that make the most intense moments of
Mohammed seem like forgettable stuff. He also is tight with
Donald Trump and the ghost of Abraham Lincoln.
He says if he did all these things and much more, Buck.
While I was doing them I was only thinking of watching more
sitcom marathons. He hardly noticed them.
How did you make a living while he lived as he did?
He had myself declared legally blind paying off a friendly
doctor, his therapist said he was crazy, he sold fruit in a flea
market, was by night a cat burglar, I stole, counterfeited, and I
was declared a charter alumnus by non-extent colleges.
His Curriculum Vitae describes him as a man who has no
skills, doesn’t want any either, will steal the pencils and
copper pipes in the plumbing from any place that hires him,
disappear into the latrine and flush himself into oblivion. He
has a monumental capacity to be miserable and complain about
nothing.
With that resume nobody would give him a job. He works for a
fake company. These days he doesn’t even show up; they pay him
anyway. Often they give him double wages for overtime. He doesn’t
know why.
His habits are austere. He doesn’t like tomato soup much; I
eat it if it’s served to him in a diner. To him it doesn’t make
any difference one way or another.

The Oxford Manual of Bedlam Etiquette

In the past when lunatics were chained to the walls,
sedated with saltpeter and diverse sugared opiates, one never had
to bother about the proper manners one brought in one’s
innocence to any certified and professional asylum.
Now the 32nd Edition of the Oxford Manual of Bedlam
Etiquette surveys the area of civility and manners in a posh
nuthouse with the sensitivity due a new population admittedly
gone bankers. In this age of equality the concrete value of any
person or action have become legitimized to the point of the
fashionably mad having the vote as much as a toff, owning hoary
feudal property, even having at least three members of parliament
who represent them perhaps all too well in our national politics.
Most centrally the chapters on never querying the daft about
their religion or politics has cut down much rancour among our
franchised cognitively challenged citizenry. Ashley Mungo, our
manual editor, considers anyone who engages paranoiac
schizophrenics in a discussion of metaphysical or social issues
rather quintessential wicked people.
When one is talking to a catatonic schizophrenic one should
be absolutely sure he is not a devotee of deep Asiatic
contemplation such as one finds in the Malays, Benares or Tibet
yet sorrily mistakenly incarcerated in a Bedlam dungeon.
One does not do an insufferable injustice to hebephrenic
babbling what appears to be nonsense when they may think they are
speaking in tongues or seemingly doing stand up comedy.
One should particularly avoid giggling and laughing at the
residents who are being treated for depression. There are many
things in lie which should inspire the moot sane and measured of
us to feel momentarily rather out of joint. I shall of course for
now name none of them; they would probably give even a most
philosophic reader an unwonted pang or two.
Some claim this manual might be of some common use even
outside Bedlam.
It might be true; for our clinical purposes we
can only guarantee that if one is indeed in a madhouse in any
capacity, as guard, warden, visitor, caterer or mere common
inmate, it is certanly preferable to have a copy of this guide on
hand and immediately accessible to one’s earnest perusal than to
be in an insane asylum and utterly without one.

The George Pataki Institute for Mideast Politics

We at the George Pataki Institute are asking for an
automatic tax write-off of one nickel for each and every American
to be paid to our school for political leaders. We have in George
Pataki one of the remedies for Mideast turmoil that has proven to
be infallible in New York State.
George Pataki had been our governor for eight years. nobody
knows what he has done, with he stood for, who he was, what his
erotic tastes are ore, even who his favorite baseball tea might
be. He is in fact invisible as The Shadow, the gods or various
Babylonian metaphysical demons that are not only unnameable and
beyond language but are probably inherently unknowable.
George Pataki has managed New York State with what even his
enemies call the discretion and circumspection of God himself
lately at his most silent running the Earth. He is preciously the
sort of leader one wants in despots, princes, imams and monsters
of the Mideast.
Were this part of the world or any part of the planet run by
George Pataki for a hundred years nobody would notice what he did
in his leadership in life nor even whether or not he perished and
was no longer running us. We would retire to the foci of our
private lives where we would do to our kin and neighbors what our
current leaders are doing to the entire world.
George Pataki teaches most of these courses himself- maybe.
Nobody really sees him .Even as a teacher Pataki is a
metaphysical enmity. As husband, lover, friend, ally and even
enemy h has been equally beyond the ken of all. Why should we
expect him to be any different if he runs Egypt or Syria?
We at the George Pataki Institute are teaching a new
generation of Mideast leaders from Yemen to Iran how to be
inviable, silent, perhaps not even real. We need your nickel to
promote their ability to be ultimately mute and bend light.

Pentecostal Air Systems

At Pentecostal we not only cool or heat your air at your
caprice; we enrich your every breath with strong or subtle scents
to its atmosphere at once salubrious, pleasurable.
They are all guaranteed to be completely addictive. Ranging
from authentic natural cinnamon and sea salt to a full palette of
French sugared reeks designed for us by the late, great Hypolitte
Chevre, they are for the cognoscenti deep in the recondite nooks
of ichors hardly available from our Hong Kong competitors. They
include such solid gold hits as Midnight Office, Rat Poison
Latrine, Calcutta Necropolis, Pink Cistern, and Bubbling City.
For our organic line we have essences of fish oil, olive oil,
peanut oil and the de rigueur traditional rotting lard.
We have provided a nearly weightless battery operated
epidermal inhaler you can carry with you everywhere, even
underwater. We even have a few in cemetery
mausoleums; you can be in your own environment forever.
We are Royal Parfumier for Pere La Chaise in Paris.
We at Pentecost are very aware that we are providing the
public with a product that is openly, joyously addictive. What
else does peace, affluence and order foal among the scurvy rabble
but rampant addiction? What else do most bestial people really
want but one simple source of pleasure? Where can they get it any
better or quicker than a deal with us?
It’s true that the prices do go up mercilessly after a
year. We often run out of the most popular essences; our
flimsy machines break down. We are part of a Patagonian parent
company, Apocalypse Limited, which has lamentably gone bankrupt
five times. All right. Maybe it was six times.
If our products are addictive, believe me, you, your kin and
your half mad lover want it that way. You attract the more
accommodating folk to your madness with your banal brand name
tastes; it sure as hell chases out the mulish bastards who don’t
like whatever ticket to suicide you like.
As you sleep it seeps up in a gelatinous mist from your
bed. When you are awake you are honcho with power enough to
dictate what sort of odor you and your degenerate court will be
sniffing, ambrosia or feces, for as long as they are lucky enough
to be breathing the thick and glutinously fog your delicious
Pentecostal air.
You son of a bitch, if that isn’t power, what is?

The Biennial Hangmen and Pharmaceuticals Hootenanny

This double rock concert features a duo of winterized groups
that are already legendary in the Dakotas. The Hangman are all
civil service certified South Dakotan executioners. Their songs
explore the varied or ordinary ways people die. They have been
described politely by critics as “boring”.
The Pharmaceuticals started in Hibbing, Montana, moved to
North Dakota as a quartet of clarinet playing local druggists who
discovered improbably they liked to make music together. Playing
the Autumn Solstice circuit they produced their hit single: “Sick
Transit”.
The Pharmaceuticals have not forgotten their roots; they are
legendary for throwing out snowstorms of unmarked pills into
their avidly gobbling audience.
In the grand finale the two groups will combine to do “Rehab
in Babylon”, and their signature stomper: “Drink This”.

Fiddle In the Middle

The Plantagenets and the Tudors, coming your way on a kick
ass double bill with their savage style of retro music, will
bring you right back into the 13th century. Afterwards you even
may fight on both sides or cater the fish and chips in a
virtual War of the Roses.
Lead lute player Sir Cuthbert Plantagenet complains he is
playing to audiences that don’t exist in countries that don’t
exist. “We aren’t like the Tudors who don’t even have a real
therabo player and declare that America doesn’t exist,” he
remarks. “We say England doesn’t exist either; it’s occupied
Albion,. Not Albania, not albumen; Albion, goddammit! Yeah,
Ireland is occupied Cimmeria.”
Nigel Tudor, featured minnesinger on the second half of the
bill, says the British empire still exists; he doesn’t recognize
any of Africa and Asia as existing much less in any way
legitimate and acceptable either to him or the international
community
. “We don’t think any of these bloody African hellholes
exist,” he says. “Certainly India and Pakistan don’t exist
either. Lemme ask you, if they do bloody well exist why are they
all talking English? I’m not even sure Sweden exists. Or the
United States. Or Australia. They somehow all are talking English
too.”
The dynamite closing act for both groups is the Windsors.
They are all fiddlers. They claim they do exist, sort of, and are
just the sort of people one wants to open a rose garden or a post
office.

Being Calm and Pleasure Free

We at the Pleasure Free Institute of Kentucky are a research
firm designing products that will make America happy and pleasure
free.
We have already put out into the market tasteless ice
cream, trollops and wives intimate amours that are perfectly
forgettable, vaporous virtual amusements that are addictive yet
have no interest whatsoever, friends, allies, kin, even enemies
whose very existence or lack of it often totally escapes one’s
memory. We offer flavorless lozenges that inspire one for a half
hour to forget one’s past, country, local landscape, even one’s
favorite lounges or sumptuous places to go shopping.
We think of ourselves as selfless physicians ready to cure
people of pleasure much as most doctors are eager to remedy pain.
Many of us are licensed European specialists with advanced
medical degrees.
Some call us Buddhists; actually we despise religion. We are
flesh and spirit architects. Our Temple of Tranquility in sunny
Arizona had been originally designed as a hospice for a
terminally ill clientele; we took months to realize that our
mildly soporific sacred valley was for everybody.
We are beyond such provincial life now. We now occupy most
of Arizona and the more stable and posh parts of Iowa. We can
guarantee a life in which you will have no enjoyment of anybody
or anything. You will be mute as a stone. You will bask in the
sublimity of the immortal and eternal cosmos.
Being pleasure free is cheap. We import servants from Mexico
and Peru to keep you in a lightfilled world beyond mere
happiness.

This Month at PAPA: The Museum of Popular American Music

This month at POPPA we are featuring the achievement of
Bubba La Boeuf, the so-called down home Voice of America whose
legendary songs graced our country for many decades. POPPA is the
big chocolate building on the back lots of Dixieland Paradise on
Route 66. You tourist highway huggers can’t miss it.
We have Bubba Le Boeof look-alikes and holograms singing
your favorite ditties from the glittering self-styled Red, Wet
and Blue Boy including Behind the Barn, Keep em Barefoot, Lying
in the Sawdust, Alien Union, Basta la Pasta, Comatose, Meine
Yiddische Dentist, Punchboard Mama, You’re Incontinent, They
Swallow It All, Retarded Blonde Baby, Cornfed Grandma, Born In
Folsom Prison, Grits, Chitterlings and You, That’s Why Darkies
Were Born, Piggy Pop Pillpopper, Hey, I’ve Done It All, and Funky
Honky Tonking.
Drying this month we have six Bubba Look-Alikes, winners of
the famous Memphis Jerky Turkey contest, singing his
unforgettable Maryjane, Benny and Sloe Gin, twenty floor hours a
day, amplified for the whole town; they also do Bubba’s classic
blues, Take it All Off, Daisy, is the Golden Globe award winning
single that put Bubba La Boeuf into the South Korean movie
business as a Cajun serial killer.
In the cafeteria where we serve our famous preserved goat
barbeque and ultra-iced mixed drinks we have the original posters
of his band, the Fabulous Phlegmatics. At the opening the only
surviving member of the Phlegmatics, Sleepy Sam Hatfieid, though
still in rehab, will repeat his famous kazoo solo by satellite
television, thanks to a special grant from The Dirty Lard
Foundation.
Sam always dedicates this catchy number to his many pop
musician friends in recovery.

Disney Porno

People say only radicals can make porno; we know better,
don’t we? Take a look at these pictures if you dare. Everybody is
fully clothed, masked, hatted, and shod with heavy pigskin
boosts. Nobody is beautiful; they certainly aren’t conspicuously
ugly either.

Thanksgiving Revel; The whole clan watches the Army-Navy Game.
Plenty of turkey with gobs of chestnut dressing and shiny canning
cylinders of dark red cranberry sauce. Grandpa is asleep on the
couch. Uncle Harry tells stories about his accounting job.
Grandma changes diapers on bawling little Freddie. Lots of
denatured non-alcoholic Arkansas wine. Plenty of ice from the
frig. Looking out the window one can see what painted suburban
houses and a blue sky for miles and miles and miles. Wowie!

New Years Day Revel; The whole clan watches the Rose Bowl Game.
Plenty of turkey with gobs of chestnut dressing and shiny canning
cylinders of dark red cranberry sauce. Grandpa is asleep on the
couch. Uncle Harry tells stories about his accounting job.
Grandma changes diapers on bawling little Freddie. Lots of
denatured non-alcoholic Arkansas wine. Plenty of ice from the
frig. Looking out the window one can see what painted suburban
houses and a blue sky for miles and miles and miles. Wowie!

Superbowl Sunday Revel; The whole clan watches the a boring
Superbowl game. Plenty of turkey with gobs of chestnut dressing
and shiny canning cylinders of dark red cranberry sauce. Grandpa
is asleep on the couch. Uncle Harry tells stories about his
accounting job.
Grandma changes diapers on bawling little Freddie. Lots of
denatured non-alcoholic Arkansas wine. Plenty of ice from the
frig. Looking out the window one can see what painted suburban
houses and a blue sky for miles and miles and miles. Wowie!

Fourth Of July Revel; The whole clan watches the All Star game.
Plenty of turkey with gobs of chestnut dressing and shiny canning
cylinders of dark red cranberry sauce. Grandpa is asleep on the
couch. Uncle Harry tells stories about his accounting job.
Grandma changes diapers on bawling little Freddie. Lots of
denatured non-alcoholic Arkansas wine. Plenty of ice from the
frig. Looking out the window one can see what painted suburban
houses and a blue sky for miles and miles and miles. Wowie!

Educational Television: Gambols of ants and white worms over the
classic store of munitions Scipio Africanus had liberated from
ancient Carthage. The suave yet grating hum of an insect
serenade. A short history of Stone Age munitions. Zowie!

Halloween Revel; The whole clan watches a complete Leave It To
Beaver Marathon. Plenty of turkey with gobs of chestnut dressing
and shiny canning cylinders of dark red cranberry sauce. Grandpa
is asleep on the couch. Uncle Harry tells stories about his
accounting job.
Grandma changes diapers on bawling little Freddie. Lots of
denatured non-alcoholic Arkansas wine. Plenty of ice from the
fig. Looking out the window one can see what painted suburban
houses and a blue sky for miles and miles and miles. Wowie!

Election Day Revel; The whole clan watches the elections.
Somebody crows. Somebody concedes. Plenty of turkey with gobs of
chestnut dressing and shiny canning cylinders of dark red
cranberry sauce. Grandpa is asleep on the couch. Uncle Harry
tells stories about his accounting job.
Grandma changes diapers on bawling little Freddie. Lots of
denatured non-alcoholic Arkansas wine. Plenty of ice from the
fig. Looking out the window one can see what painted suburban
houses and a blue sky for miles and miles and miles. Wowie!

Prandit Prandaranda

Prandit Prandaranda, the new head of the Astrology nodule of
the courts in New York. She is a comfortably dumpy middle aged
woman from a hinterland province in south Nepal.
Astrology, a high discipline since that goes back to the
Vedas, knows things normal people could not even imagine about
human begins and their inverse. Just as psychiatrists were once
regarded as quacks, astrologists were persecuted as no less
cranks Now they are fully equal to psychiatrists in the courts.
Judges follow about the effect of the stars on all
litigation They understand nowadays that some very nice people
are fire signs who battle with water till they both drop with
lovers who are covert fizzling seltzer. We separate them forever
for their own good
Take fire. Fire melts lead; that’s no good either. They
should be separated too. Water dissolves earth. That’s no good
either. Who wants or needs dissolved earth? We keep them apart,.
Air corrodes everything. They have to be kept someplace safe
or they can oxidize their own progeny. There are starry houses
and all that movement of the spheres that inspire us if the
result is always separation.
Mercury retrograde especially means people should avoid each
other. The ascendence of the house of Jupiter is a sign people
should never see each other, even private videos of each other.
The movement of the crescent moon is an infallible source of
tension and kinetic violence between anyone.
If you’re an Ares but your astrologer is a Sagittarius, an
Ares should never send any time with a Sagittarius, even one who
is an ippissimus. Out of charity astrology masters of life often
put up with a lot of Ares folk..
Psychiatrists mutter that if astrologers dominate the law
everybody will only be able to live on asteroids. It’s not their
choice. That is what the stars tell us. Do you think astrologers
created this world? If it were up to theme nature would be
completely different. When Saturn become dominant, what can we
all do?
Prandit Prandaranda was born under a fire sign. She never
tells anybody when she was born. Her books give judges a sense of
Pythagorean certainly. Of course they might consult some crankish
diagnostic manual of the stars very different from her own and
shun her forever.
She is for giving the insane the vote. Not just the insane;
the dead. Not just the dead either. I am for giving chickens,
cattle and cockroaches the vote, even viruses and scurvy and
terrifying forms of life that upthrust know nothing about. If one
did they would frighten or appall you.
Given our choices between thieves if even if fiends and
maniacs have the vote The public should have the chance to be
judged only by Masters of Astrology. Would you like to go back to
having us all judged by psychiatrists?
What is law? It is yesterday’s fashionable delusions. What
is crime? It is tomorrow’s fashion in offering others acceptable
injury. Of course this rule by the stars could turn us into a
theocracy. We are one already. We don’t know who our gods are.

A Private Language

Mycroft Systems brings you Ubetsu Platinum, a private
language, computer generated to suit your very original
personality, and Ubetsu Silver, a cunningly forgettable
unassuming tongue conspicuously having no character at all. The
random words and opaque banalities of Ubetsu Silver guarantee you
will be virtually invisible if you speak it anywhere, even think
it while affecting a discreet silence.
Nobody talks or can even knows one word in either of these
languages but yourself. Nobody can understand you: a transparent
boon if there is nothing really with in you to comprehend. Ubetsu
in all varieties isn’t gobbledygook. Each word means something if
only to you.
The learning curves of Ubetsu Platinum and Silver are
necessarily steep; a whole language after all cannot be mastered
in a day or a week. Once you are fluent in either Ubetsu or both
Ubetsus you will seem at a party either very intriguing to
strangers, armed with a strange musical tongue who very
mysterious music speaks for your rich and fecund inner life, or
one who blends like a slender ectoplasmic wraith into a crowd,
unremarkable as an impalpable mote of air.
Our initial offering, Ubetsu Gold is no longer for sale of
course. Ubetsu Gold was a vast subterranean repository of almost
infinite varieties of languages, all of them spoken by nobody at
all, not even their inventors. Ubetsu Gold can now only be
experienced by breaking into our underground Taiwanese factory at
midnight, making scurvy pirated copies of the dense and glottal
Ubetsu Gold programs.
To whom could you speak any Ubetsu, you say? To a fake
plastic cell phone we include in our package. Spiel away into the
emptiness.
As you mutter, lisp, drawl or even bellow remarks,
imprecations, love-calls and complaints that have nothing at all
to distinguish them in sonics or strangeness of inflection at all
you can seem like a divine protagonist in an unseen cosmic drama
or the ultimate stranger.

Proteum: Your Perfect Companion

Proteum is the intelligent android helper, lover,
communicator, leader, pet and serial killer assassin that
replaces a mate, children, a dog, a cat, friends, a telephone, an
enemy and any conduit to the Internet.
It accompanies you on your picaresque haunts with music that
mirrors your every clumsy and graceless step, artificial laughter
that punctuates your wit, static choral praise for your very
being, a teflon demon whispering flattery at the margins of your
hearing that sustains your rather inexplicable self esteem.
Created from protoplasmic phlogiston mined from the
quasi-lunar subterranean ice caves of Inner Mongolia, Proteum
invades
you like an ordinary mineral parasite. It lodges weightlessly in
your duodenum, invisible in a lightless node.
As you age and sustain your elephantine losses, scorned,
shunned and deemed by all as monstrous, uncivil and otherwise
insufferable, Proteum tells you that you are loved, cherished,
admired and sometimes adored.
It leads you in politics into embraces of banal fashionable
causes. It gives you educational information about dinosaurs. It
utterly satisfies you erotically as no stranger ever can or even
wants to. It dictates your dreams like a despot. It cures most
bacterial infections and even performs minor micro-surgery on
your faltering internal organs.
Is Proteum at all addictive? Of course it is.
Some of you have been waiting for the right chemical master.
You’ve found it in Proteum.

The Ptolemy League

The Ptolemy League is an aggressive consortium of
prestigious multi-certified Ivy League psychologists from the
cream of the helping professions who are active in updating the
school curriculum to be resonant with the deep and ubiquitous
need of our students in America for self esteem.
Accordingly we are reviewing every aspect of what is being
taught in school for this value in making people feel good about
themselves. Obviously Creationism has always been preferable to
Darwinism; zooks, it’s amazing we ever gave it up. An astronomy
that makes our planet the center of the universe is clearly
superior as a tool for giving our dear children a sense of their
value and importance. So is television.
We are promoting a much more sympathetic view of
pre-literate cultures instead of the scurvy Voltarian and
Freudian
notion that our ancestors were hirsute calve dwellers who were
louts, savages, clods and bums, a drooling unkempt species who
from birth to old age were general slavering monsters. Since
reading is obviously too difficult for American children and
anyway what one reads is lies farad by fools or Machiavellians,
who the among our dear and valuable kids needs such folderol?
Let’s leave reading, work or life itself to the Chinese and
the Mexicans. Life is worthy of them. We all know the truth if
there is any is complex, daunting when it isn’t ineluctable
altogether; isn’t it preferable to give up a skill that doesn’t
do anyone any good and merely makes our kids feel psychotic,
violent, inadequate and depressed?
We are also promoting among he studies of our new
generations of our types the classical Flat Earth Theory; our
progeny will under careful professional supervision also take up
the old comforting and consoling nationalistic notions that one’s
locale and clan has a peculiar divinity called for personally by
God to disdain, scorn, dismiss, enslave, massacre, kick,
systematically execute or make any other kind of war on all their
contemptible neighbors in the vicinity even if one and one’s
clans are a crew of eyeless craven South Pole Eskimos. It may not
be true; it sure as hell feels good.
Feeling good is what humanity and we psychologists are all
about. Folks, we can all feel good if we really are somebody.
Nobody needs a language, a priest, a guru or a bread pill for
that. Who the hell is somebody? Five people. Two people. Maybe
nobody.
Maybe not even me.
Certainly not you, you son of a bitch.
Luckily we are organized. God knows it takes a certified
priesthood like the Ptolemy League psychology job line in all our
schools to give the necessary means to feel good to tots who are
artificial clods and little incontinent expensive imbeciles who
are unquestionably and irrefutably nobody.

The Puffaroo

From the vast sheets of thick fur left by innumerable
Devonian Antarctic worms in clefts in the Patagonian tundra and
veldt comes the ivory-colored pellucid costume that sheathes you
from foes, disease and any cloying intimacy.
Gloves, shoes, belts, hats, necklaces, bracelets, anklets,
spoons, knives and forks along with full dress robes like
fashionable desert garb the Puffaroo shields one from any
closeness with anyone or anything with its thickly noisome
uncanny odor of horrible illness, decay and death.
Of course one can achieve the same result by confinement in
a maximum security lock up. Malheureusement, it takes time to get
there. Even if you plead guilty to rascally crimes you have to
make a few court appearances. When you wear a Puffaroo you are
instantly rid of the rabble, one set apart from the crowd. The
entire Earth is your paradise. You are finally and blessedly you.
Merging with a Qan Koof hair coloring firm we cannot dare
name, we now offer the Puffaroo in the same imaginary rainbow
tints one can savor in the tops of the heads of the vainglorious
hirsute still rife among us. Puffaroos can now be purchased in
shades from midnight licorice to aquamarine sky-blue.
You, blessed one, will be secure as any mortal can be when
you don a Puffaroo.
Holy one, trust us when you can no longer trust yourself.
Be somewhere that is nowhere, a happy wight deeply conched
and hidden from the sun and the moon within the fragrant
blanche-white bowels of a Puffaroo.

The Endicott Pendleton Economic Stimulus Plan

Legendary Harvard-educated sociologist Endicott Pendleton,
author of Hang Em High, No More Mister Nice Guy, The New Death
Penalty for the Innocent, Violence Simplifies Your Life, Enough
Is
Too Much, Hey, Get Decisive, A Whooop Upside Your Head, God Hates
You, and (of course) the best selling Drop Dead, has recently
incorporated in Delaware. He is selling in volume the Zagat-rated
Pulitzer Prize winning, Good Housekeeping approved Tasmanian
Quoong.
What is a Quoong? It is the ultimate multi-task executioner
meta-machine that combines every instrument of injury, pain,
torture and death known to man. It is at once a club, a noose, a
gun, a knife, a bomb, an insidious exotic venom, a scurrilous
bacterial plague and a Samurai sword. It vomits out as well
kaleidoscopic hallucinatory images of immolation, great panicky
falls into abysses, static and dismal frozen death in Arctic
wastes.
Endicott Pendleton, giving thousands of lucrative jobs to
indigenes all over Northwestern Tasmania, is selling the Quoong
at a very affordable price to all families, communities, to our
institutions from penitentiaries and schools to insane asylums
and assisted living complexes all over Tasmania and America. To
the shallow and cozened Endicott Pendleton seems to be wanting to
electrify our economy in dementia with millions of jobs to the
landless, unskilled and unemployed poor over the world as to be
trained as certified legal killers.
Of course mischievous and canny Endicott Pendleton doesn’t
expect rabid millions of Tasmanian or Americans to start killing
each other for no reason. He leaves that to Europe.
He simply has made the Quoong utterly, infinitely flammable.
You can happily burn your Quoong. Then with a smile you can buy
another Quoong. You too can have a cushy job making, selling,
distributing and burning innumerable Quoongs.
Pendleton, recipient of the 1989 Genius Award from the
Douglas D. Eisenhower Foundation, chummily confided to Charley
Rose yesterday on television that he got the deep inner geography
if not quite the idea for the Quoong when he was arrested for
smoking Turkish aromatic tobacco laced with curried goat dung in
a park. The police thought it was marijuana.
The ashes of a Quoong are edible. Cutting galloping
dyspepsia, dissolving all red meat cholesterol, at once a very
mild aphrodisiac, stimulant and laxative, the faintly sweet and
cleverly spiced incinerated powders of a perfectly and impeccably
burnt Quoong tastes rather like chicken.

Quantitative Justice Now!
by Achille Lavash

This Pulitzer-Prize winning best selling controversial book,
the bible of progressive justice for the past five years, was
penned by the late Achille Lavash, celebrated Family Court
defense attorney, Bronx prosecutor for the stars and expert
contributor to the Encyclopedia Britannica.
Lavash tells of his improbable start as an intellectual
savant in a divorce case involving bibulous beefcake hunk Brett
Pith and sometimes blonde silicon-bosomed Dolores Misere. Faced
with irrefutable evidence, Lavash pointed out that nearly all the
time Pith and Misere did not murder or rape most of their
servants, have affairs with poodles, and gobble down green human
feces in a curry sauce. Both were being tried for what he did for
a few ordinary bad days of their lives; they need to be assessed
by the judicial hack brokering the settlement only how they acted
during their mortality as a whole.
Nobody should be caned for a few peccadillos while leading
very quiet if not quite decent lives. Certainly nobody should be
punished for what they do only once. Lavash says we are punishing
people for their felonies, never honoring them for their virtues.
Such a standard, merely a Lavash improvisation done for
amusement, released nearly all prisoners from jail, lowered our
taxes for our current occupation of Sing Sing, put all American
executions out of business. They are now working as hitmen for
the U.N. as well as both organized and unorganized crime.
Quantitative Justice has been recently applied by
progressives to love affairs, politics and religious matters. All
those monumental granite heads have been justly effaced from
Mount Rushmore. Most of the time even George Washington and those
other crones weren’t presidents. Cuban Communist historians have
lately noted that Lenin spent most of his mortality drinking
coffee and thinking of nothing but putting cow dung on his head
to slow encroaching male pattern baldness. The pope has
desanctified his entire once rush hour retinue of saints, even
demoted God. How many miracles did Jesus do; what was he doing
most of the time? Probably taking a snooze in the sun. What’s God
doing these days? What’s George W. Bush up to? Lavash wonders
about that and much more in this tempestuous compelling book..
Stoned by a vigilante crew of millions of residents of
Ossning, Plattsburgh, Elmira and Syracuse, all America’s
traditional prison cities, communal hearths of patriots whose
sole income came from the incarceration of vast armies of our
nation’s felons residing in other cities, Lavash, recovering at
sumptuous Club Med Hospital, penned this book. Quantitative
Justice Now! about rewarding people for their virtues by sending
them to these same prisons, now posh five-star hotels. Thank God,
our old traditional prisons cities are back in business;
everybody is a winner.
Lavash is working on a new book: Welfare For the Dead. He
believes the innumerable perished no longer among us should be
rewarded for doing nothing. It has a one word forward by the late
Gerald Ford.

The Judith Reagan Memorial Imprint

The prestigious Judith Reagan Memorial Imprint represents
the world of publishing. On a sorry planet of slander and
ultimate sleaze we have been scurrilously profiled by that
incontinent sex fiend fossil Rudolph Murdoch as shameless
money-mad rogues. We say, “Hardly!” We Reaganites are part of an
industry in which one is either a living Judith Reagan or one
prays to one’s baleful gods to be Judith Reagan.
Our line for this month:
1. If I Hadn’t Been Crucified by Rabbi Joshua ben Joseph.
The famed charismatic miracle worker meditates on his career had
he not ridden the wrong donkey been publicly executed. With an
annotated Forward by Robin Woodnik Krutch.
2. God Knows I Ain’t No Rebel by Shotan ben Shaddai. The
legendary dark angel speculates on why he never had a quarrel
with anyone; he had merely wanted to set up an underground real
estate scheme. With an Afterward by Jonathan Milton
3. If I Would Have Been Crazy About Jews by Adolph
Schickelgrubber. The famed late German statesman says he would
have done it all differently were he made Chancellor of
Deutschland again. A heartfelt Forward by Martin Heidegger.
4. Selling Short in the Frozen Porkbelly Market by Karl
Mark. The fabled bear of Wall Street’s poker playing secrets
while bilking the rubes in the biggest casino on the planet.
Appreciations by Tony, Ralph, Frankie and Joey Mangiamarrone.
5. I, Slavemaster by Calvin Luther King. The heavy hitting
brother of the social activist reveals his erotic antis with his
rebellious and mischievous Peruvian intrigue of house servants.
Copiously illustrated by oldtime pop artist Harry Kishmir.
6. Io Sono Otto. The bizarrely monstrous Eighth Santini
Brother reveals why he was never allowed to work in the legendary
moving business. With a forward by Doctor Alfred Ellis.
7. Pimping The Big Pink Peace by Sri Jamal Migoogoo. The
famed United Nations official pander talks about supplying erotic
fare for the United Nations peacekeepers in Swakiki.
8. Flush Away God’s Tsouris by Deacon Billy Bob Burdick. The
prestigious Appalachian-based Israeli toilet maker has a mission
to launch a new way of making modern plumbing a purge of the soul
With a CD playing the stomping Eskimo dance: The Flushaway.
9. The Sudanese Crow Recipes by Idi Bamaraka. The great cook
on legendary desert Sandista culinary feasts eating tepid boiled
crow in the middle of a famine. Footnotes by famed pupick expert
Doctor Juju Kevarkian Korkenyada.
10. The Texas Fatboy Killers by Shaari de Brune. The heart
and kidney stopping page turning thriller about obese wildly
sweating heavy breathing serial killers who are clandestine
bishops of Apache Consumer cults in North Dakota.
11. Fuck Me? Fuck You by Doctor Alfred Ellis. The author of
Piss in the Wind, Led er Rip and Dying for Dollars explores the
self-help field.
12. Tofu Mama by Sri Krishna Kamamuruta. Photons of Erotic
Sculptures on Easter island fashioned from spiced bean curd.
We Reaganites are never ashamed of making money. Are you?

GENERIC REJECTION NOTICE

We received your intractably foul miasmic gutter gleaning
today; a reek of swampy bogs and half-forgotten robot ordure
still taints our posh glass and steel main offices. We perused
your pages with mingled horror and rue, astonished at your ragout
of delight in wickedness and technical ineptitude.
You will probably be content if repose might ever rest in
your emotional palette to hear from us merely that we found your
manuscript odious, incoherent, inadmissible, whatever it was:
novel, verse, manual to build fictional outhouses, we cannot
guess.
Its stamp armature was as well amply larded with pieces of
stale food, manure of extinct animals, some rank Confederate
cola, several deposits of what we suspect might be drugs often
declared criminally illegal by our Attorney General. We stomped
on your treacly-shilling little tads of dried Little Lulu bubble
gum.
This ultimate cloaca of corruption, technical inaptitude and
a taste for whatever in Creation is nacral, odious, reeking of
evil and fearsome is luckily for you an egregious crime that can
never be punished; the intent, your offense and its malefic
resonances are much too terrible.
We consign such effluvia to celestial oblivion; you need,
eftsoones to be caned and strappadoed by a magistrate for lewd
prose, doggerel poetry, easy slander, many disturbance of the
peace; you deserve a noisy public execution presided over by God.
Of course we tried to use your dull sheath, some sort of
epic, upside down limericks, dense hieroglyphic stanzas, God only
knows what, as our toilet paper; your acid ink ran over our
plumbing destroying newly installed Japanese flushing machines,
the shiny Calcutta pipes of most of the underwater real estate
offices in the elegant Bauhaus-designed portico below us. Shame
on you, sir!
Some insouciant mephitic ichor in the rancid fibre of that
orchid-scented manila envelope gutted the clogged ablutive
facilities for miles in all directions. The president has
subsequently sensibly declared our firm a national emergency.
Since he is a Republican we had to dissuade him from
declaring you a threat, a prime satanic cog in the demonic armies
external to his manse who are out to turn our nation into a
Belial-worshiping theocracy.
You probably have that intent. Bonne chance!
We have checked your other applications, the literary
submissions you have filed this year with a simple computer
search. You are herewith also rejected for a passport, credit
card, disability, Welfare, peanut selling license, ATM card, dog
adoption certificate. We are putting that purblind beast you cal
“Che” to sleep. Forget about your laughable supposed proofs that
you are legally blind.
We are taking away your junior high school diploma, PhD,
baseball cards, American citizenship and chauffeur’s credentials.
Your rental lease is revoked; you have five days to pack. Begone,
sir, you are effectively out on the street!
Consider yourself worse than dead. Poet, eh? Bard? Prophet?
Truthteller? You would be better off after we finish with you,
mon vieux, if you had never been born.
THE REJECTORS

Reptile Therapy
By Melville Thorne PhD

This compelling, riveting book, winner of the prestigious
Jay Jung Memorial Prize for his bestselling Insect Therapy,
acclaimed by experts in developing countries where insects and
lizards are a ubiquity, is the sequel to a classic tome
counseling therapists on how to cure mosquitos of giving humans
malaria.
The estimable Doctor Thorne, slandered by many critics
because his degrees are in Home Economics from a mail order
Cayman Islands college, expands his breakthrough therapy with
arthropods with an addenda dealing with the rife and rampant
mental disorders among bacteria.
The mechanics of how to give therapy to species that
piteously lack language, intelligence, are certainly palpably
ignorant of their neurosis, is one of the revolutionary tools
developed by the psychology world.
Doctor Thorne reaches out to these creatures with electronic
devices he calls whimsically the Bloom Tube and The Xorgone Box,
little plastic machines manufactured in Taiwan that zap or caress
the brain tissues or lack of them of his patients when these
critters do things not to their interest, disagreeable or
otherwise insufferable.
How, asks the august Canadian Psychology Institute in
Calgary, does Thorne make a living in his bosky and posh retreat
on the Amazon River doing such damage to salamanders, crocodiles
and iguanas? In his Afterward Thorne discuses aggressive funding
campaigns he has set up from a Lebanese-affiliated Panamanian
Corporate base to put an entire staff on salary, all politically
correct because only ten percent of them are human.
Doctor Thorne is involved in the Harry Stack Sullivan Mars
Project: the prospects of giving therapy to aliens, curing
species chemically unimaginable to us, even themselves.
He is of course the author of Dirty Rat, offering therapy
for our cuddly city rodents, Ex-Wife of Frankenstein, an upper
middle class New Yorker divorce polemic, and Gosh Darn It, a
pithy and cunning little monograph study of the relation between
psychology and religion.
Thorne does book signing Tuesdays at the Central Park Zoo.

Annals Of Retrograde Evolution by Doctor Hyacinth Robinson.

The impetus for Doctor Robinson’s book, possibly the most
stunning scientific work in biology since Darwin’s The Origin Of
Species. Robinson, began when he accidentally spotted and
analyzed microscopic silicon nuggets in eerie and tiny machines
he found in ancient insect amber in Babylonia.
In these tiny kernels cached in buried Devonian rain forests
while looking for oil, he discovered to his astonishment he had
serendipitously garnered language devices recounting the clicking
reminisces of armies of the long extinct Mollusca Devonia.
Spiders have liked since the late Devonian era sleeping at
the core of webbed nets; worms have felt cozy in the warm
clothing of the soil. Moles have liked the solarity of a chilly
life in darkness. Turtles and plants were galvanized with a
transparent ecstasy sitting in the sun. Most of the pebbles and
bright crystals of sand on Earth, once an animate species of
motile mineral integrity, were feral, alive and conscious.
In this unknown past all life including grass and trees were
not only intelligent; they were mostly two legged upright
articulate creatures, some armed with brains at more than genius
level. Plainly by degrees they gave up any intelligence
whatsoever once they became comatose, adipose and comfortable.
Many Jurassic species of course like thee now famous
Mollusca Devonia have left us similar recordings on machines.
Doctor Robinson’s cunning computer analysis of these arcana, done
much like breaking the Mayan Codex, shows intermediary stages in
which all earthly creatures of that day embraced an unmoving and
rapt static simplicity for millions of aeons, then rather
naturally, quite sensibly disposed of their brains altogether.
Apparently the only species slothfully lagging behind this
rampant global direction has been the restless and miserable
ferret-like ancestors of the human race.
Doctor Robinson is confident that one day we shall join our
cousins in rapt and simple brainlessness.
What are we as literate formally educated Americans to make
of these rather startling and extraordinary assertions? Doctor
Robinson is hardly a Junior High School dropout; he is a
certified biologist with scientific degrees from the University
of Manitoba at Calgary to New Zealand A and M. He currently
occupies the Henri Poincare Chair at South Dakota Community
College.
He is either the most important revealer of the mysteries of
the past since Darwin or one more scurvy Academic charlatan.

Rikers Island Escort Service

Lonely and annoyed with tepid and stale lovemaking? Since
prisons have gone into the entertainment business they are
thriving while the rest of the government agencies are going into
bankruptcy. Have a night of explosive and tireless erotic hunger
of a convect, male or female or whatever who had been lucked up
in a prison cell for months or years.
Our workfare pals in the Justice System arrest people, cats
and dogs on any pretext these days; once we get you on our
infallible Greg’s List computer dating program, we will easily
find your kind of god-given lover.
You say you want ratfink lovers in deep stir for even deeper
betrayal? Sorry. You’re going to have to look outside of Rikers
for that, kiddo. We don’t care what Dante says. Betrayal is not
against the law in America.
With a Platinum card you will be flown from the airport by
helicopter to sylvan Rikers Island conched snugly like a vast
stony jewel in the legendary East River, then rushed into its
dank maw to sample our full range of felons, a set of amarants
from fetching arsonists to our famous dilettante muggers. You
want a suave European style counterfeiter with curled waxed
mustachios; we have a selection of Estonian amorous false coiners
that will make you want to never chew on an honest nickel again.
We have everybody in Rikers from professional South Carolina
pit hog wrestlers to poets who have committed treason.
One of our ranters is a crackerjack fashioner of spicy
noodle cantos. This con of cons won a Noble Pizza. He refused it;
too many anchovies, no extra cheese.
Who are our rivals? Insane asylums and cemeteries.
We’ll take them all on. If we can’t compete against
nuthouses and graveyards we ought to go out of business.

Robot Marriage

Pulitzer Prize winning author Toshiko Abe begins in his
bestselling account of the new franchises of the mineral world,
the last fronted of rights and equality. Abe recounts the
touching and heartfelt story of how the first Japanese robots
were wedded at a pious Shinto ceremony in Osaka.
Abe feels that this guerdon will extend itself one day to
designated machines with specialized labors like bombs, toasters
and vacuum cleaners. However that is hardly Abe’s point in this
uneasy volume.
Abe points out that so-called young normal heterosexual
people aren’t getting married, many more married couples are
being divorced, young people of all erotic persuasions, colors,
origins and metaphysical notions are leaving marriage to the
professionals a they formerly did with raising children.
Since professionals notably don’t marry or have children
this leaves nobody but robots, pets, and asserted domestic
animals one finds in chicken coops and cattle corrals to marry if
anyone marries at all.
Since these moronic and slavish beasts are being slaughtered
by masterly humans all the time the domestic life of fowl and
bovines such as it is tends to be pathetically shortlived.
As a result our whole institution of marriage and the jobs
it gives hack city officials, mediocre priestess, sleepy
justicies of the peace and assorted peddlers selling hot dogs
outside empty marriage parlors are becoming an extinct species
like the dodo.
They are taking other jobs as itinerant fastfood deliverers,
fast bicycle messengers, assorted food trades shopping mall
technicians and hamburger cooks, all of which endangers the
coercer on these necessary occupations by our vast Mexican
populations.
When the last marriage making holy chamber closes down in
America we shall regard marriage itself in the future as a
Jurassic institution worthy only of robots and much worse than
robots.
As it is the only robots are happy to accept what franchise
they can get, Abe says, from our institutions, The rest of
humanity is fleeing from them as if they are offering them the
flu. Abe predicts in the last chapter of his tome similar flights
of robots from any franchise whatsoever given to them by our
species, not merely marriage.
Eventually robots like humans, Abe predicts, will be on
their own with their rule of law only in their legs, their
furtiveness and their cunning.
Abe’s himself is a robot; his principal readers are other
robots. This moneymaking volume is clearly a niche market
product. Among the franchises most contemporary humans have given
up, Abe notes, is the right to literacy.

News From The Tallahassee Rodent Coliseum

We racetrack fanciers run two kinds of seasonal sweepstakes:
the white and grey rat marathon around the legendary and frankly
slightly elliptical circular animal track in fabled Tallahassee
Stadium. There are two separate marathons held at tete same
time in the same dirt arena because the white and grey rats and
mice in their sweaty and painful spirits though the overhead
intense lights rarely interfere with each other. Bettors can of
course wager on two races simultaneously.
The fans are able to tell the difference between the white
and grey athletes from their occipitally perceived here surface
appearance or lack of it. The foggy light is dim in swampy
Tallahassee to the point where the contestants among of the grey
rodentia are utterly invisible. There are of course wags who
claim the ineluctability of the dusky runners gives these often
weary and perspiring contestants in passing a privacy the
accessible ones envy.
The Tallahassee stable owners are democrats in a way one
doesn’t often find in the state of Florida. They try to make
every stray visitor to the track a player in the game. Yet the
stadium is filled with thick umbras in which the fans gather who
so not seemingly enter the sweepstakes. They include hosts of
fans whose very nature beyond their plain and irrefutable status
as specialized nocturnal beasts is unknown and probably
unknowable to us.
If these democrats are successful the white rodentia will be
retired, perhaps culled and put to sleep while only the grey
marathon will continue. If this happens the look of the
extravaganza itself will be not indistinguishable from a silent
utterly empty field. There will be nothing to watch, no celebrity
track stars to admire or slander, no prizes, no interviews with
the winners or the losers.
Whether this seemingly ultimately tedious parody of a once
de facto semi-religious ceremony run by the now dead of hope,
mystery and loss will ever hold the interest of the spectators if
there ever were any such watchers lurking in the near opaque
shadows been a hub of meditation for not merely ourselves but
deities in Olympos, anybody at all who loves a spectacle.

Salmonetta and Shopping Therapy

Finally salmonetta, a new pill, has taken all the
dilettantism out of the science of Shopping Therapy. Now when
you’re feeing lousy, can’t even mount the enthusiasm for an
ordinary shopping spree much less a massive assault on your
credit, plummet at the speed of sound into irreparable debt as a
mere salon-colored pill excites the innocent neurons in your
brain that hunger fiercely to make you spend lot of money, oodles
of money.
We are not selling shock therapy. Shopping therapy is not
shock therapy. For those of you who want shock therapy we have
another wing of our operation in which you never use salmonetta.
Salmonetta, very affordable, available in lozenge or
suppository form, will goad you and your loved ones into a feral
and manic spending frenzy that they, you and your creditors will
never forget. Formerly only not so sparingly used by heads of
Western governments, CEOs and bank presidents, salmonetta is
indeed for everyone even if you are a creep, a bum, a dunce and
an incontinent crumb. It’s for mangy dogs and cats for whenever
dogs and cats have a few shekels. It’s for sober estate managers;
now thanks to salmonetta even the dead can go bankrupt.
If salmonetta merely exciters laboratory mice to dance a
tarantella, a dancing mouse in just another form of somebody you
don’t know happily committing fashionable suicide.
If salmonetta right for you?
Don’t take it until you’re willing to chance some of its
admittedly disagreeable side effects. Salmonetta inspires one out
of twenty of its consumers to gobble done everything in sight:
grass, dandelions, mud, sand. You might devour your loved ones or
your whole lawn. You might and some do ingest both.
Is it good therapy? Do you know of a better one?
Look, you’ve tried scream therapy; you got laryngitis. You
tried steam therapy; you sweated a lot and got stupidly tired.
You tried cream therapy; you had agita from a super-sundae
cholesterol attack. You tread scheme therapy; you only got power
over cockroaches.
Hey, what the hell else are you going to do: take salmonetta
or feel lousy?

The Sardanapolus League

We run that special category of organizations who have
justly chosen to commit hari-kari rather than survive in a rank
world they find insufferable and odious.
Our seller members include most major American car
companies, the whole writing business, the CEOs of several
governments, sundry banks and brokerage firms, several Islamic
colonels, the American school system, Feminism, Therapy, the
vaunted Lindsay Lohan combine and various prestigious
international vendors selling radioactive fish.
Now the Sardanapolus League offers its customers an
affordable way to leave the planet and anywhere at all, even
Mars, without bothering to dispatch oneself or hire some
ambulance-chasing lawyer to declare formal bankruptcy. For you a
simple little pill, Fitzkreig, emulating the very one the once
unforgettable Adolph Hitler swallowed when conched more deeply
than deep in his vaunted Berlin bunkers is now available in
volume at your local pharmacy for a merely comical pittance.
Thank God we can all wallow now in means once only available
to Hitler. It is ultimate success. Be that ultimate pilgrim
today! Just gobble, swallow and say: Fitzkreig!
Let the scurvy police figure out what to do with your
remains or the spoils of the rest of our customers. God knows
there is no end to wallet stealing, fly-specked forms in
triplicate, fare for the boring survivors of your once less than
amusing though bloody stay on Earth. Let the whole world of worms
hunker for low pleasure, the soft armies of complaisant whores
around them do what they don’t want to do on salary. You,
trekker, are beyond their nets, elsewhere- perhaps even better
for you, nowhere.
With the power given to your meaningful and comely,
beautifully sculpted life, merely a color-coded pink lozenge from
the Sardanapolus League, we mandarins will be your guides,
messiahs and prophets. Zooks, you may be lucky enough never even
to make it out of that sourly odorous provincial pharmacy!
Hey, hey! Gloop, down the hatch; kerplunk, then whooosh,
you’re gone.

Schvitz

Schvitz is the ultimate diet discipline, a product brought
to you by laboratories in Munich that bring the vaunted German
focus and industry to a national American dilemma.
Schvitz metabolizes all your fat into liquid sweat and turns
you into a sweat-sponges pouring out unwanted fat globules
transmuted into perspiration by the gallon while you wake and
while you sleep.
You can lie in your bath and wallow in your own Schvitz, let
your scanty clothing be immersed, soaking with Schvitz, sit in a
chair in a puddle pr even a lake of your own Schvitz, eat as much
as you want of those cheeseburgers and ice cream sundaes because
you know in a moment in will all turn to Schvitz.
Schvitz comes with a large inflatable plastic commode
looking like a bed pan if you are standing in it, sitting in it,
or expand it to the point where you are lying in it. Schvitz
shirts, pants, underwear and socks are made to absorb some of the
ubiquitous perspiration; they can be found in your local stores
next to the thistle suppository counter.
Schvitz is an organically approved tonic that transforms you
into what you really are, not the roly-poly blubbery mass of oily
blob you seem to be. Schvitz brings you yourself. Schvitz stops
the dread and pervasive sense of moral abandonment most people in
America feel when they delver a double cheeseburger.
Schvitz is used by whores, movie stars, politician and
brokers in Munich, all of whom swear at it or by it, wear Schvitz
clothing, eat Schvitz foods to Schvitz even more than they have
ever schvitzed. Schvitz is now available in volume at an
affordable price even you poorest Schvitzers can easily put down
on the drug counter for an endless supply of our Munich elixir.
An overdose of Schvitz produces Schvitzitis of course.
Nobody wants eve a min attack of galloping Schvitz fits. One sees
Schvitz survivors everywhere on the street these days, mere
skeletons one might think were concentration camp prey of other
German products for which unfortunately we are still known.
Schvitz also grows hair, produces a third set of gleaming
fang-like white teeth, catalyzes stalwart sexual performance,
cures depression, seems to help relations between oneself and
family intimates in ways we in Munich don’t understand ourselves.
Schvitzers make more money than anybody else.
There are Schvitz clubs near you where you can meet other
Schvitzers, twenty Schvitzer web sites, a large lake of communal
Schvitz collected by the government which some claim will replace
our dependence on Mideast oil.
Look at those religious Schvitivistic revels daily on
daytime television where people spout Schvitz like great dying
sponges, drowning before you in a sea of their own Schvitz.
We are not starting a new religion. We in Germany have had
enough trouble from our old cults. These day, folks, we are just
selling Schvitz.

Social Security Notice

We hope to persuade the largely grotesque shambling monsters
that inhabit outer space that we are the most important planet in
the universe and our species the most significant life form in
the cosmos.
In a deal between the American Government and Google current
and prospective receivers of Social Security and Medicare will
not be allowed to have any of their pension or medical benefits
until they write their memoirs. They can dictate their reminisces
through state of the art Silicon Valley voice to text systems
provided without charge by the government.
These vast collections will be mixed and digitally blended
with the communal memories of three hundred million people and
contributors from other countries all over the world to produce
the planet’s most inclusive communal human history ever imagined.
They will be sent in all directions to outer space to be savored
by alien life as the harvest of a Creation God himself has deemed
good and the triumphal history of a singular species made in
God’s own image.
Baby, if you want those steady checks, start writing your
memoirs now! Don’t forget- no lying!

Rob Sheehe’s Axioms Of The Middle Path

1. Unless one is at the point of a gun, never make love too well
or to badly. Both are likely to stick like a burr in the memory.
Both can ruin the future amorous life of your lovers.

2. The world loves tolerable competence, usually accepts equally
known and reliable ineptitude. If one is excellent or
catastrophic one is insufferable.

3. Not to do or say anything to be remembered at all is niggardly
impoverishment to those who might benefit by recalling one
casually in passing. Yet to be comely, fascinating, magical or
charismatic in any way is a coarse incision of the soul of one’s
neighbor unworthy of both oneself and any of one’s victims.

4. When at war one should never kill or maim any of the foe. One
shouldn’t surrender either. A world without enemies is as empty
as a world without friends.

5. If one is writing a book one should always leave a few but not
negligible number of the pages blank. If one is building house
one should in one’s architectural plans leave out at least one
wall.

6. One should never do anything quite predictably, not even
breathing. Breathe not at all only among the dead. However since
living people find random breathing uncomfortable both in others
and themselves one should breathe most of time.

7. Action without reflection is worthy of insects. Reflection
without action is even more worthy of them. So for that matter is
any mix of reflection and action.

8 In a restaurant one should never order the most tasty and
least expensive fare unless one is absolutely alone and has
amnesia.

9. If one is insufferably ugly one does well to use cunning
cosmetics or even demand doctors do surgery on oneself to conceal
one’s natural appearance. Monstrous semblances offend people. Yet
beauty threatens their vanity. If one is untraceable beautiful to
a fault one should take up other cosmetics or repair of medical
help for the same reasons.

10. After birth one should never be or appear or be too innocent.
Others might pity one as a boob or ignoramus.

11. There is a time to do everything but few have the leisure or
length of mortality in which to do it.

12. Dracula remarks that there are worse things than death.
Dracula discreetly says nothing about more terrible things even
worse than what is obviously and self-evidently worse than death.

Let’s Go Shopping

The new release of The Shoppers with the hit song: That’s Aa
Good Price for Nothing, as well as The Swine with their That’s My
Yoghurt are probably not going to be heard in the Have not
countries where people pray to their gods all day long to be like
us.
Nothing could be more American, more patriotic that to
grease the encomia with Commercial Rock; that’s what this is par
excellence: great rock music, dynamite lyrics, cool vocals
performances by superb musicians about the glories of commerce
that make our country strong and the envy of the world.
The Shoppers have had ten Golden Halo hits in the past four
years, all of them jinglers you’ve been humming in your car, in
the gourmet sections of the supermarket, even in the delicatessen
counter. Nothing about them would make you think they are a rock
band. They are four chubby plain and performers with baseball
caps.
The Shoppers have made you dance and sing to their rod hot
feetwarming signature song, Clearance Sale, Poking Through the
Garbage, Meatpacking Mama, Frozen Food, Call Me Fat, the Devils’
Diet, Consumer Heaven and Too Much Change. There latest hit is
Root Beer Ain’t real booze. Check them out.
The Swine are live performers who always run catered feasts
for the audience in their gigantic shows. They feature readmit
greasy hamburgers, cholesterol laden vanilla milk shakes, chicken
wings deep fired in pork fat, and sightly rancid soda pop. Even
if one hates their music one always gets a feed at their
spectacles.
The Swines’ big hit, Eat Till You’re Dead is still at the
top of the charts. Their classics include Gimme that Cherry Pop,
Candy Bar Colitis, Couch Potato, Bulimia Dreams, Swallow and
Gobble, and Mahomet the Comet of Vomit.
The minerals make music that is entirely random like four
maniacs jabbing at a musical typewriter. They don’t care whether
or not they have an audience, whether they are in fact making
mugs, or personally whether they live or die. They are religious
and imitate stones, stars, the unread, the truly dead and
inanimate things that never were the simple and overt way some
progressive gourds mimicked imaginary rational insets. They have
no hits; some audiences claim they were never there at the
performance. In spite of themselves their hit on the charts, “Non
Cogito, Ergo Non Sum “, topped all other songs last year. The
Minerals will be on during intermission.
We are going to all the poor places in the world to bring
them our message. We are gong to be in Baghdad, Darfur, Brazil
and all over Algeria.

An Acre Of Silurnia

We’ve selling trillions of acres of ten dimensional space in
Silurnia. Where is Silurnia? It is in outer space beyond any
galaxy, even unimaginably remote from our visible universe. It is
in a corn of inanity where nothing exists but a wisp of blackest
ether that may or may not float through the emptiness every
quadrillion years.
There are no stars, plaints, moons or comets There is not
even a trail of vague smoke of a ghost from some previews
Creation wailing silently as he looked for his lost loved ones.
Nothing has ever existed here, not the past and certainly nothing
stains the present.
The future is liable to be as perfect in its lack of taint
as anything that has come before it. The closest star systems are
unthinkably faraway; they are in fact remote enough to be
invisible. In Silurnia nobody and nothing disturbs the flawless
impeccability of the view.
Why would you want even all much less a mere acre of
Silurnia you might ask? Aren’t there some corners of our reality
too barren to be the lawful property of anyone? What right have
we to be selling apart of Creation that nobody has seen but a
single telescope set in a space station beyond our own moon? What
would you do with that acre if you bought it? There is certainly
nothing to build on. There is no way you can even bring death to
this region of nothingness; you certainly cannot even faintly
pock it with life.
What possible utility could even an infinite skein of
infinity of the austere character of Silurnia ever do for you
even if you were the just, legal and proper master of it, were
free to make of it whatever you willed at your whim?
We don’t know.
If we don’t know, nobody knows.
As you might guess, it’s why we’re selling the most prime
acreage set at the very nub of the empty and lightless center in
the midnight vastness of Silurnia very cheap.
However some savants say all the immortals of the universe
including God himself have settled in Silurnia. It’s a long way
away from anywhere; being deathless they were in no hurry to get
there.
In Silurnia after a while one responds to having no sign of
any stars or light from any worlds whatsoever with a relief and
opaque inner tranquility. When one has the past griefs and losses
of the immortals one needs and wants at least for a remedy to
ones anguish he high and celestial consolations of Silurnia.
When you too acquire that level of divine woe, you can get a
godly anodyne too; if you go to Silurnia at birth you can have
happiness without woe.

Welcome to Sing-Sing Towers

On a beautiful vista of the stately and darkly noble Hudson
River, this project incandescently studded with three capacious
wings in which are embedded of thousands of cozy studio
apartments like an infinite necklace of glowing amethysts, the
sylvan grounds patrolled by a discreet legion of well-paid armed
guards sitting in turrets with machine guns to prevent break-ins
by scurvy local Ossning residents, our aery and palatial complex
offers a luxurious laundry, a free dental plan. a daily cunningly
spiced catered cuisine that gives a fabled dimension to
contemporary assisted living residences.
With an aggressive staff of security personnel, seemingly
tireless maintenance workers, fabled Sing-Sing Towers is opening
its long shut adamantine and leviathan-like doors to all eligible
aging Americans for the very first time. You do not have to be
65, even 50, 20 or even born to live here. Some of our happy
tenants assert they were in decline even as fictions; others
affirm they were decadent nascent crones before their conception.
Since the transfer of our former customers to Dannemora,
Elmira and faraway Rahway for state-certified painless therapy,
mostly lobotomy and chemical shock rehabilitation programs, we
have at Sing-Sing Towers a warden who has written seven best
selling books, a large staff of somewhat portly executives, a
large if annoyingly anxiety-ridden middle management, an on-site
on-line hospital, a palatial outdoor arboretum with army surplus
land mines, an electric fence.
Set on a river beloved once by George Washington,
inexplicably we have had few customers. For this reason we invite
all ripe, even mildly overripe Americans to live in our regal
precincts free for the first ten years.
Our funds of course come from the state legislature; we
certainly don’t need your money, not directly anyway. All we ask
you to do is to say a muted and polite farewell civilly to
everybody you love and hate in whatever hell hole you may be to
join us in a community experience at Sing-Sing Towers we
guarantee you will never dare to forget.
Make your digs our luxury inner cellars where one can be
alone in a etheric dimension unknown to most such tender, caring
and involved residential developments. In a snug pied a terre
without windows, shorn of any rank sound of kin, neighbors, even
base lurking strangers, you will find a contentment that may
outdo even a seraphic capacity for slumber, tranquility and
peace.
We will protect you both in boom and hard times for all the
untermemschen flotsam trying furtively to break into the
residence to share your well-marinated barbecued poultry, even
loot your material troves while you dine on the excellent gourmet
Mexican fare from boiled mink enchiladas to fat-dripping venison
tacos to sleeping in our dank cisterns and ultimate nether
latrines.
Sing-Sing Towers, at once new and old, is a fortress against
order and chaos, a chummy granite castle without a memory.

The Skunks

The Skunks are playing all their signature paces including
their classic number: Sentimental Serenade, Mephitic, Tango
Oloroso and Tamale Ollie at Pan’s Cloaca next Thursday Night. The
Skunks play in a thick perfumed mist that obscures both their
stage appearances and the audience. Any theater featuring a Skunk
concert is literally bathed in a cloud of tepid fog.
The carnal effect of a Skunks show is like no other rock
group. Their pure yet dense eerily voiced sound seems to have a
mildly and measured decadent quality like a midday bath in
lukewarm cologne. Their instruments, harps, flutes, hushed
noisemakers and tiny kazoos, is suggestive of a realm neither
heaven nor hell, but some pastel limbo of ultimate entropy, an
oozy matrix at once nameless and soporific, a lopsided gelatinous
world soggily circling an equally jellied star in a rich indigo
haze.
Joe Skunk, the leader of the band, absolutely denies he is
leading America into a classical decadence. “If America is
getting here and there a little measuredly dissolute, of all
bands the Skunks aren’t its champion,” he says. “We’re involved
in progress, not decline. We started Olfactory Rock Music as a
commercial item; we’re not through with exploration of the senses
either. There are marginal electrical perceptions we have akin to
those of bats and sharks that I am looking into. They will make
music a key not to a bibulous bestial funk but to stellar
ultimate consciousness. Eventually I intend to make rock music
that has no relation to hearing, to any human sense, to anything
at all.”
Some feel Joe Skunk has already reached such a high apogee.
The Skunks are giving away their new album, Les Cieux et
Attar de Morte, to the first fifty ticket buyers at their new
Pan’s Cloaca show if they can find the glittering items hiding
cunningly within the fumed knots and plush eddies of dense
perfumed smoke.

The Encyclopedia Of Slander

This vast ten volume collection from the New Modern Library
contains not most but all ways contemporaries but even later
commentators have trashed every human being who has ever walked
the Earth. Among its favorite fools and dunces and dupes are
Santa Claus, mom, dad, grandma and Doctor Seuss. All are deemed
to have a disreputable sex life, mental retardation, fits of
lunacy; all are ruled by unnameable criminal perversity.
Our deity who has purportedly been around since before
Creation and even before Creation gets a very well deserved major
shellacking from our contributors; our Creator doesn’t come off
any worse than all other subjects including whales, bacteria.
humans, angels, demons, Martians, arachnids, protozoa. assorted
cats and dogs, all treated with equal disdain, contempt and
mockery by the commentators quoted in these vast impressive
volumes.
The reader will be familiar with the classic impaling of
savants and celebrities of the past of all luminaries and even
ordinary mediocrities one might think would be exempt from
persiflage and scorn.
EOS trashes not only people but things: void, waste, lies.
All human inventions including the bow and arrow, shoes, the
utility of toenails, the intelligence of fish and worms, the lack
of egoism and respectable mein of stones and innumerable motes of
dust all take a big shellacking from our contributors. We lambast
not only all life but lack of life.
The cumulative effect of reading these volumes at a meaty
clip is to assure the reader that all and everything in the past,
rank and insufferable beyond our patience, tolerance or our mercy
and forgiveness, is dead. It allows us all to despise and scuttle
all and anything. It dumps reality itself in a Potters Field
burial ground in Staten Island out of mercy or a quick and silent
interment in impersonal landfill in some dismal corner of
Westchester it deserves.
It also gives all a commodious sense of propriety and
felicity to any modern funeral. The Encyclopedia is often quoted
at modern memorial services in which a succussion of ferocious
choleric eulogists give very good reasons why we should be glad
somebody or something or even nothing has finally shown the tardy
but just grace to disappear from our midst. The Encyclopedia is
used extensively at suburban shopping mall religious services.
With the infinite volumes of EOS we can all feel an inner
security now that we have been saved from our doleful yesterdays
by the benign engines of progress.
The Encyclopedia is constantly being added to by our
stalwarts as new people and things, all vile, rank beyond
measure, appear like chirping locusts on the Earth. Mimicking the
galloping expansiveness of folly, filth, crime and madness in
this malodorous Creation, this vast borderless encyclopedia of
mockery spews slops into the void with a crass vigor that is
nevernending.

The Slaphappy Dictionary

Preface:
The Slaphappy Dictionary is a lexicon of definitions of
things not as they are but as they should be. Its purpose is at
once one day to be the sacred lore of an honest future science,
now to inspire those to a direction to reach a world that is all
too lamentably right now an imaginary bastion of our faith.
Anybody can write a dictionary that describes the Creation
in front of him. It is only the adept at lexicons who can define
things on evidence not there to invent words for people and
places and realities that do not exist.

Children- Happy innocent small human begins nurtured by experts
offering them endless sugary entertainment, directly and
certified okay.

Adults- Happy and experienced after a painless childhood, they
like to take orders, love their work, are well trained by
unctuous experts in three piece suits to be happy.

The Work Place- An arena of joy.

Experts- Much more powerful than parents and teachers, any human
beings and most minor angels, always even after death and perhaps
working for you even before birth on a decent and tolerable
salary.

Welfare- A world that would have made everybody happy if it had
had the money and the power to do so.

Arts- Popular entertainment that makes common everybody including
dunces and corpses happy.

The Rich- People who because they have money and power must be
very unhappy.

Consumers- Like opium eaters in a poppy field they are all very,
very happy.

Slavery Inc.

We at Slavery Inc. once brought slavery everywhere. We’re
legit, nice folk; yet today nobody likes Slavery Incorporated.
People remember us for stupid reasons as mustachioed bad guys
from way back.
We decided to give a new spin to Slavery. We said, look,
before there was slavery there was just expectation of slaughter
from somebody. Slavery is just a vacation from your life. Dogs
love slavery.
All right, that wasn’t good enough.
Finally we came up with a fancy feelgood modern slavery
everybody is going to like. No whips and chains. No masters. We
invented a slavery that give people the right to own property,
marry, own themselves, work for anybody they feel like and quit
their job and travel anywhere, have a private life. When they own
property they are taxed for it and can’t get rid of it on the
market. When they marry they have to pay big bucks to get
divorced after a while, maybe after a half hour.
You have the private life of a consumer. You’re just adipose
swine choosing the color of swill at the trough. When you own
yourself you can be easily sued. When you work for a corporation
they can beat you out of your mortality just as easily as if you
were owned by them. Believe me, you get old and used up just as
fast.
When there are no whips and chains, you’ve got to guard
yourself; you’re the warden too. When there are no masters you’ve
got to enslave yourself. Who needs masters? They’re like the
Edsel. We even have a slavery where people do nothing. Nobody
likes it. I don’t know why; people are crazy. They want to do
something.
Still Slavery Inc. is a hell of a name for a company. Maybe
we’ll go fashionably bankrupt. Maybe we’ll just change our name.
We’ll call ourselves Freedom Inc. Sound good? Hey, Freedom sure
beats Slavery.

A Life On My Back by Anne Nicole Smith

These posthumous memoirs that, it turns out, was the reason
that Russian intelligence had offed the legendary model and
playmate are worth our attention if hardly for her tempestuous
account of her antic intimacies with Donald Trump, Rudolph
Giuliani, Vladimir Putin, John Malkovitch and at least once, or
was it twice, a torrid army of horny nerds from fancy
post-gradate Actuarial Centers.
There were of course the various green skinned aliens who
had abducted her twice and took her to the seventh moon of
Jupiter for the usual weightless frolic in a rogue UFO. All this
is standard fare even if one is an American statesman in stir, a
rogue dentist or a crematorium peripatetic these days. What makes
Anna Nicole Smith’s memoir fascinating is her account of her
previous lives.
Anna Nicole Smith since the nearly forgotten days spent in
humid, tumid and tepid fens among other simple greasy bacteria
fecundating all over the Earth, she had lived a spiceless life
after life of such crashing dullness she found the prospect of
more ultimate boredom in this existence insupportable.
The thousands of pages she fills with descriptions of these
lives are quite as insufferable in their lack of interest as she
says.
Anna Nicole Smith had had enough. She lived this time as she
chose, interestingly. She leaves behind her in her demise an
involute and loose empire of fully equipped trailer parks and a
line of affordable rodent sausage meats.
Don’t ask which rodent.
In the epilogue at the end of the reminisce Anna Nicole
Smith wonders whether she will ever come back to this Earth
again. She asserts that if she does it will be as a Mexican
emigrant. They have hope.

The Nameless Society

The Nameless Society is a Canadian firm that selflessly
guides and aids people with famous names into blissful anonymity.
There are fifty seven William Shakespeare, twenty eight Napoleon
Bonapartes, and fifty five Genghis Kahns who will testify to our
beneficence. No more explanations at airports or parties that one
is not the real Genghis Kahn nor even William Shakespeare.
We also have suburban towns equally low key in name and
veneer to suit the relief of our customers that they are no
longer burdened with their horrendous famous name. We have mates
and amusements that are suitable for a banal life no one else
notices. We have discreet clothing stores in which one buys
sedate achromatic shapeless costumes that if nothing else are
never remarked upon nor are at all even faintly memorable.
No more explaining for these folk that one is not Adolph
Hitler or Joseph Stalin! All these people thorough our genteel
offices are now spared such gratuitous embarrassment and
clumsiness in their private mortality.
Our customers now include most of the world, many of whom
have eminently forgettable names but who claim they have been
unfairly targeted by strangers as being more important than they
are. As emigrants to oblivion they know as do the gods that
freedom lies not in democracy or even power but in invisibility.

The New Italian Renaissance

Nobody ever thought there could be a new Italian
Renaissance; we are holding one in Palermo at fabled Zephyro
Stadium near the huge cheese market.
Featured at the rock concert will be the famous I
Solipisisti di Roma and the equally notorious I Nihilsti di
Venezia. They are in our judgment two bands which have all by
themselves brought the Italian Renaissance back to Italy where it
belongs.
Do we mean Raphael, Boccaccio, Bottecelli, Leonardo, all
those others we honor like some pilgrims on a jihad to the sweet
scented tombs of dead saints, or six days and five nights eating
double cheeseburgers, easy on the pickles, at an imaginary
mausoleum of Hellenic Art?
Of course not. No, our Italian Renaissance is a Renaissance
for the times, an age which has nothing to do with these ashes
and now dusty old codgers. I Solipsisti di Roma with their
massive hit Io Sono Mio and their cult film, Mangia, Mangia
Mangia are merely the opening act for the legendary now Idaho
based I Nihilsti di Venezia with their hit sings Cosi Fan Nulla,
Il Secondo Divorce di Figaro, La Cloaca di La Bella Morte, Latte
Nera di La Strega Vera and the interminable Dolorosamente, Cara
Mia, Ma Per Suposto Sempre con Amore.
Then there is for the old folks their oldies but goodies
single, Moglie di Fuoco, and of course the rock comedy opera La
Forza di Niente. For Americans there is the English language hit
that topped the media charts in downtown Indianapolis: the silent
and awesome La Verita Bianca, also called Confessions of the
Unborn.
As we all know the Solipsisti live on separate islands mined
by Krupp shores set to blow up all visitors, lovers and allies, a
set of von Klotz designed fortresses a few miles at the lip of
the horizon beyond the Lido. Each isle is festooned with walls,
towers, moats, private legions of uniformed infantry and perfumed
priests, all celibates sacrificing rancid raw lamb chops. On the
door of their lead guitarist, sinister yet charismatic Dante
Algeciras, is the hermetic credo: Liberta per tutti oggi! Below
this one can read in flaming letters: Ma Schiavi e Cani? Basta!
Led by Gabriel di Nocci, the dreaded Nihilisti live
underground, an astral underground nobody knows. Since Venice has
become waterlogged they have moved to red hot caves deep beneath
the American state of Idaho.
Everybody’s flying down to Palermo for the Italian
Renaissance!
Well, not quite everybody. Europeans know they are crypt
keepers in a cemetery. It’s the only graveyard on Earth in which
corpses make war on each other. Americans are ignorant of this
zombie holocaust. That’s why we are only selling tickets to
Americans for the Italian Renaissance. Nobody else is buying.

Being Somewhere

You’re the ultimate provincial lout living like a clod in a
shack with an overripe harridan, a broken radio and a bunch of
obese kids covered with phlegm from all of the diseases they
could have inherited from you. You look out at the grey fetid
swamp blearily; you might as well be living on Pluto for all the
commodious sense of place it gives you and your scurvy kindred.
It’s the pits of the nether pits, hardly the gaudy and elegant
capital of the universe on the fifteenth planet of Io; hey, at
least it’s somewhere.
Well, if that damned somewhere isn’t good enough for you, we
will transport you duty free to a tract home in sunny Andromeda
with a very affordable mortgage, in a town in which everything is
the same as a million other towns. It is a metropolis filled with
sundry franchise stores, cunningly prefabricated houses and
identical gourmet shopping malls with lots of natural taco chips
and easy to guzzle six packs of winter ale. People come and go
every three years. Maybe it’s every three minutes. So what? You
won’t miss them. Whether they’re somewhere or nowhere they don’t
ever even miss themselves.
One can’t say where you are going is somewhere. It’s
nowhere. Sometimes nowhere if it’s the right nowhere is better
than somewhere.

Super Sugar World

Super Sugar World is the Princeton think tank that fashions
the future in its Saturn moon laboratories. On Triton we run a
world of instant pleasures in which everything from the robots to
the lunches are fashioned from crystallized sugar. If you don’t
like what you have you can devour it with ample syrup. Our
governments on Triton are covered with chocolate sauces or
maraschino cherries. In our prisons some like to nibble on our
sugary toilets; in our cloudy and soft cushioned our insane
asylums many like the intense licorice flavors of our bathtubs.
The dill spiced sweetness, our signature taste, is most
severe and feverish in our ceiling lamps. We provide rock crystal
ladders for our acolytes and faithful in all rooms. Our robot
moguls prefer the onion-flavored bathtubs or the chocolate
tables; our alien slaves brainlessly lick the mocha scented
window panes. They like to dance the Super Sugar Mambo.
You can shuttle from Earth to Triton on an affordable
marshmallow spaceship fashioned from a thousand rum candies. We
are Super Sugar World: your ideal of the utility of pleasure.

The New School For Suicide

The New School For Suicide has branches everywhere in the
world, The most famous of them of course these days are in Araby.
We don’t advertise; people search us out as if they were
predators and we are prey. To put it baldly, they pay us to kill
them.
They even go into abysses of vaporous debt to be dispatched
by us. They often expire howling our praises. We feel with pride
there is no great compliment one could pay one’s own
executioners.
We have a spiritual side; we study the lives of snarly folk
who have successfully committed suicide. We are not really
salivating evangels for classical and flamboyant
self-destruction. We find most historical self-immolation tackily
gaudy, rather coarse fare like mustard on boiled mutton.
In America we are in myriad locales, grey institutions
licensed, lawfully embedded in every city, small town and mossy
college hermitage from Mantauk Point to Tiajuana.
There our low-profiled apostles promote an elegant
slow-moving suicide, a soporific death by smiling assassins more
patient and lugubrious than the Angel of Death himself.
We train people to accept an ordinary job over decades about
which they are indifferent, one which they can’t wait to leave
after the first boring minute.
We teach them to be accommodating, craven, subservient and
feyly servile to ravening furious money-mad obese shrews, mates
who betray one out of piety, who have a pack of tigerish lawyers
they want them to meet in their very near future.
We teach our adepts to have suave and prodigal mandarin
tastes, saturnine hungers, simple infantilzing habits that
infallibly clap them, their kin and their loved ones into
intractable indenture.
Our intimate sister collegium The New School for Pleasure
teaches pupils to take up sugary addictive distractions that
promote perpetuation of one’s life. Of course our most clever
students are enrolled in both schools.
Those who find our education in America unsatisfying often
end up studying in our posh new chromium ashrams in Baghdad.
Of course the great and common flow of our student body
treks mostly by foot, boat or plane from Baghdad to America.

Sri Chutraprandra: Master of the Noble Surface

Sir Chutraprandra, Master of the Noble Surface is holding
his annual workshops in intense and spasmodic superficial
epiphanies within the innards of Monmouth Cave in Kentucky at the
apex of the winter solstice. He will conduct a series of opaque
discourses of random words and dense chants aiming at perception
of the ultimately shallow and of course the Four Rhinestone
Truths. They are:
1. We embrace after a short while a vast ineluctable abyss,
a wall, a cliff, a sea or we go to sleep.
2. We need to embrace a divine world that is shiny and
impeccable and ineluctable sheathed vinyl.
3 If the veneer of truth is nothing, the truth itself is
lees than nothing. Only deceptions are more than nothing yet what
are all lies? Deliberately, consciously, willfully nothing.
4. Even if one is less than imbecile or a sham imitation
moron, one is never stupid or ignorant as the true demons of lead
and stone.
Shanti, shanti, shanti, baby.
Sri Chutraprandra is the former Laurent Lockness, a Belgian
chef still expert in steaming mussels spiced with raspberry
flavored beer. He discovered his spiritual identity while staring
at a dead mussel that would not open.
.After these dark and dour ceremonies Sri Chutraprandra
will cook a mussel dinner for the faithful that will delight all
his inner acolytes with his cunning and blisterngly hot Sri
Lankan sauces and condiments. Those not members of the Asram of
the Noble Surface will have to pay twenty dollars for the dinner
and bring their own beer.

Plant Parenthood

Plant Parenthood is the stellar organization of lawyers
enabling you to adopt a carrot, an onion, even a redwood tree
legally and affordably. Nothing in this world is free. You will
have all the pleasures and obligations of a father or mother to
whatever it is you adopt from a fungoid to a spruce.
This year our Scarlet Wing allows you to become the
sire of over three hundred varieties of inedible mushrooms.
We can even help you adopt yourself. We don’t hold it
against anyone that they’re not a plant. After all, we bottom
of the class lawyers at Plant Parenthood ourselves aren’t plants.
Maybe.
During our Valentines Day Sale we will pay you two zlotys
to marry an onion. You will of course have to drop a bundle
our way if you want even to be informally engaged to an
artichoke.
Many of our enemies have said that we are siphoning off
enormous troves of funds meant by affluent innocents among
us, shadowy currency that disappears in the comparable perhaps
equally vanishing troves for Planned Parenthood. Some have even
claimed we are greedily cashing oodles of million dollar checks
sent to that other not all that notable enterprise. We can
understand this sensible confusion.
Of course it is not true. We are respectable legal
counselors doing an impeccably lawful business.
Well, if it were true, does it matter? Perhaps Planned
Parenthood is walking off with more money meant for us as they
complain we are the mustachioed bad guys looting them.
It wouldn’t surprise we legal counselors managing Plant
Parenthood if their own nefarious operation is a cunning
way of stealing from us.
We certainly aren’t going to sue them. Of course we might do
a little discreet pillaging ourselves, perhaps of each other,
to get even. Don’t you think they do it too?
Don’t you?

Black Swallow Productions

This week there is free shipping on our most notable digital
epics delighting government masters of lunacy on federal boards
of crones who judging the cranially disadvantaged are all over
Arizona, rife in downtown Malaysia. They include:
Tales From The Bottomless Bottom: a shabby hospital in which
one is always being treated for mysterious diseases by the nadir
of the graduating class of doctors, dentists, inept psychologists
and humorless morgue officials.
Father Knows Worst: men with children are ritually,
brainlessly ruptured from their children and income in kangaroo
courts by the tens of millions.
Achtung, Herr Doktor Feelgood!: innocent Canadians are all
persuaded by cunning power junkies rife among us to become white
bread addicts of pleasure.
The East Wing: the glitzy mini-series in which the most
moronic of the country’s more incompetent millionaires are our
leaders.
Blue like Me: on Mars anyone with blue skin cannot get
equality, justice or a fair white collar job. The gout-ridden
pink faced elite pushing papers filed with technical argot. As
the aquamarine heros around aimlessly in the scarlet mountains;
the mischievous “pinkos” have a particular bigotry against young
blue-skinned males wearing baseball caps.
What Me, Inhale? The arachnid socially engineered world of
north Pluto that denies all bacteria and protozoa their personal
choice of stimulants. They are fighting with magic swords the
nefarious cephalopod rebels who claim that drug sales are an
honest business, not a crime.
Manna Hi Ding Ding: in an alternative universe democracy is
best served by a happy and grateful Chinese and Mexican perpetual
servant class brings one computers and pizza. This democracy is
imposed on an ungrateful world by America.
At Black Swallow we also specialize in celebrity
incarcerations, sundry newsworthy repairs of the local gods to
iridescent violet-tinted padded cells in posh rehabs; we are
their doctors and sometime lovers. In our nacral guise we are as
well the fancy morticians to the stars.
In our vaunted Take That You Rat! line, we have manufactured
a serious of boring confessional video games of banal fantasies
digitalized into a profitable television miniseries as well as
several compelling feature Hong Kong films: Bubba’s Bonkers
Bingo, Tangled Tango, Rogue Dodo and the Pulitzer Price winning:
Gopak of the Loons.
Who makes your own line of Black Swallow type products?
Usually our competitors!

The Tapeworms at Carlsbad Caverns

The Tapeworms only work in vast lightless chambers, mostly
natural caves riddled with blind fish, bats and a few tiny
anaerobes feeding off the guano deposits. Their income comes from
the CDs sold to dupes like you; fish and bats don’t have any
money.
The Tapeworms cultivate the New Malaise. They speak for the
young folk who wonder who is going to pay for their expensive
lives, for those old codgers who seem to be livening to a hundred
who wonder who is gain to feed and clothe anyone when the Chinese
decide they don’t want to sell us any more goods, who in America
can do anything at all anymore or has any skill for life
whatsoever, why people can’t stop overeating, why the plumbing is
clean, looks good but never works.
Whether they’ve going to swallowed up and devoured by a
carryovers home entertainment system like a T-rex or are waiting
for death in Florida’s posh Adolescent Village, they listen to
the Tapeworms.
The Tapeworms with this year’s twin premiere golden hits,
Wadda Fugami, and Gnosis Trichiniases are the rock band that
represents the New Age in America. No more easy living, folks, no
more working some goofy well paying job, saving money without
trying and living the good life among amiable and generous lovers
and a nearby Asian noodle shop.
You’re a minor to negligible bacillus in the labyrinth, an
renal pilgrim in the belly of the whale. You feel sorry for
yourself, you get maudlin and know that it’s okay beg depressed,
even mildly suicidal. God not only doesn’t love you; even his son
Jesus civilly doesn’t notice you. Satan does much care about you
either.
No more peace and order, civil dissent, joyous marches to
Disneyland, buying effigies of Mickey Mouse, feeling good for no
reason at all.

Tasmanian Systems

We’ve got the whole world to think marsupial! The company
that brought you Laf-Trak, the little plastic bolus like Yemeni
qat that sticks in your cheek emanating laughter no matter how
dull and banal your consistently borough happiness to two million
satisfied clientele assuming they are wits and wry sardonic
savants.
The shameless clichs of the hour uttered with Laf-Trak in
one’s skill guffawing and chucking away at one’s moot stale and
trial comments on situations deserving only a philosophic
silencer has changed the life of armies of satisfied clientele.
Now we bring you Lyon-Trak, an identical little lozenge that
pours into the brain the sound of grunting leonine beasts and
unholy monsters about to attack one imminently in the veldt, a
sonic design of richly nuanced terror.
If you are all too much in a stupor if life this cunning bit
of merchandise will keep you very alert all day long even if you
are in the moot safe and comfortable venues such as a five star
hotel, a posh mud bath spa, a hamburger emporium or a corner of
pleasant and scented park even in the maw of your slumbers you
will be undetached to a mood of dread, anxiety and stark panic
that will keep you very alive with watchfulness and wariness as
if you were in a war zone.
Our top of the line model allows you to program the little
pellet with sounds of your personal enemies, political figures
you despise, sonic tapestries of cries for succor in floods,
famines, hospitals, elephant death rattles, slaughterhouses and
plaints of land mine and direly wounded war victims which we
offer you free on our web site with simple download.
As a premium member of Tasmanian Systems we can upgrade your
Laf-Trak bolus to a companion of sonic tapestries of laughter and
grunts of bears, lions and other ferocious predators which will
give you a kind of enigmatic insane shiver one can hardly garner
anymore from a subtle dessert long reduced to a cloying minor
amassment for being sold too much from hot dog stands in volume
or a recondite erotic tastes now pious, politically correct,
legitimate as marriage, rare as honest tax returns.
Our Platinum Mandarins will get the authentic sweet and sour
experience, named after the severe culinary paradoxes in a
classical Malaysian dish. One head abruptly the laughter fading,
the grunts of monsters all too puissant, or after a panicked
midnight flight of stark terror in Atlantean jungles a sudden
realization of your wildly guffawing Eumenidies that you are an
auxocyte pip of a tiff, a popinjay and coxcomb marvelous and
witty.
For the more intrepid we have the Doppler Chaos Theory sonic
randomize which offers one fragments of both chuckles and threats
simultaneously. For some it has forever tinged mild chortles with
a gauche and sinister mein.
The marsupial scientists at Tasmanian Systems, mostly
refugees from the late Soviet Union, are designed for your
caprice a simple candy, non-addictive, tasting like strawberries
that when swallowed enable anyone to regard all jejune hungers
with felicity and delight for half an hour as minor and trial.
Which do you want to experience in life, pleasure or sanity?
Tasmanian systems is the first company since God gave you
Creation to offer you that choice.
We have of course our imitators; so do you if you have any
virtues or passing beauty. We are like you: unique. We merely
seem banal.
Look for the copyrighted marsupial pouch on the label.

Television After Death

Third Chance, the innovative company that brought television
to hospitals, execution holding pens and insane asylums to fit
the special needs of these supposedly marginal folk now with as
many rights to be perpetually amused as we are, offers its high
end chamber environment, Mole Paradise, to the living and dead.
The device is not merely a fancy coffin or Serbian tract home as
some say; it is a tireless foaler of substantial four color
holographs that gives the intense delights of the rich and famous
to the convicts and loons in our rehabilitation clinics and
sundry corpses interred in our very affordable graveyards deep in
sunny Antarctica.
We have a sterling track record of charity and compassion
for life’s victims. Before our business began, invalids, felons
and lunatics had to put up with television for people of more
health, freedom from being chained to the walls and brute sanity
that they cared to admit. We designed special programming for
those gone bonkers, the deathly sick, the armies of martyrs
killers, entertainment fit for them if not for anyone else. Our
Paranoiac Masterpiece Theater has won a Golden Kidney. Break the
Bank, our witty and successful reality show safe cocking comedy
series has won the coveted Le Shanu Putzinger Prize. We certainly
aren’t morbid sprites who aim only to service the souls at the
frontiers of human and non-human consciousness and beyond. We
have a holograph celebrity home for the common and very alive
souls who want to have all the pleasures of being rich and
famous. We believe in franchising the hub, the center, the
anonymous mediocrities, the dogged clods who make our society
work.
One can be at once a lout and be seemingly living with empty
models with scooped out brains, be followed by private
detectives, have powerful anions that would make a saint feel
persecuted. He can have his own personal Romanian chef. We even
have suave characters fashioned from colored air ready to betray
and sue him, though of course so far nobody can ever be done in
court by a dog, a cockroach or a holograph.
We want the ordinary, the banal, properly and seemingly
terminally anonymous folk as our clientele for this canny bit of
merchandise. We have labial thank you letters from some very
dull people praising us for our products that are ultimately
nobody
and nothing. Suddenly they find themselves worshipped by their
neighbors as if they are rich, adolescent and beautiful.
Of course if one leaves one’s house one has to face life as
it is, oneself as one is. Well, what do you want from a
television set?
Hey, in the end television is only television.

Third Life

Third Life is the premier game of preference for all those
cognoscenti who are justly tired of Second Life.
In Third Life one is almost always broke, hungry, dirty and
sweaty, scarred, weary, plain or worse in looks. One has the
appearance
of one who has taken more than a few terrible beatings. One is
often miserable about nothing, imbibed in a cave-like dismal and
barely maintainable existence that like the news or one’s mate
neither oneself nor Heracles can do anything abut.
The world of Third Life is filled with wolves, vegetables,
slaves, beggars and hustlers. If nearly everyone in spite of
their lies and random acts of violence is devastatingly,
rushingly, stiflingly poor, their lupine and slavering inner
desperation is of course much more severe than any simple
material impoverishment.
The luxurious variety of one’s choice adversaries in Third
Life are vintage caviar for the veteran gamester. There are of
course the usual monsters dripping chicken blood and slashing
half-blindly at your belly, genitals and brain with an axe, all
these foes a casual sop to the ordinary semi-moronic dabbler in
these electronic worlds of in volume banal horror.
Yet our antagonistic in Third Life include a much wider
palette of panic, peril and mayhem. We have treacly oleaginous
ippissimi and aery hierophants who preach one is sick, sinful,
crazy or perverse. Our electronic CEOS try to muscle you
into a white collar prison, a fancy insane asylum or a minimum
security hospital in Mexico.
We have governments and corporations who claim to be
one’s champion and ally while they with a few feints and sleights
cozen one into babbling obeisance and the ultimate helplessness
of a subtle and devouring enemy within. You have to evade lovers
armed with teams of lawyers on perpetual retainer, plumbers who
never answer their presumptively irate correspondence,
politicians who look out at the rabble nearsightedly from their
fake marble palaces, bawling market hawkers who gouge one in
one’s penury for mere crumbs of sustenance, close family members
always elsewhere playing cards, losing scant pennies in assisted
living complexes in Florida, who call you monthly and complain.
Our capital in this horrific alien world is a kind of cosmic
Las Vegas; there one can be perpetually entertained by
cocaine-animated satyrs while one doles out oodles of primally
colored plastic chips on some number on the casino.
Our climactic episode in the twelfth level of Third Life is
the fabulous American Dream Room. One sits on a coach with broken
springs in a posh suburban home alone, chained to the walls while
scalding water drips on one’s head every two minutes from a
mysteriously leaky roof.
How is Third Life different than First Life?
Third Life is just a video game.

Throwaways Inc

Throwaways is a franchised skein of store located in every
shopping mall in the country. We specialize in items of all kinds
that are made to be wafted with pleasure into the trash.
We have watches that don’t work but are pure ornaments to
the wrist, shoes that don’t and can’t fit anybody, socks with
holes, tasteless and deeply indelible frozen food, furniture that
slightly tilted, shirts and pants with annoying rips, umbrellas
with broken frames, beds that fall apart, couches with magnetic
springs that attack the buttocks, all kinds of electrical
appliances that make a deafening noise but in the end do nothing.
We also contract to build houses with termites, lawns with
mine fields, leaking swimming pools, clogged cisterns and cellars
field with rank oleaginous sludge and ever rising thick black
water.
We have a spiffy employment agency offering workers you will
hate and fire the first day or even minute they show up. We
feature a dating service to bring strangers into your life who
are boring, stale, odious, or simple out to pillage you.
Throwaways is by far the most populace store in America
malls outside of McDonald’s because it gives Americans a chance
to clear out their lives in a serious way none of our competitors
dares to do.
We feel the same way about ourselves as you do our products.
We have had an employee turnover of a hundred percent every day,
sometimes every hour. We have had at times a new CEO every five
minutes. We often at a whim kill ourselves or burn down our own
buildings.
Stop off at Throwaways, then throw it away!

Tonight’s The Night Inc.

Tonight’s the Night is the multinational company that
specializes in products than can only be used once. We make
bombs, hamburgers, toilet paper, coffins, doughnuts, suicide
notes, pickles, and diapers. We operate in secret cellars below a
nunnery in Virginia City, Virginia.
We have a controlling interest in Virgin Airlines, Virgin
Patagonian Real Estate and Virgin Olive Oil; our former CEOs
include Shirley Temple, Gertrude Stein, Anna Freud and Pope
Innocent IV.
We like our feisty clientele; we have a set of restless,
irritable, adulterous, perfidious mean spirited customers who
like to ramble. You won’t find anybody worse than a Tonight’s the
Night Customer.
A lot of business people think we ought to be more subtle,
act like American car manufacturers who pitch a shoddy product
that falls apart every three years, computer firms that sell the
johns the same damn thing every year, or slinging vaporous feces
like Mississippi swamp realtors selling leaking tar shacks that
“need work”.
We aren’t going in that direction. We’ve come up with a new
line for products that can never be used even as a commode, have
no value to anyone, yet tether one in a maze of trouble, had
luck, litigation and mayhem even before they’re delivered to your
door by Joey “Angel Eyes” Santini, the unmentionable Eighth
Santini Brother nobody wants to talk about.
When you deal with Tonight’s The Night Inc. you’ll pray to
the baleful gods we never existed. You might even try to burn us
down. That’s okay too. It can only happen once.

Twice Born 2.0: Another Product of Mycroft Systems

Twice Born is a miniaturized brain implant item easy to
install and use, a tiny bolus of plastic. Fitting snugly in the
folds of the medulla oblongata, it finally allows all of us to
live out everything not once but twice.
PC World has said that Twice Born is nothing but internal
television reruns. Steve Jobs has asserted that given how boring
most moments in our mortality are, to endure it ene once is
mostly a crass and rank burden; to do it all more than once is
patently insufferable. Perhaps. Twice Born is not a synthetic
makes of dreams; it is a recorder of life itself. If life isn’t
worth even being lived once we are certainly selling an immoral
product. Commerce will tell us about our celestial ethics one way
or another.
We at Mycroft Systems agree that plainly Twice Born is not
for everyone. We are however announcing the advent of Thrice
Born, or Twice Born 2.0.
All the bugs of Twice Born 1.5 have been solved by our
indefatigable engineers; customers no loaner have to endure the
memories of other people nearby they ante and despise, nor the
recall of adjacent curs, mutts, roaches, filthy vermin rodents,
bacteria, and assorted viruses, demons, who knows what?
With a long random log in number, a password that changes
every five minutes, Thrice Born is guaranteed to be a locked
integrity as autonomous as any of our au courant wine and cheese
mechanistic faith systems.
Admittedly we have not been able to stop Gummo Kennedy, the
Kennedy brother nobody talks bout, from infecting moot of our
engines with what he calls his Burger Queen Syndrome. Gummo
Kennedy to Mycroft Systems isn’t quite human; he’s a force and
principle of impassive excess. He can’t control the present; he
is content to have all life in the universe have only one set of
reminisces. These internal invasions are quite predictably of
Gummo Kennedy talking about himself.
We can filter out most of the nefarious Gummo Kennedy’s
wireless viruses but not all of them. They do pass. One day Gummo
Kennedy will too.

The Bolshevik Love Manual

Sandra Gabble, retired porno star par excellence on the
audacious San Francisco scene for twenty years, recently
converted to Bolshevism after talking over the future of humanity
with a set of Berkeley wine and cheese honcho acrose the river.
The result is a volume of simple dynamite recipes for love
that is changing the amorous habits not merely Bay area radicals
but America itself. Fashionable progressive women are throwing
away their peasant costumes, dyeing heir hair blonde, getting
affordable silicon breast and posterior implants, doing the
clever tricks in the sack that are giving social radicals in the
United States an erotic life competitive with any fatigued
wine-swilling gourmand womanizer maundering in Paris.
The indefatigable, still gorgeous and pert Sandra Gabble has
certainly revolutionized world Bolshevism in a profound way.
Thanks to this premier porno celebrity no longer do leaders
taking us to an inevitable future proclaim as Lenin did that sex
is less important than urination.”Some people are good lovers,”
Lenin had remarked once. “Nearly everybody is good at pissing.”
Lenin was right but these days when you walk down the street
and see an artificial looking woman dressed in very high
stiletto heels, a short tight skirt, unlikely big spongy boobs,
showing traces of cosmetic surgery scars beneath a fluff of
lemon-colored hair, one is either looking at a local trollop, a
prestigious porno luminary or a Bolshevik.
Of course Sandra is pushing her book on a public who are not
Bolsheviks. “Happiness should be just a Bolshevik thing,” she
says on the media. “Everybody should be as delighted to be alive
as fierce erotic animals as all the Bolsheviks in America are
thanks to me. It’s not enough for me to put a smile on the face
of radicalism on the planet
“I want to make the oyster-eating capitalists, lushes
mumbling in the gutter, lunatics in asylums, death row convicts,
cell phone fiends and terminal news junkies as happy as
progressive thinkers and I are. I’m even pitching my book to
ghosts. Don’t ever ask me how, kid; just watch me do it.”
Gabble has been haunted my media questions about her
controversial revolution within Bolshevism. Some call her the
worst thing to happen to Communism since Kerensky. Thanks to her,
Bolsheviks are too tired to go to meetings; they spend most of
their time in a half-snooze waiting for their body to revere from
the last revel so they can go on to the next one. Her enemies say
she is turning idealists into jaded degenerates. Sandra find
these charges silly.
“Let them go back to that boring Lenin; I don’t care,” she
says winsomely. “Some people hate porno. Some hate love. I’m for
them. Some even like to be celibate. I say, goody-goody. There’s
plenty of room in the healthy new Bolshevism for everybody.”

The Destruction of the Universe Inc.

Thanks to that rascal, Bernard Madoff, the ultimate charity
has become bankrupt. We stalwarts at The Destruction of the
Universe Inc. were on the brink of discovering a way to
manufacture xyphlox cheaply: the cosmic dissolver of the bonds
between positive and negative ions in galactic chemistry, not to
mention the connections between protons and neutrons in atomic
physics.
With a mere quart of xyphlox we could ave dastard the solar
system. With a few gallons of xyphlox pouring into the ether of
outer space we could ave eventually turned the whole of reality
itself its natural condition of lightness chaos and void. With a
generous tub of this heady stuff we could have cured the
suffering of other universes in which the pain of being is even
more acute and extreme in its deep anguish that it is here.
Instead of going belly up quietly like a defunct pizzeria or
broken parking meter we are asking the public to give what they
can to fund our pious cleansing program to purge reality itself
of any life, consciousness, reflection or even a semblance of
pattern or design in anything. We could all return to the
innocence and pellucid simplicity of a realm both irredeemably
defunct, lifeless, without a scintilla of memory.
If xyphlox isn’t enough to do the job we have been looking
at the value of zalix. We have synthesized in our Plattsburg
laboratories the contagious dynamite atom-cracker that pulverizes
the very organization of everything basic in mineral organization
from little neutrinos to even more tiny random nameless Chesire
Cat mini-particles that don’t even exist all that consistently as
you and I do.
We are asking you even if you are broke, out of a job,
harassed by tigerish critters, on the sauce and feeling a little
blue to give your pennies and nickels to our charity. There is
too much at stake for any of us to be niggardly when we can end
suffering and anguish itself forever.
It is of course not true that Destruction of the Universe
Inc. is and was always a charity of manic, labial and ravening
party animals that spent one hundred percent of its once copious
Baghdad in boom times for administration. We may ave had our
share of binges, bibulous revels in Hawaiian and Monacan hotels,
orgies and feasts in Tiajuana on the company pad of course.
Hey, who in American commerce outside of a few chumps
chained to the damned walls hasn’t done that? God knows we aren’t
feasting any more. We are now a no frills nitty gritty
grunt-oriented organization dedicated to tearing down the very
warp and fabric of reality.
Make out those checks to our umbrella organization, Organic
Carrots Kill Limited, and know you are a priest yourself, a
tonsured ippissimus and honored ally of our righteous universal
therapists ready tomorrow or the day after tomorrow to end all
suffering and pain.

Vintage People

Vintage People is the dating service for the dead the living
envy. We have brought more people together before and after dealt
than any cemetery or any religion. We;’ve also changed the way
people think about crones and corpses. Nobody’s ever been sued by
a nonagenarian or a cadaver. That’s not because the decrepit and
dead are more moral than the living; it’s that they don’t want
anything you have.
We’ve lately expanded our services to set up liaisons for
the middle aged and almost dead. People who are over ripe or
nearly dead show an appreciation for your affection that one
never finds at all in the young. They are also ready to do
anything at all in bed. They never say: “I never thought of that.
I wouldn’t do anything like that.” They’ve done it a thousand
times. After a while of doing it they thought they did it too
much. They’ll happily and gratefully do it again one more time
with you.
Our clients have asked us why we don’t expand our services
to youth. Believe me, we would get into that field in a minute if
we could make any money at it. We can’t sell the value of young
people to anybody.

Vista of Paradise

At the Harry Greene Memorial Towers every cozy whirling orb
has a two story ranch house with a windows that activities
exquisitely detailed holographic views of the Pyramids, the Taj
Mahal, the Vatican, the Parliament in London, feverish coitus of
your favorite Hollywood stars or the Grand Canyon.
Of course such panoramas mean nothing to you and not too
much more to us: what view does? In your modern doghouse without
doors or windows your delighted mutts will see a world of reeking
meat-laden bones and floating rotting lamb chops. Your kids will
see three dimensional smiling cartoon images of mommy and daddy
much more handsome than you. Their television sets playing and
babbling away forever, embedded in the floor, walls and ceiling
will play Howdy Doody and Mickey Mouse marathons that will run in
loops for a thousand years.
These units, entirely powered by solar energy and a
recycling machine, turn not merely sunlight into sparkling
carbon-free electricity, faces into Lucullan gourmet feasts,
urine into cunning wines and vomit into tartar sauce, but chaos
and emptiness itself into a bright optimistic upbeat design that
will keep you laughing no matter how lousy your life is.
Every room though empty has a television set with the news
randomly put together by computers from audio-visual tapes
authentic events that may or may not have happened.
To accommodate our more solipsistic clientele we have
personalized news programs that assume the central events of
Earth over aeons in the past is and has been about themselves.
Maybe it is true.

The Vug

What is the Vug? It is plainly and egregiously of no use to
anyone, much too big to carry or haul anywhere, yet oddly as well
deeply too small to be seen easily without an expensive
microscope. Oddly fragile, it becomes a heap of insufferably
fragrant dust as quickly as it can; at its worst it also
occasionally explodes and injures all in the vicinity. Its hidden
sharp edges cut the fingers if one is even near it. It infects
the skin like a weird fungus.
Vugs can’t be eaten, worn as either hats or shoes, made
love to, well or ineptly, or even traded speculatively in
imaginary product flea markets; anyone who has hoarded them like
precious metals has had to throw them away instantly, at most a
short while later with a curse as a pure loss.
A Vug in the end is always a vehicle of subtly rank ashes.
It is at once colorless and can hurt the eyes with its
conspicuous lack of tint. Foul in its odor, it can seep into
every floorboard of a house or office or temple. Its gluey and
sour innards pick up loud and raucous radio signals from the
tedious agitrpop sites rife all over the world, even from other
worlds. Scientists say the Vug may not be alive; perhaps it
isn’t quite conscious as a virus is; it certainly eats
everything, spilling its musky inner fluids and ichors on the
world, things and people, even high opinions dear to you.
A Vug of course needs to be gorged incessantly with
fabulously expensive glandular viands of dying minks only
available in a gourmet pet store; otherwise it wails at all in
the vicinity, even souls faraway, a silicon waif seemingly
enraged with impersonal self pity.
Even a young Vug gives off venomous lavender radiations
which inspire those proximate to it with a sense of vague
discomfort, a mood of bilious mysterious misery. In its
lugubrious ways it is often the indirect architect of all kinds
of close betrayal and treachery.
The most handsome of any Vugs are hardly comely nor a
vessel for one’s spiritual transports. Vugs are always wizened,
apparently very old; they never have the absurd hope of the
puerile.
Never, never buy a Vug for yourself. Purchase it secretly
by mail order, waft it to your country, kindred, allies those
beloved to you, those loyal and lovely intimates lodged deeply in
your heart. Watch your very relatives, your assorted loved ones
thank you with a nod after their impolite or surly fashion while
they kick a broken, noysome Vug deeply into the landfill. Each
of them who are life’s ippissimi will or should acknowledge with
a grunt or lupine snarl your mute left handed charity.
What good if any is a Vug? Wags say its use for the wise is
only to allow one to make a discreet deposit of an epidemic of
wild Vugs rampant in the myriad citadels of their enemies. We in
the Vug business of course don’t feel that way at all. The gift
of a Vug to a loved one is usually enough to motivate them if
they ever survive your largesse to stop acquiring anything they
don’t need.

WaybackWhen: The Video Game of the Past

We feel at Nostalgia Productions in Taiwan we have created
the ultimate virtual experience of or yesteryears no matter what
one’s traditions might be. We have in our subdirectories the
sub-games Poverty, Bad Hygiene, and Invasion.
Another role paying category, Cemetery From Hell, offers you
farewell jousts at close quarters with family members you’ve
hated and once grudgingly endured. You program the details; we
provide the action.
A special feature, The Old Country, is an epic tale that
will remind the player very sorely of why his family left their
ancient lands. Another game: Keep Those Bastards Off The Ark,
brings up Devonian, Triassic and Jurassic creatures you have
sadly missed by being born in this time. Many of them are
fearsomely ugly predators who have habits and tastes that are
inexplicable to us if they are possibly understood by God.
For those who want a simulacrum of life under leadership of
the wise and great we have epic tales of desperate and bloody
scrambling under the aegis of snuff masters like Genghis Kahn.
Hitler, Stalin, Pope Innocent Third, Torquemada, Montezuma,
Sardanapolouus and Idi Amin.
For our libertarian customers who prefer a life of freedom
we offer them: Rough Wilderness: a world field with mosquitos,
failed crops, dead and rotting livestock, battalions of crows,
raccoons, assorted rampaging wolves, termites and grizzly bears.
For the clientele who have had enough and prefer other worlds we
have games that take place on giant padlocked spaceships that are
moored in a Jersey City port and go nowhere.
We are purveying this game only at select locations catered
by Vintage Foods, our Panamanian subsidiary, which supplies
rotting meats, limp vegetables along with tepid flat beer and
soda to all locations, free. Some of our fare comes straight from
fabulous Arctic sites of Canadian corporate landfill.
Why, one may ask, should one buy such a game from a
Taiwanese manufacturer though of course though we sell them for
less, when similar elaborate amusements are being offered by
American firms? We are more authentic about history as some
conceive it because these virtual worlds are not our past.
Yes, we have noticed nobody is offering a comparable game
about Taiwan in Taiwan.

Suburban Welfare: A Plan For America

This beautifully produced reissued edition of Hypolitte
Bourbon’s 1070 classic, illustrated with its famous murkily
erotic woodcuts by Vin Franzetta, adds to its lyric text a
touching contemporary Afterword by the author. Bourbon claims
with justice he and his allies never had enough power and money
to do what he had hungered and hoped for to redeem the humanity
he loved.
Bourbon had always aimed to bring all of America the glories
of Welfare. He traces how he and his social agency confreres were
active in breaking down the fleeing bastions that had run away
from Welfare, living in hermitages where voting Republican even
if the candidates were felons, imbeciles and degenerates out of
their fear of people like himself was de rigueur.
Bourbon notes it had been relatively easy to dupe the
natural chumps who were artificially indigent into a world of
broken homes, shadowy fathers, ferocious androgynous mothers,
stupefied and violent miniature brats, a general mein of a war
zone everywhere; in 1970 he wondered how could one bring the same
grisly felicities to the whole country?
Bourbon, a Pulitzer Prize winner, one of America’s great
philosophers, focused on convincing a bourgeois consumer populace
beyond the cities taking refuge in tract homes that were in fact
paying the bills for the hapless and cozened spirits that
everything pleasure was the sole purpose of life, shopping was
the central rite of a happiness, carnivorous hunting of one’s
interest and prey was human sanity itself not to menton healthy
morals.
What went wrong, Bourbon asks? Certainly men were better off
being in legal indenture, women embracing fashionable loneliness
and androgyny, children freed of scurvy authority and guidance,
dogs and cats privileged as if they were God’s natural domestic
barons.
Eventually in the new credit economy the Welfare clients
were paying for the middle class, Bourbon concludes. They
supported their own former patrons on their credit cards.
Whatever one thinks of Bourbon’s theories and actions for
social justice he is not likely to be forgotten as a wonderful
Italian chef. One can find his recipes for colorful and cunning
pasta dishes, garnished with tripe stewed in amply spiced
Sicilian white wine at the gorgeously illustrated back of this
volume. He includes most generously some ingenious ways of
cooking puppies in a once secret regional Vietnamese spicy sauce.
Like Bourbon himself, they are part of our new American
legacy.

Western Pleasure Systems

Fatigued by stale intimacies? Irritated by life itself?
Wearied by the clumsy and mucky engines of the food cycle? Tired
of indulging the cosmos and its shambling, bumbling ways? Western
Pleasure Systems brings you the ultimate entertainment machine
for relishing your mortality. Not a television set, a cellphone,
a movie theater or a computer, Gugolak is the powerfully
addictive electronic implant that keeps you moving all day long
to an unseen orchestra. Your banalities are cackled at by a laugh
track of certifiably dead people who tardily appreciate you, your
carnal follies are subtly enhanced by sampled rhythms from the
fecund rain forests of Youmi-galoo. You can play Hearts or any
card game you pleasure against destiny itself or other palmers
all over the world. You can sleep to lullabies hymned by the
Moron’s Tabernacle Choir lookalikes. You can perish, be buried
and have elegies chanted by imaginary banshees shaking your
coffin.
If you visit any of our more classic oldtime dungeons,
prisons, execution chambers or insane asylums or you are an
aficionado of the less exotic public atrocities it will strike
you that nobody in them no matter how stupid or demented is
unaware that their life is being taken away from them. Either
they are losing it bit by hit in a lockup or the are being
ruptured from it altogether by a rope, a venom, a shot
electricity or a former rifle volley from a crack team of
sharpshooters
Once your rulers took your life way from you by poverty, bad
hygiene, incarceration, massacre and common faith systems
praising you for being a fatalistic, passive, obedient, horny
lout. Once they had torture chambers filled with spikes, knives,
eviscerators and assorted acids that would prolong your anguish.
If your kings and priests didn’t make you miserable, your lovers,
neighbors and family clobbered and hairiest you at close
quarters. Even your dogs, cats and roaches were out to get you.
Thank God, that’s all gone now! Western Pleasure Systems
makes sure your old burdens and enemies are scattered like the
random ashes of an old abandoned outhouse turned to vapor and
cinders in a fierce and ceaseless Plutonian snow.
You will be endlessly entertained by the best clowns and
masters of decade in the world, many of them certifiably
deceased, until you are ready to keel over and expire. We offer
you a choice with a mere twist of your fingertips of hundreds of
channels of etheric amusement. You ca make them all disappear
with a small wink that will seem to the large world like a minor
tick.
We know people on Earth perish from a variety of phenomena
we at present do not even hope to know much less manage. Why
should we? What good are the dead to us? It is the living we want
to rule not a bevy of decayed corpses. With Western Pleasure
System you may have a different death that your neighbor but you
will have the same life.

White Man’s White Paper

POLICY: If I am elected president I will do nothing for
eight years. I will put myself in a cryogenic tank and freeze
myself over. I might even sleep thorough your stupid little life
and hopes like Rip van Winkle. Eight paltry years from now you
will have your optimal chance to survive my slumbering rule, you
cur.
THE ECONOMY: We have graduated from buying nothing at all
because we’re dead broke to buying what we enjoy with a kind of
chilling cruelty.
That’s never expansion enough. We need to be forced to buy
Lethe-like venoms that will in dispatch us forever under slow
exquisite torture. I’m iffy on buying atomic solvents that start
a chain reacting to kill God and liquidate the universe. I leave
it to my successors to expand the economy more than I will.
TAXES: Since our worthless money is not on any standard at
all, we should turn it like endless feces and metaphysics. We
need to make everybody in this county green bubble millionaires,
even the poor, the dead, and the perverse.
LABOR LAWS: I am an advocate of the new Daft-Partly Law that
restricts unions from running casinos like our Native Americans.
I don’t care whether all our new unions leaders are Navahos.
HEALTH INSURANCE: I am of course for compulsory health
insurance after death. Insurance is like sex;, democracy,
spaghetti, potato chips and new of far off exotic victims. We
cannot get enough of it.
ABORTION- We need universal abortions of all life even the
ghoulish whirring undead on Pluto. I’ve not complaining about our
local fiends, monsters and imbeciles. When one think of the
crashingly boring mediocrities we produce, a benign universal
abortion would free us all to be the last banalities on the
plant.
There must be equal living clichs lurking and maundering in
the shadows of Mars; they have to go too.
SOCIAL SECURITY- I would like to expand Social Security and
Disability to include the packs of aging and necrotic dogs
hunting rats thorough our inner city slums. I want Disability for
the healthy and sane. It’s hard to be all virtue..
EDUCATION- In my view our enemies are entitled to an
education. We need to send our teachers not only to the ghettos
but to Iraq, Afghanistan, Somalia, anywhere there are dissidents,
insurgents, foreign versions of the kids in our schools; we need
to train these Hottentots to be cattle or like us, worse than
cattle.
ENEMIES: We are lucky in our enemies. I think we should keep
them.
HOLIDAYS: I think we should have one national holiday,
Thanksgiving. We should eat like an army of pigs, keel over and
go to sleep.

Wildeworld

We know that the trouble with our role playing games in real
time for many of our customers is that they discover they have
five Oscar Wildes at some orgy, twenty Jeffrey Dahmers at a
cannibal feast, hundreds of Hitlers trying to conquer the world
and thousands of Michael Jackson pulling uncontrollably at their
crotch and pretending to be shamelessly horny while they’re
singing and dancing.
One shows up at a role playing orgy and finds all the fey
revelers are exhausted and asleep. One aims to consume virtual
human flesh with sauce bearnaise and discovers all the rich meat
has been devoured; there is nothing left in the room but
anonymous bones from some forgotten massive slaughter boiling in
a large steel pot.
We have changed. In this ultimate virtual reality role
playing game of Victorian London from the people who brought you
Jeffrey Dahmer World and Aleister Crowley World will gerund you
will be the only Oscar Wilde as the resident genius of this snug
chamber Creation interminably investigating the gruesome murders
in Soho of the mysterious Jack the Ripper.
Laugh hysterically as one attends the rounds of extravagant
supper parties with no other Oscar Wildes present, elaborate
banquets where such wits as Sydney Smith, Madam Blavatsky, Frank
Harris and George Bernard Shaw drolly drawl out their jeweled
epigrams.
Join yourself as Oscar alone in his stroll through the famed
decadent Art Deco brothels of Mayfair where the most
unconscionable uranian pleasures are all too accessible to the
cognoscenti for a mere crisp five pound note. Thrill to his two
trials; despair with him in his chains as he maunders in Redding
Gaol. Sail to Tunisia with Oscar and Andre Gide by yourself to
sample the transcendental if illicit delights of that fabled
country.
We are above all a healthy business who listens to our
clientele. After the complaint that there were a thousand Hitlers
playing HitlerWorld with some sensible if anguished bellicosity
we came up with an experience both different and less perilous
for all of you.
There should be only one you.

Womb Tomb

Womb Tomb by Taipei’s premiere video game makers Nostalgia
Inc. Is the ultimate experience in retrograde existence.
Womb Tomb offers an uncanny virtual reality of audio-visual
pre-natal perceptions. It can be used for nascent hours of
saturnine amusement; it is as well a kind of castle-keep five
finger exercise for transconceptual meditation, used by spiritual
ippissimi as a cognitive preparation for deep dream therapy in
caves or one’s Arctic Fortress of Solitude refuges.
It is a powerful ontological venom that can deftly rob the
purblind of their notions of seasonal design of the world;
sometimes also gently loosens the cerebellum, lightens the tyros
in such dour peregrinations of their very sanity.
We have received a J. Edgar Hoover “genius” Grant for Womb
Tomb; marketed cheaply, even given away, its constant use in
volume effectively keeps people out of trouble. There’s not much
one can do to wreak political or even private havoc when one is
playing Womb Tomb besides except take an ax to the computer,
trample on it with sharp fanged cleats, scream pre-Babylonia
esthetics at the wrecked heap, bawling hymns and runes to Marduk
in a rapt choleric rage. Afterwards even if one is a ravening
maniac dripping green saliva, one is constrained by fashion,
commerce or deeper ineluctable hungers to by another computer, a
more elaborate and elegant version of Womb Tomb.

Zabar Planet

Zabars, the legendary Upper West Side delicatessen has
announced to the media that it is taking over the planet. It is
distributing endless slabs of salami for everybody. Under the
glutinously fat salami banner it is displaying everywhere it is
giving everyone on Earth, even beggars, a lifetime supply as well
of goat cheese, California wine and sea-salted organic whole
wheat crackers.
Every place in the planet will be filled with white-coated
genial Zabars caterers offering these fabulous very civilized
comestibles, all of which will cost you nothing. Watch for it;
get on the enormous line of the happy folk at the Zabars depot in
your neighborhood!
Zabars has no plan, no belief system, no sense of destiny,
no morals, no enemies, no passions, no honor, no theory of evil,
no hope, no consciousness. There is of course no princely Joe
Zabar and his brother, the priestly and oddly austere Ralph
Zabar. That’s all folksy treacle for the innocents who believe in
Zeus, Jango and Santa Claus.
Zabars spelled backwards is Srabaz, an equally meaningless
name.
You only have to know: we have the salami.

Teacher-Free Schools

We at Teacher Free Schools are indeed the latest revolution
in American Education. We keep our schools not only teacher free
but principal free, assistant principal free, and lunchroom
attendant free. Our school lunches are gluten-free, fat free
sugar free. We have no school lunches or any lunches.
Teacher-free Schools are You-Free and Me-Free. You’re not
there; I’m not there. They are also All-free. There is nothing
and nobody there.
I’m happy to say many of our schools have also become
kid-free. There is nobody in our buildings. We don’t even have
stray cockroaches and rats in the cellar or hawks and pigeons
sitting on the roof. We are building-free. We don’t have a
building. We don’t have metal detectors frisking you at our
doors. We are door-free. We of course have no doors.
Some say we don’t exist. Can that be?
There is a federal mandate for you and your fellow taxpayers
to support us freely giving the best free schooling we can give
to young free Americans. Nobody, certainly not free Americans,
pay taxes for nothing.

My Presidential Manifesto

Yes, I am running for President again. I don’t want the
electorate to put me into the White House for my personality. I
do have a stunning charm, impeccable morals and elegant domestic
habits. Yet want to be a leader who is only valued by his ideas.

Here are some of them.

1. Giving certifiedly insane people in our national asylums
the vote. Nobody denies them their right to vote; they simply
can’t escape the loony bins to do so. Politicians vying for the
vote of the dramatically daft as a legitimate estate will give a
new twist to the stale promises of our usual demagogues.

2. Pay off the national debt by running pay-for-view public
executions on television. We as a people are commonly denied our
right to watch those whom our justice system has properly deemed
worthy of a public death an affordable view of their demise.
I am not worried that with the moneymaking power of
executions the government will seek to dispatch more of our
citizens than ever committed even an act of jaywalking. I say:
let it happen. We have too many jaywalkers.

3. Legalize drinking milk. Most people aren’t aware that if
drinking milk isn’t quite illicit, no law says that it is a
legitimate act either.

4. Make same sex divorce lawful but not same sex marriage.
Or make same sex marriage lawful but not same sex divorce.

5. Either make us a legitimate province of China or make
China the 52nd State. We Americans don’t need a 51st State.

6. I believe in jails without walls. They shouldn’t have a
floor or a roof either.

7. We need a border patrol to stop Americans from leaving
this country illegally.

8. Americans are too thin. I would given each citizen a
lifetime supply of potatoes.

9. I don’t really like rutabaga. I put up with kale. Luckily
I believe in limited government.

10. Since life makes people feel lousy, I think people are
better off watching television.

Spams: Notes On an Experiment in Distribution

Since apparently only Richard Kostalanetz knews what I was
doing though I certainly never had to explain it to him, I
thought I would state my scurvy intents to all in a bald, direct
way.
I am taking a form we experience all the time in e-mails,
Spams, combining them with a generous habit we all have with
items we like on E-mail, forwarding them to those whom we think
might like them too. I am inferentially asking all who think they
have friends or even enemies and strainers who will enjoy my
Spams to forward them to them.
I am trying to be distributed in a cyber-mechanics like a
circle with an infinite circumference rather than of one with a
rusty pyramidal engine like those of the late pharaoh.
I am very aware of the hoary pharaonic methods of
circulating Jurassic literature. I was brought up in the cloaca
of the beast. I have heard the horror stories of those trapped
like Pinocchio and Giapetto in its maw.
I am, God help me, formally educated. I even read the New
York Times when I was a kid: that opiate for the formally
educated. Hopefully I have recovered.
As a result I know all about respectable orthodoxy,
censorship and pious fight from nature. I am aware of the pits
and lairs waiting in the second tier when one climbs with
attendant bruises out of the first one.
I don’t want to fall back into devouring Leviathan now that
I am on the kiosk-laden shore of an unknown land. How am I going
to make money, you ask? I have too much money. I don’t need any
more lucre nor even a little more credit. i don’t know what to do
with the infinite troves of jewels and shekels I have.
I am writing this not to advertise myself but to suggest to
you very politely that you too may want to use Spam as a literary
form in your own way, or embrace this Flatland lateral
distribution method. Just think: no agents, dyspeptic agent’s
readers, editors, bilious editor’s readers, flatulent salesmen,
rental of shabby stores, no trucks and adipose truckers to pay!
No desperation, no despair. No feeling like a robot
cockroach.
Anybody is free to use this form, this centrifugal engine.
How could anyone stop you?
I’ve had thousands of people reading my satire on my web
site. I don’t know how many have read my Spams; it’s probably
a lot. If you, like Isaiah, cast your bread upon the waters as
many do nowadays even if they spew out stale tasteless crumbs,
often banalities or bad jokes, you may find some vaporous rewards
elsewhere though like many a great teacher and the armies of the
dead, you may never know it.
Does it matter? We all are as real as anything or anybody.
If we don’t do what we are fashioned to do we affirm that we
aren’t real.

A Spam Mamafesto

I am writing this Mamafesto because most of the people who
get my spams think I am doing something else. They must all be
intellectuals.
A Spam is an unsolicited advertisement for commerce sent out
in shameless volume. It is never personal nor signed by any
spammer. It is usually goofy in spite of itself.
Its purpose is robbing the gulls of their lucre. It usually
offers specious or illegitimate products in some way that appeals
to the worst vices of the Spam reader.
They aren’t in principal any different than the four color
glossy junk mail we’ve been getting for a lifetime telling us to
pollute ourselves in an ordinary way.
My aim is to create spams that have a slightly higher
intent. I want these bogus advertisements to be passed on in
brainless volume like junk mail. In a world with ever new
business options I am honoring our one common religion:
commercial reality.
I hope that these glass and steel impersonal efforts inspire
others to write different spams for different reasons than my
own. I am still waiting to get one ethical Spam. Spam like life
and death is neutral. Spam can be used like sex to purvey
benisons or wickedness.
Ask yourself, if in some sense all Art is an elusive and
vaporous advertisement, what would you like to offer it as your
contribution to a realm of bottom communal influence?
Whatever it is, wouldn’t you like to live in a world in
which you are a minor prince in a legitimate commercial estate
instead of some marginal fake caballero or loon? Spam is one of
these lawful franchise open to us all, even you.
If I ever get the machines those Russians have that send out
97 million spams I’m going to do so. I hope you will too.
Pass this on to strangers, countries, spirits.

Anti-Monopoly: A Shtarker Brothers Game

Anti-Monopoly by the legendary Shtarker Brothers is a board
game for our time. There is only one player; it is lamentably
never yourself. You at most only watch only the indirect actions
of this murky player as it lands in this classical board game on
the Palace of Greed, the Citadel of Debt, the Byzantium of
Powder, the Windmill of Artifice, the Hottentot Borders, the
Lucullan Feast Of Feasts, the Five Star Hotel, the Emirate
Paradise, The Ambassador of Corruptions, the Priests of
Fashionable Depravity, or hurry through the ravening nightmare
tours of the prison-school system and the Castle of Justice.
Occasional the mysterious player lands on sites that are
rank nests of scurvy dissenters; he bribes some lout among them,
perfumed and hypocritical, to lead them into his camp. This sole
player never needs money; he can print or say he printed it. He
never needs love either. He can buy that like taco chips.
Though he has no visible competitors but a few famished
bears in the wilderness, the player is harried by many betrayers
among his intimates splitting perversely off from his
enterprises, annoyed at assorted rebels lurking beneath the
mountains of the moon who plan his dispatch.
One does not to be in the room or even in the visible
vicinity of Anti-Monopoly have to play this classical board game.
The Shtarker Brothers, Mel and Marv, themselves say that one
is in fact indisputably better off if one can flee, civilly or
otherwise, as far away from the game as possible.

0-0-0: The Ultimate Channel Of Contrivance

Nobody knows better than the Triple O folk that we live in a
country in which people spend most of their waking hours watching
television. We at Triple o are offering an astral trip to a
planet we have fashioned out of vapor and dust not too far away
that will manifest in life all the realms they once thought were
securely confined to the tube.
We have manufactured as it were a whole plaint of serial
killers, honest and industrious production staffers, cops with a
sense of sin, teams of female private detectives, boorish wives
and demented husbands, bratty smart ass kids, assorted vampires,
well dressed psychopaths and British lordly establishments as
England has never had in sixty years, and a nobility that nobody
ever had anywhere.
On this planet we have a New York society that is witty,
urbane and honorable. We even have Washington politicians who are
either honorable or who struggle over being bribed.
If that’s not enough, folks, we have film stars that are
genuinely interesting. We even have an American government that
actually wants to help the world become democratic.

Hate Date: The Gourmet Dating Service

Hate Date is a modern computer generated database
organization that hooks you up with the most unpleasant, boring,
otherwise insufferable people a contemporary scouring of our
varied populace can find in America.
We also have an escort service of even worse people many of
whom come from small rural towns in Russia.
We can put you almost instantly in intimate circumstances
with the most tedious, disgusting, charmless and terminally self
involved spirits walking this Earth. Some of them will even try
to bankrupt you in extensive litigation. Others will merely steal
you very mortality from you with their unconscionable dullness.
To spend even a few minutes with them you may have to fly to
their sequestered semi-Arctic refugees where their own
communities have put them under constant surveillance. If the are
busy it is laboring at crimes that no justice system has been
able to find words for. They are swinishly obese, plummeting into
irreparable debt in the American way. Luckily God loves
everybody; they are perhaps the souls most cherished by a
merciful deity.
When you take them out to diner they order with a tinkly
laugh the most expensive items on the menus , then get nasty on
the vintage wine. If you want to sleep with them, it’s easy
enough if hardly memorable; yet you get crabs.
Our escorts are obsessed by rages, intense ordinary hungers
and piques, all of which they offer to the hapless and innocent
as their lulling conversation when they aren’t utterly alone,
mumbling to themselves. even kicking a wall because nobody but
their dog or cat or a few unlucky guppies in their aquarium can
stand their equivocal company.
After an instant or season with such people around you, you
will haply savor the relief we all feel when we are finally
bundled onto a space ship far away from some bore or worse we
have lamentably sat next to on a bus.
Hate Date has been sued incessantly by some of the largest
corporations in America, mostly for gratuitous cruelties, for
sinister reasons only beginning with fraud and theft. We are
proud of that. We are after all what we are.
So are you.

The Consumers

The Consumers are the rock band offering music of rampant
devouring. They are four grossly overweight musicians who make
their sonics by belching, farting and loudly defecating, sitting
on accordion-like immense cushions that waft out mournful fog
horn wails as the musical chairs are compressed by the weight of
the combo. Many critics have wondered why this group is popular
or that it exists at all.
The Consumers are famous among us because we all know they
support in spite of themselves a vast servant class. Somebody has
to bake and deliver the pizza.

Sign Up For Kindergarten!

The Amalgamated Kindergarten Teachers of Senegal are
presenting a new program for oldsters weary of the usual boring
school courses they take up after they retire. Now you can all go
back like a child to kindergarten.
We have schools all over the West in which you can play a
variety of very simple sentimental games and sing sugar patriotic
songs proper to your scurvy locale under professional
supervision.
Our hired professional staff will treat you with the
indulgence even saints usual only give to dunces and children.
Our government in Senegal provides for a very affordable fee one
can take up in easy time payments the alert and well trained
staff in starched uniforms of white coats like nurses offering
you aid and guidance; you merely have to be there to be nurtured
primally by our smiling solders giving you the educated charity
of the helping professions.
Our foes are content to make one’s golden years a mere
extension of the staleness and violence with which we all are so
familiar from your scruffy years of ripeness. If you crumple as
so many do even with our well trained and caring teachers we have
doctors on call on every floor of our schools, a well polished
fleet of ambulances waiting to whisk you to a vast and efficient
hospital as loving as we are at any moment.
We offer you another way, a better way.
It could be worse.

Lets Live In Canada!

Canadian Arctic Real Estate Limited is opening up a new
housing development somewhat north of the fabled Bering Straits
which might be right as a base for enriched living for you. We
have two hundred thousand identical new homes width efficient
galvanized porcelain cisterns waiting for your inspection and
almost inevitable happy purchase in a snug corner of these
fabulous polar regions.
They will give you all the necessary comforts and near
magical power over your life you probably have never had in the
bustling world of ordinary work. If you are some sort of mere
competent drone at heart you can labor easily and with pleasure
and satisfaction in our nearby curried seal meat sausage
processing plant.
Some say we are merely looking to staff our factory. It is
true it is the only work available there. One has to do
something.
Of course the land is affordable not to say cheap. You can
assume with confidence that no barbarian foreign armies will
attack, loot and otherwise carnally ravish you. They would have
to slog through thousands of miles of ice and snow to get to you.
Your new neighbor will like yourself never be haunted by any
old intimacies you now have to endure.
None of the people in the development will have even a scant
burr-like memory of being there even last week or a half hour
ago. We have amnesiac chemicals in the waiter that ensure you
will never have to recall anything of your past, dismal,
marginal or even criminal as it might be.
We deliver all your favorite electronic amusements in a
mercurial stream via our space station not far from the moon to
your weariless machines. We fly chilled kiwi fruit and frozen dog
meat from Alaska, artificial pineapples to you from Peru. Your
clothes will have all the fashion and casual panache your
brilliant personality has; all our garments are designed for us
by Oscar del la Stompa of Paris.
Most Canadians huddle cravenly near their southern border
and pretend to be Americans. Up in the Arctic north we embrace wo
and what we are.
If you don’t like our accommodations because they are too
commodious you can always more on to comparable enclaves we have
built on the Moon and Mars.
We are celestial patriots. America itself is about what we
are. We are angels of ultimate emigration, the invisible mahatmas
of liberty, the benign spirit guides of freedom.

The College For Unassisted Living

Those who apply to its immortal rival, the University For
Assisted Living, are under posh house arrest for four years, told
what to believe, have rather oppressive restrictions on their
private life. For this reason some say it isn’t that the College
For Unassisted Living is absolutely a great school but that its
alternatives are demonstrably a worse collegium than it is.
Whatever the truth of this fabulous charge, it’s still
amazing that with no advertisements, seemingly no circulus, no
formally certified teachers, no degrees given, having no cushy
tie-ins with the corporate community or the government, the
College For Unassisted Living is still the most popular
educational system in America.
The College For Unassisted Living has no address; it I
located everywhere. One can find it even in the millions of light
years broad oceans of ether in the vast seas of nothingness
between the stars. It has free tuition. One doesn’t so much
graduate from this refugee from The College For Assisted Living
as one outlasts it, unless it outlasts you.

Citoyen! A bestseller by Claude Fleur de Mal

Fleur de Mal, author of L’Enfer Et Moi and noted French
Eskimo social activist, has been notably aggrieved for years at
illegal immigration in his own country. Now he offers the same
solution that has worked for France to America, his own political
recipe, though some say that it has perhaps lately transformed
France into a very strange place.
“We in France know how to do these things better than you
Americans,” he says candidly in one of his town hall meetings in
Arizona. “We insist that any illegal Magrebis in France
immediately have children whether they feel any carnal hunger to
do so or not. Then the children upon birth or even before birth,
are citizens of France five momentous seconds later
adopt their parents in a beautiful and hauntingly sacred formal
ceremony presided over by our more progressive august local
dignitaries.
“These legally French newborns signify their assent to the
procedure by defecation, micturating, bawling or whimpering.
Utter silence and even sleep is also acceptable. If the
baby has expired that is no problem. Adoption after death is
legal in France. If there is no real baby that is legal too. Ne
can have in both America and France legal but no physical
existence, a wonder of our modern metaphysics.
Once one becomes the legal children of such real infants
one’s condition is not only of instant French citizenry but near
regal privilege. Infants of any age, even if they are very old,
are eligible for government benefits.
After one becomes a legal French adult and these rights
expire suddenly, one simply goes next door and applies for old
age benefits based on one’s real biological age. It is all of
course eminently legal, perhaps one might say, quintessential
French. One has even more benefits after death. Benefits to
utter fictions from meta-corporations to Santa Claus are
perfectly legal too.
“Legally adopted children do not any more than real
children,: says Fleur de Mal, “have no obligation whatsoever to
their parents. In fact the government has to take
care of them and their various pets , all of them in various ways
incontinent, none able to function independently.”
Luckily the government provides video games, even dog video
games to keep their homes tranquil. When the legal and
biological parents grow up in the same real time they find even
less reason to love, honor or even casually notice each other
though they are of course constrained to live with each other at
least a week.
After a diaper-changing decade, Fleur de Mal says, nobody in
France among this vast army of legal Frenchman loves each other,
can bear each other’s company and would probably like to kill
each other.
Luckily they all remain even after death genuine legal
citizens of the same country.

Divorcing Yourself

The irrepressible Aristide Le Shanu, author of Marrying
Yourself, has produced another veritable encyclopedia of
tempestuous court records of enraged the Single Room Occupancy
Generation who had married themselves, now roundly excoriating
their own character as they ritually rid themselves in assorted
legal stews.
Are some of the revelations a trifle mendacious? No matter.
The book has been forwarded to the World Court at the Hague as a
justification for extermination of the human race, perhaps of
life itself. The horrendous details of this immense volume are so
ultimately damning of our species alone it’s no wonder the World
Court is now entertaining a civil suit once promoted, now
denounced by Le Shanu, to despatch all life in the universe.
“So the World Court has the atomic bomb,” he has famously
said on his blog. “So did the United States. What the hell have
they done with it lately? Nothing. Atomic bombs don’t kill
people. People kill people.”
Lately Le Shanu has been working on a new book, Remarrying
Yourself, which seems to take momentarily a more enthusiastic
view of humanity. He is also at work on a companion volume, Zut,
I Have Been Here Before: I’m Divorcing Myself All Over Again, a
volume which may be a sequel or prequal to one or both of the
other three tomes.
Le Shanu also has financed through select Cayman Island
banks some stem cell research in Conceiving Oneself. “The
Superman will be one second old and then expire,” he says on his
blog. “He will hope for and remember nothing.”

Landfill City Celebrates The Month of Trash

To lead the festivities in the Month of Trash Landfill City
has commissioned three great chefs to make fabulous dishes worthy
of libertine princes, the fantastic scrumptious fare to be dumped
in our vast tar pits a few milers south of rustic Atkins,
Arkansas. They will be wafted with a flair into the lightless and
bottomless abysses by celebrity starlets and television reality
show crooners.
Oscar de Ma Nage will have his fabled truffled lobster
tossed into this hole of holes by lovely silicon hipped
Passaique, a former child star in legendary pharmaceutical
documentaries. Tamerlane Karamzaov of Minsk will hand his white
caviar mousse over to luscious Jenny Sandusky, former
professional wrestler, the feature actress in many designer
lavabo commercials, for a most delicate deposit in the profound
depths of this subterranean dump of all dumps.
Finally, Lenny Headstrong of Ultimate Hamburgers will put
eight kinds of imported cheese, imported from Pakistan, tossed on
a classical American delicacy we all know and cherish, one more
gigantic plate of food to be flung into the yawning intestine of
the cavern by Ho Manoa, a genuine Bigfoot whom you saw as our
anchor athlete dancing to Tchaikovsky on our Olympic ice skating
team.
Well ,that’s what we’re doing in Atkins, Arkansas. What are
you doing to celebrate the Month of Trash?
Look around you; you’ll find somebody- or something.

The Shakespeare School of Bartending

Tired of wondering how anybody in this stupid bum economy
is ever going to pay for your elevated priestly services from the
vintage helping professions of the last century?
Psychologist, humanities and Liberal Arts professor, ward
weary social worker, glum corrections officer, parole counselor,
lethal injection pharmacist, pill-pitching paraprofessional,
undertaker, you may need to retool your sails at the Shakespeare
School of Bartending. You make not know how to make a martini.
As these assorted chambers of help are closing, local bars
with craft beers are opening everywhere, sometimes in the same
places. They all need somebody like you who knows the difference
between the rum in a Singapore Sling and a Macao Stinger. You can
listen to people’s problems and give them a frothing remedy they
are looking for.
Shakespeare himself had learned the sacred arts of tending
bar from his goodtime father in Stratford. Many of his plays are
all too obvious verse renderings of the very dilemmas his
customers were unhappy with as they tossed off the stone bumpers
of the Stratford local ale.
If you aren’t Shakespeare, if maybe Shakespeare himself
wasn’t Shakespeare, at least you can listen to the same whining
palaver the young Bard of Avon himself heard at Stratford and
give people what they really need: a beer.

The Egnorables- At The Edge of Sense

The music of the Egnorables sounds almost like late Miles
Davis and Irving Berlin totether on a dazed tear, a bit like
James P. Johnson and Harry Partch, the harmonies spiced with
halting scintillas of licks one might ascot with an inebriated
Charley Shvhers or perhaps Horace Silver on a nod.
There are lyrics that might have come from a duet of Maxine
Sullivan and Cathy Bebarian. The rhythms are almost danceable
unless one tries to shuffle one’s feet to them. The light show
offers varies shades of deep black.
The Ignorables create not only music but a whole multi-media
spectacle made to be dismissed.
The Ignorables has been utterly dismissed. They have played
to empty stadia all over the world. As soon as they show up
anywhere whole armies flee and vanish. The band says, don’t ever
go to a show starring us; you will never be disappointed. Their
latest album At The Edge of Sense cannot be bought nor given away
anywhere.
Yet nowadays people are playing Egnorables songs all the
time. They create a deceptive sonic veil no monitoring system or
drone can penetrate. They give sophisticated super-search engines
recording machines not an obvious din but an annoying near-music
that is almost but not quite chaos.
The Egnorables give you back your privacy.

Golden Age Books

Since nobody is reading books under seventy but most
literature is about young folk Golden Age people are offering the
beloved classics you cherish rewritten for its current proper
audience.

The Communist Manifesto- The tempestuous epic novel about Karl
Marx starting a violent revolution in a hospice. “We have
nothing to lose, period” Marx famously mutters.

Buddhist Water Sermons- the legendary compassionate savant
advocates the benefices of iconic stillness in tepid baths.

Hamlet- Hamlet is on the prowl to take revenge for the murder of
his grandchildren. He shows up at the Danish court to wreak
vengeance but can’t remember who he is or whom he wants to
dispatch for their heinous villainies.
Confused, he settles with Ophelia in Boca Raton. They watch
television and do a lot of spiteful and trivial quarrelling over
nothing.

La Commedia Divina- Dante finds the route to Hell in a murky
forest; doesn’t go into it. He can’t make the damned stairs. He
sits with Virgil at its edge and talks with him about half price
deals for seniors on Tuesdays for buying slices of no-frills
pizza.

The Declaration of Dependence- the inimitable sage of Monticello
describes the virtues of assisted living. The polemic that ends
with the famous phrase: “a soft chair, a glass of Madeira and the
pursuit of nobody.”

Cull, Cull, Cull by Hercule Benedictine

Hercule Benedictine, author of Put Them to Sleep, Slash and
Burn, The Art of Liquidation, Harry Christmas, The Penultimate
Holocaust, Holy Euthanasia, Take No Prisoners, Search and
Destroy, Basta! and An Oxford History of Slaughter has mellowed
his doctrines in his latest polemic or rant against life and
consciousness itself.
The ebullient Benedictine like many fashionable
intellectuals of a mechanistic persuasion has long regarded
sentient beings as an heinous anomaly, a scurvy marginal
pathology that stains an otherwise perfectly dead pellucid
universe; in his early Being Nothingness he advocates a pure
embrace of oblivion. Yet in Cull, Cull, Cull he suggests that if
some churls find his dictums too coarse or radical they might
take up universal sterilization.
On Earth, he says, the last of these colonels of an animate
cosmic epidemic would be turtles, elephants, a few redwood trees-
and Hercule Benedictine.
“Some messiah has to organize the massacre,” Hercule
Benedictine says. “One way or another, with or without someone
like me, Mother Nature will take its just revenge on accursed
sentience with one gasping yawp, a cosmic implosion, a screaming
panicked retreat of all and everything into a mere dot of
ultimately heavy and dense matter. I am of course only the
anointed one of God who will guide us all into an invisible
fortress; a single dimensionless dimension.”
To drum up support for his celestial mission Benedictine is
not only issuing bonds on the Seoul-based Kim-Park Exchange; he
appears often in a flexible zircon suit as a daytime game show
host all over America. His favorite games are Thus We Devour and
A Feast Of Dirt.
As Benedictine says: “Whatever the celestial game is,
everybody loses.”

The Decay Of Monopoly V: The Final Michugas

In this rockem-sockem episode of this classic video game you
are master banker and financier LaShaun Prevert sitting in a
ratty if once posh lobby on the Boardwalk in Monopoly City,
contemplating buying Ventnor Avenue as a car cemetery and St.
Charles Place real estate as marshy landfill, doing some glass
and steel developing on an old railroad track when a talking rat
living in the cruddy dusty rug starts gnawing at your leg.
He deposits the community chest at your feet. It’s filled
with zebra feces you don’t need.
The mysterious rodent whispers that Mediterranean Avenue
might be a good place to set up a animal whorehouse; the Water
Works is a nice spot for a therapy clinic. You note the damned
Electric Company seems to have a perpetual short circuit; the
genteel porno business on Pennsylvania Avenue has gone bankrupt.
It’s time for you to leap into action with a hostile
takeover of the denizens of the homeless sleeping all over Park
Place. Maybe they’d be fun to rob. You vault up from your chair,
take a chance on a bank error in your favor, then put all the
people in jail, even ones just visiting, to work making food
stamps with your picture on them.
You show up at Marvin Gardens for a UFO cocaine deal; in a
hold up get a trove of counterfeit swag worthy of you. You’re
accompanied in the caper by karate chopping and promiscuous
snuff-star Delecia von Finog, one who reveals to you that her
name is goniff spelled backwards. You don’t know what that means;
it can’t be good.
You’re driven while stoned on glue after rifling through the
garbage on Mediterranean Avenue; you go to jail on this chump
charge. You buy the jail, turn the place into a maximum security
pre-kindergarten dump and old age home. You pay a visit to
legendary counterfeiter Snooky Lampkin who mutters: “I must be
the government. I print money.” You and Lampkin run a fake
organic kim chee super-store.
You’re locked in an affair with a fancy lady who is charming
but very litigious. You’re in court three days a week. You’re
addicted to sniffing smoked buffalo meat cheeseburgers; you go
into rehab and get professional help from assorted Filipinos.
The helter-skelter action gets crazier as you get to the
upper levels of Monopoly City. You notice that even at the top of
Monopoly City nothing works. You pose as a cistern expert and get
to meet kingpin Silo Smiley, also promiscuous and a snuff-movie
star. You wrestle with her for ultimate power over Monopoly City
on her carpeted penthouse balcony under the stars.
The Decay of Monopoly is a video game that is guaranteed by
its makers, the swinish Porker Brothers, never to work. If our
product doesn’t crash your computer we will give you another copy
that will.

I Did That Too by Goo-Goo Xerxes

Goo-Goo Xerxes combination memoirs and porno flick I Did
That Too, released this week is the ultimate celebrity package
spectacle, a trove of sensational rumors orbiting around nothing.
Goo-Goo has indeed done nothing. She is locked in a sensory
deprivation tank.
One can buy I Did That Too from us at Fake Dogfood.com. We
will mail it to your enemies free as a gift. If you hate your dog
enough to give him phony dogfood you might be interested in our
prestigious literary line as well. We also feature: I Would Never
Do That, and I Was Never There: our acclaimed Xerxes trilogy.
Her memoirs silently deny the slanders that she has done
something wicked or something at all. Her tell-all confessions
reveal that she has not even watched television nor voted
Republican.
She has chosen to live her entire life on intravenous life
support systems in a Las Vegas subterranean maximum security
hospital. She has no interest in anything or anybody. She never
talks, even to be banal. She has the carnality of a stone. As one
might expect her erotic movie does not even have assorted love
partners in it. It offers nothing but a long still shot of an
empty room.

Masterpiece Porno Theatre

The firm that has changed the meaning of masterpiece to a
bit of wretched sitcom fluff steeped in legendary English history
to be sold to our amply paid agents at American Public
Broadcasting, now brings you Masterpiece Porno Shows featuring
the very masterful actors and actresses in our cunning exports.
Politely designed to be shown only after midnight to avoid
the gaze of the kiddies, we feature in our very masterful
masterpieces done by such masters of masterful mastering done in
the style of the late Anthony Trolloppe, a covey of well larded
British oldsters freckling in the gardens of the very posh town
houses in which we set our bathetic dramas.
You will find them at least as casually masterful in their
amorousness as they are in their equally masterful depictions of
the glories of the English class system. Are these ancien crones
mostly beyond mere puerile comeliness? Perhaps they are, what of
it? Are they dead? Probably not.
We are engaged here not in life or death nor rank scholastic
aesthetics but in penetrating the America Public Broadcasting
System to persuade the aging armies of formally educuted
innocents and dupes rife in your swinish moors, bogs and Academic
baronies to savour our mastery, that the American Revolution had
never happened.
What better place to do it after all than planting our Tory
faithful copulating within unctuous machines for pretense,
wafting their electronic ecstacies on a supposedly prestigious
television channel, one paid for amply if hardly all that happily
by cozened American taxpayers?
Heigh-ho!
We don’t ever give you Shakespeare or anyone who is a real
English master in our most masterful masterpieces. We don’t even
give you the reliably dogged Anthony Trolloppe. We give you
cabbage-strewn fare worthy of Moe, Larry and Curly sporting
obesely thick English accents.
If you’re indeed a properly educated bloke, by George, you
poor Yankee, you are usually damned happy to get it.
For the first fifty viewers with a PhD to watch Masterpiece
Porno Theatre we will rush you an authentic gooseberry crumpet
and a frothing cup of excellent and strong Indian tea.

I Am Not Harry Krishna by Herschel Kirschner

I am Herschel Kirschner, a pickle store dealer on the Lower
East Side of New York, one who has written a rivetingly and
compellingly dull account of his life living next to the famous
cult of babbling and utter renunciation. I admits I has done
nothing in his existence that might strike anyone as interesting.
What I am not, what I have not done might attract your attention.
Marrying a boring and greedy woman frank about her own
capacity to steal people’s silverware and induce unwanted tedium
in strangers, I have foaled three very forgettable progeny, all
working as Junior High School teachers. I have made at most a
moderate amount of money out of admittedly rather mediocre and
overpriced specialty pickles. I confess my only vice is an
occasional taste for penny ante street card games.
Yet by getting all the mail for the Hari Krishna cult when
former burglars, now zealots, had shuffled off to the Hamptons,
delivered by a shambling and disreputable Post Office crew, a
huge saturnine agency with a despotic lust to annoy, I have
become malgre moi the grudging curator of a herculean depository
of letters to that famed organization. This immense heap of
verbiage and stray complaints from organized crime I have
bequeathed to the cellars of the Queens College Manacle
Archives.
These hitherto never even opened epistles probably
contain themselves some of the most unsavory wails of ire,
despair and threats of revenge ever penned in any language.
Retired from the pickle business, living comfortably in a snug
air conditioned manse in Boca Raton, I have culled the most
scandalous epistles among my vast collection for the delectation
of an avid Western readership never sated in their hunger for
sleaze.
The letters include astonishing confessions of emptiness,
a vague rage against the world, invectives scribbled by various
celebrities including Onagwa Nikat, Dugo Rucka and Sakala
Mushrik. These demi-monde luminaries are admittedly hardly
household icons in America yet they oddly worshipped as something
like minor gods in the more unobtrusive Duck Cult hermitages
dotting South Wales.
Does this tome sound not even irritating in its triviality?
Does it escape the clearly awful by its bumptious mein of opacity
and deep unimportance?
I will pay you to read my book. If you can prove to myself,
Herschel Kirschner, by taking a hasty short answer test that you
have indeed at least skimmed savored the felicities of this
stunning anthology I will set you up in a retirement community in
the deserts of Arizona, Platinum Status in Tiajuana; I will give
you a Netflix Platinum subscription of Perpetual Care.
Believe me, I am not Hari Krishna.

Minutes of the New World Order

The IMF has invited several talking reptiles, arthropods,
cephalopods and various eerie Cambrian and Permian entities to
talk this year at their latest conference in Abu Dhabi.
Ug-Sothoth, a huge lizard who seemingly feasts on a diet of
artificial red insects, said that he had dominated the world for
70 million years and tired of his own repetitive tyrannic whims.
He became a covert reptile populist out of fatigue with pure
power. He wished all the mammals luck in putting off their
inevitable fatigue with domination.
Zulu-Moqo, a large arthropod from the Amazon, a kind of
ochre-colored giant crawfish, noted that his flying, swimming,
crawling and tree burrowing cousins have dominated the world well
enough, now manage it after a fashion; they all finds its
banality deep disappointment. He himself seemed very weary.
One Elodea, a Cambrian floral growth, remarked that the
management of the universe even on Mars and beyond Pluto
eventually led even the fungoid Zoloi to turn over the cosmos to
their slaves.
He notes that in the Diamond Arcularis Strain even slaves
disdain to run anything. The leaves the important decisions in
the more hermetic star systems up to legions of sixteen footed
vermillion dogs. These infra-red glowing canines have a stellar
parliament and are sufficiently armed with the vote. Some of
these glowing curs even have two votes.
The keynote speech to the IMF was by God. Asked why he
produced a scurvy Creation of pure freedom he said that even a
dung beetle or worm has better things to do that rule over
purblind phosphorescent idiots.

A Vacation In Bedlam

Worried about how those city hospitals, prisons and insane
asylums are closing right and left in your city? Of course you
are. It’s terrifying to have such dangerous people on your
streets. Zooks, you have to be crazy and wicked to stay even.
What’s worse the buildings are all being turned into luxury
co-ops. Now one has neighbors who legitimately rob and do crazy
things while they run your government instead of the helpless old
time apostles of ultimate mayhem and weekends.
Stop worrying about the real state developers right now if
you can’t do anything about anything else! Rod Shrapnell has
turned these once dim places into vacation resorts where you can
ave the almost real experience of going to prison, being locked
up in a schizophrenic ward, even while your relatives watch you
being publicly executed by lethal injection.
How does Rod Shrapnell do it? How does he make the needles
in your arm feel like death? How does he get celebrity actors
down on their luck to play the doctors, to perform seemingly real
surgical operations including amputations on the vacationers
without anesthetic? Why do the huge medieval keys to the wards
and the spectre of bloodless bodies being driven away in
stretchers, hauled into black vans look real?
Who is apparently screaming with pain in other rooms,
ranting about paranoic conspiracies to the walls? Why do the
venom-tipped handcuffs seem daunting? Does it matter?
A happy and satisfying vacation is Rod Shrapnell’s business.
In Rod Shrapnell’s world illusion has to be good.

Poor Me and the Debtors

Working out of Las Vegas, the notorious rock group Poor Me
and the Debtors are coming to your local Therapoid Emporium next
week. Your Therapoid Emporiums are huge glass and steel citadels
usually in the back of posh shopping malls. There one can
complain and be listened to after a fashion by android doctors at
very affordable rates.
Poor Me, fabulously obese, can hardly waddle onto
the stage these days, won’t play any other joint. Once one gets
to the door of her rhomboidal concert therapoid halls there is a
very steep surcharge after the daunting handling charge for your
free ticket that will lighten your prude considerably.
Yet you might get to hear Poor Me warble her oldies but
goodies including: You Deserve It, Sucker, You’ll Never Miss the
Money, Honey, That’s Mine Too, Baby, See You In Court, Hey,
My Sister Did Worse, and that heartbreaking moneymaker: Kid, I
Only Talk to My Lawyer.
The Debtors are a backup group of four brothers who flaunt
their incontinence as well as their terminal bankruptcy.
Obscenely portly Ralph Debtor owes a bundle on a car he lately
has crashed into a silicon wall. Chubby Joey Debtor is dunned by
three Scream Therapy Adjuncts while he passes bad checks to
infants in baby carriages.
Diaper-wearing Frankie Debtor has robbed his mother and
grandmother of a mountain of stray copper coins. Titziano Debtor
has sixteen credit cards under names of comic book heros and
villains. Mungo Debtor counterfeits food stamps, claims he has a
knee condition in his elbow, and is on some sort of vague
quasi-Mental Disability.
The opening act will be Tom Broker and the Federal Reserve.
Famous for the Icelandic thirty two fake flavors of phony ice
cream swindle, all of them indicted on multiple charges in three
languages on two continents, Tom and the Federal Reserve to pay
their lawyers and publicists even a miserly pittance have had to
pawn their guitars, even their aquamarine blue suede shoes; they
all sing barefoot and a capella.
Tom Broker will sing his haunting rockabilly classics: Who’s
the Hell’s Holding My Markers? and Momma, Give Me Credit.
Wags say Tom and the Federal Reserve may not even be there.
They have been bought up in a hostile takeover by Yakashima
Royale. Yakashima Royale itself of course is now sadly a minor
subsidiary of the Party of God.

Drones Of Peace

Drones Of Peace is a religious and military organization
of Sufis based in Qatar that uses the current technology to bring
its recipients minty chocolates, silicon houris, date palm lacers
and snugly packed exquisite hot lamb dishes rather than the usual
bloody gift of a violent death.
Drones of Peace are fired at random from a computerized base
outside our capital city. They are armed with artificial magnetic
and olfactory devices that follow anyone into a latrine, a stone
fortress or a hole in the ground. When they explode they shower
all in the vicinity with their sundry carnal benefices and
assorted local delicacies.
Unfortunately other masters of destiny, enemies of Qatar,
have stolen these drones from us in volume; they have sent these
same once benign devices filled with fiery explosives, agents of
destruction that annihilate not only their targets but burn
everything within a half miles of the area into velvet silt and
ivory ashes.
Thus at the very moment a drone hits a target the
vertiginous innocents and even the dogs in Qatar have no idea
whether they are about to fly abruptly to heaven, commune in
paradise with almighty Allah, make love to a comely silicon robot
or merely nibble absently on a piece of cunningly spiced
chocolate.

The Museum of Insanity

The Museum of Insanity is next to the Museum of Oblivion on
Northeast Broadway in downtown Boise, Idaho.
The Musuem of Insanity sits in its profound umbra, a moon of
the immense building that keeps it in a tenebrous black fog of
ultimate night. Even its environs are at bottom mute and pristine
if they seem to their very robots punctuated only by a loud shift
of suddenly motile minerals.
Of course the static and lifeless present of the Museum of
Insanity is admittedly a rank parody of the a more impishly
fecund past. What else could it be? What more could any museum,
even the cyclopedian and daunting Museum of Oblivion, do but
alchemize hoary nightmares into sham ghosts?
Certainly among the varied temples of the past in a decorous
downtown Boise, even the daunting obsidian Byzantium of the
Museum of
Oblivion itself doesn’t have anything or anybody in its capacious
and lightlessly opaque innards. It is a sable and silent
monument, a whispering and hissing emptiness.
The Museum of Insanity sits uncomfortably in the shadow of
the vastly larger edifice. Recently the Museum has been accused
by local Human Rights Groups of turning madness from humans to
bacteria and assorted viruses into an grisly amusement. The
Museum has countered these charges by affirming that there is not
one living or even semi-living entity in or near the building.
After the undeserved shame and court humiliations of the
late Human Rights Watch scandals. its subsequent atomic wars,
there is nothing living nor even deceptively and mendaciously
animate within five miles of the museum.
In a more civilized age, these sundry silicon lunatics down
to the lakes of primal ooze, amoebas and protozoa are all myriad
androids created by the fabled fey master artificers of legendary
Yamahaka of Tokyo.
Moreover the very public of bizarre cosmic aliens that
commonly visits the Museum of Insanity are these days mere
grinning camera-toting loutishly garbed androids, fashioned
amusedly to the sound of tinkling laughter by the aridly decadent
engineers of ultimately hermetic Hasakawa of Kyoto.

WOE: The Depressive Singles Site

Are you a Depressive-Progressive? WOE is the central place
to meet people who are miserable for no reason at all. Stop
looking for and not finding people who like you feel lousy about
nothing!
We run dances catered with organic jalapeno peppers and
tepid watery whisky, all delivered in fetid containers rank with
oleaginous rat feces by Sad Sam Natchez; the music is by The Body
Snatchers: the signature rock band that plays play nothing but
atonal dirges.
We have a computerized dating service that will put you in
the same simulated room with a raucous and despicable crowd
bawling like banshees in a multi-dimensional disaster. Our social
network, Good Greif, will stick you in a virtual room with
barefoot armies of wretched, unhappy, uncivil and loudly tearful
people.
We offer winter retreats in the Arctic, poisoned mushroom
and organic hemlock picking in Long Island, tours of urban
sewers, talks by assorted apostles of ultimate despair devastated
by pain and sorrow culled from select Bowery gin mills.
We have declared not merely April but all the months
Notional Misery Month. We have asked the President to add another
month or two to the year to give us more time to feel a vague and
intense disgust with everything and everybody.
WOE should not be confused with WHOAH!: the suicidal singles
site. We encourage our clientele to feel terrible but keep on
living. Otherwise, par bleu, we are going to be out of business.
That’s depressing!

The Lama Lo Lama

The Lama Lo Lama is one of five freelance people on Earth
who offers advice yet who does not have a menial day job. He is
senior counselor to armies of rich folks locked up in rehab.
When asked whether or not a tormented spirit tethered in a
straightjacket, stuffed coarsely in a soundproofed padded cell,
drooling and incontinent, howling their absurd life away in
lightless chambers, should do this or that, the Lama Lo Lama
shrugs; he always says nothing.
What does he mean by such pithy counsel? Nobody knows.
The Lama Lo Lama course is worried about sundry other Lamas
competing with him for offering similar advice. Though not
obsessively sartorial, he wonders sometimes how he looks in the
mirror. Like them, like most of us, he has no time for desperate
people.

The Hot Potato

The Hot Potato brought to you by Sim Park Productions of
Pusan is certainly the most popular video game in the world. It
rests on a simple enough premise: the basis of everything from
the game itself, happily addictive, to the mysteries of world
economics.
One player is given a hot potato though not told it is
searingly piping hot. To get rid of the potato one has to sell it
or give it away to another player, telling him it contains
beauty, money, power, perpetual amusement, oily and black gourmet
caviar or a reliable brand name hallucinogenic drug, whatever.
Once one has wafted this meretricious advertisement and
purges the potato instantly from ones’s hands, one’s victim has
to make a similar pitch to another player.
Of course some ultra-rabid demon vendors offer the same
smoking potato in volume to millions of rubes. Of course as well
some martyrs, hold onto the potato with a smile, alchemizing
their hands into aromatic cinders as the potato’s unpleasant
searing heat burns and tenderly roasts their flesh.
We of course disdain the Abstract Potato Decadents who offer
one a potato that doesn’t even resemble a potato. We don’t do
nasty things like that in Pusan.
Yet our seemingly scrumptious Pusan potato is after all only
a virtual potato. There is in our utterly honest Pusan game no
real edible potato, no hope, no gnashing rage, no vertigo, no
disappointment, no sense of ashy loss, no lacerating ugly
injuries to the fingers.
The game is neither a comedy nor a tragedy. Even our senior
masters of video games in Pusan can at most grasp clumsily,
perhaps even gnaw like lunatic rabid wolves at a mass of
electronic pixels on a screen that looks superficially, vaguely
like a parody, a tawdry travesty of a real potato.

Master Of Advice

I am Oracle: the engine of infinite advice.
Designed by certified hierophants from Rome to Tibet. I am
currently putting many rural and rustic ministers out of
business.
I, Oracle, remove such grunt concerns and the human quotient
altogether from this hoary priestly business by offering a
competent run of sagacity on all matters from choices of
pepperoni fast food pizza to advice on how to invest in penny
stocks.
If one advises the rich one needs only one grateful patron,
a man of wealth or a despot, to live tolerably materially.
Yet if one gives such comparable august counsel to the poor
one perforce must always do it in volume. Then one can make a
tolerable living from collecting their assorted coppery pennies.
Yet I am Oracle: a pure mineral artifice. I don’t need life,
approval, money. Like the fictional and the dead I am beyond
hope. I offer my wisdom either from nothing or at most whatever
indifferent crepuscular entities who lurk invisibly beyond the
quick and animate.

Chitterling-Zenda Systems

Chitterling-Zenda Systems brings the oldtime values of
public execution and the modern delights of scrumptious fried
chicken to the select American home.
We know public murder these days has had the humorless air
of a surgical operation in which the felonious patient dies. It
is attended not by the festive and libidinous taffy-eating public
but by elite doctors whose aim is to kill the main actor in the
ritual. It has none of the frivolity and affable ritual of
hangings nor the sizzle and sinister odor of roasted flesh
notable once in the high heyday of electrocutions.
Chitterling-Zenda Systems disdains the ultimate
claustrophobia and death by breathing in an expensive gas
chamber, those aluminum blunderbusses now auctioned off to nacral
collectors.
We all know those modern rites of passage manage to make
even a pious institutional liquidation dull. We have no mumbling
prison priest on salary, no wretched Calvinist slayer wrestling
with evil, nor medieval masked maniac with a run of virtuoso
torture adeptly focused at his grisly labor to the eerie music of
screams and a final flash of the sword.
Chitterling-Zenda Systems plays upon the earnest premises of
these current tedious and bloody government contretemps to offer
one an equally banal if never quite lethal coitus in the home, a
tepid rite that has the same clumsy lack of swagger and panache.
The ugly dun-tinted gurney, called by professionals a “Zlone”,
can be wheeled into any room at all, even the kitchen or lavabo.
What indeed might be the “Zenda”, one might ask? The “Zenda”
of course is the fecund bottom part of the “Zlone”, a prodigal
golden cornucopia of fastfood comestibles regularly churning out
Three-D print outs of precisely five measured pounds of delicious
fried chicken nuggets, always apt for the binging meal before,
during and after the liaison.
Zenda, named after the Canadian hero, Colonel Vlad Zenda,
a killing machine never loathe to feast on peacocks and gorge
himself on assorted wild turkeys even after death, was buried
with honors by the Royal Mounted in a thickly viscid
clove-scented lake of mayonnaise.
Chitterling-Zenda Systems is if nothing else for sure one
hellova gotterdammerung for our luckless and helpless armies of
locked cage and cage free chickens.
One and one’s lover is injected by the Zenda with an intense
triple dose of “Chitterling”, an inorganic cocktail of assorted
green-khaki chemicals filling the veins of one and one’s stale
amarant with a dull lack of erotic hope.
Join the American elite; get Chitterling-Zenda Systems
Platinum with its signature mint-flavored barbecue sauce. The
usual apricot dressing is a mild diarrhetic. The first fifty
customers will get a silicon indigo pickle. Battery operated, it
or the pickle can be given as a wedding gift, used in select
brothels, or simply left out on the street for passersby.

Songs Of the Criminally Insane

After brisk library sales of Songs of the Dead and Songs Of
Bigfoot, Fay Izmir and her intrepid crew have taken their
equipment to the austere and notorious Mugwump State Prison where
the more musically adept of American howling dementicados are
housed on your tax dollar to bring into your home on a CD the
sonics of the huge Lupe de Lupe Chorus and the hissing sinister
warbles of Clive Glotch.
People have talked about running Clive Glotch for deputy
governor of East Carolina for the Six Pack Party. They don’t care
who the governor is.
Clive Glotch whispers: “I never lie: I just babble.”
Interviewed on select educational television stations by
famed Bonkers Advocate Hiram Zeke Judge, himself often locked up
for bouts of slavering lunacy, Glotch is now a wag almsot a late
night staple on NPR.
This irrepressible maniac has supplied from his concrete
cell the incidental music for Sergei Schmick’s Murder at the
Watercooler: the fearless documentary about insane felons doing
white collar office work.
The Lupe de Lupe Chorus is a wailing ensemble of madmen who
think they are wolves though of course some of them are real
wolves.

Keeping PBS British

The Royal Family has finalized a deal with PBS to keep
American government public television British in a way that might
be more amusing to its viewers. The entire Royal Family will be
starring in Anthony Trolloppe’s masterpieces on their excellent
Masterpiece Theatre.
Even remote cousins of the English nobility will be playing
roles proper to them in Trolloppe’s epics. Queen Elizabeth has
been quoted by the press as saying: “I don’t know whether I can
ever give an fair and adequate account of any of Trolloppe’s
midlands riffraff though sadly they are of course my subjects.”
Many of these gentry including the Queen will be selling
imported lemon and gooseberry tarts on the tube. “I may be
selling treacle and lemon tarts; I’m no bawd,” Prince Harry has
quipped lightly.
The Labour Party of course is very happy with this new and
rather cushy financial arrangement with a chump like American
Public Television. “Inequality is an expensive luxury; it is to a
nation what golf is to toffs,” Ed Millibrand has asserted in
Parliament. “We value Labour. At last, by the high mercy of an
ineluctable God we Brits have figured out how to put our resident
gaudy Nazis and insufferably rank popinjays to work,”
The Tories have insisted they will not permit commoners even
if they are talented as Laurence Olivier to play princes of noble
blood. “A true aristocracy sets standards; it defines measure.
Shakespeare was the biggest mountebank of them all,” David
Cameron has said privately. “The man should have been locked up
by the politzei in Bedlam. He wrote all those stupid plays though
he was a provincial to pretend he was an imaginary Romanian
duke.”
He added acerbically: “What pish-posh! When I was a rank
peura matriculating in Harrow I had to read them all. I even
played Hamlet- once. I called it Shamlet. I had that bloke die in
Act One of a raging catarrh.”

Maxims of Baron Achille La Seuer, author of “Kidnapping Yourself”

1. People in America have lately been kidnapping themselves,
demanding ransom, threatening they will kill themselves by
beheading. They have been following privately a classical mode of
garnering swag that Arab, Mexican and Columbian organizations who
often kidnap others have done for big profits.
2. In Patagonia of course kidnapping anybody, even dogs, is
more of a volume than a select business.
3. Of course many people like to be kidnapped. They never
have to make a decision. Some praise it as a vacation from adult
life.
4. What indeed could be more powerful yet powerless than
kidnapping yourself? If you don’t do it you must lead the same
life but are responsible for it.
5. Some have speculated that all of these grandiose
political contemporary kidnappers are not at all audacious
dissidents, are simply dogged and honest men of commerce merely
looking for pretexts to make a few spare shekels.
6. Intellectuals and monarchs are always for kidnapping. If
there are no slaves they have no one to nurture their divine
leisure.
7. Eminent psychologists often say on French educational
television that kidnapping like government, brothels, prisons and
monasteries has its hoary and respectable traditions.
8. Slavery is unquestionably neo-classic kidnapping. In
marriage the two felons kidnap each other. Draft armies are
kidnapping. Single custody of children is au courant legal
kidnapping. Oddly the law says only the poor slob without any
legal parenting rights is the kidnapper.
9. Vainglorious politicians are labial louts whom we only
want to steal discreetly while we rob no less; the toffish churls
whom New Yorkers elect in revenge for their arrogance to live,
work and die in scurvy Albany, are perforce the gaudy victims of
“elite kidnapping”.
Some call it democracy. I deem it: Dying in Albany.
10. Working for a living is volunteer kidnaping.
11. Not working for a living means kidnapping something or
somebody, even if it is a worm or stray chicken.
12. If you must kidnap yourself make sure you are
pathetically broke so you visibly can never pay yourself the
traditionally outrageous ransom.
If you’re indigent and hopeless enough you can not only be
kidnapped; you can stay kidnapped.

Shopaholics Androgynous

Shopaholics Androgynous has a moneymaking plan for
you. We have politically idealistic reasons to bankrupt the
boozers and flakers. We threaten with our shadowy fey arthropod
armies to stop everybody shopping forever.
There are no artificially adipose saints with their slowly
swaying great bodies like balloons gyrating to unheard tangos
from lampposts in every plastic mall. This after all is the 21st
century. Still we have gotten millions of dollars merely by
boycotting craft beer and cornflakes. We find a cunning specialty
beer not to buy nobody else has picked, perhaps some scurvy and
tasty Wisconsin apricot spiced ale, then boycott them.
God knows those addled beer people won’t miss a little cash
either. They are swimming in their sour swill and big bucks.
Their lucre can be ours.
Many of our chubby recently martyred ex-Shopaholics
Androgynous stalwarts have been tortured by mall keepers. They
have had to gobble down genetically modified cornflakes washed
down with cage-free pumpkin beer, then be dispatched
picturesquely wallowing in common excesses of pleasure.
Our equally overweight and slothful enemies have corrupted
our hardly emaciated Shopaholics Androgynous faithful. We are
never ravaged by condors, obesely festooned with insects,
worms and crows hanging in a plus de lent passecaglia from the
tops of a many a Byzantine food marquee.
We are merely commonly sated.

The Museum Of The Present

The Museum Of The Present is not a building. It has no real
walls or insides. It is destroyed by vandals perpetually yet
never seems to age even a bit. It captures and owns nothing yet
reveals everything under a bright light. It is, some say, a
concept, a way of thinking.
It has a curator, guards and displays though none of them
are sequestered in dustless glass cases. There are lecture tours
by experts. It even has a dingy overpriced lunchroom in its
innards with endless refills of watery coffee. Its whitewashed
halls with traces of insect dung are always faintly odorous of
rat poison and formaldehyde.
Some say the Museum Of the Present doesn’t exist, its
curator is a fiction, the uniformed guards are hologram shadows,
the displays gaudy illusions, the savants know nothing, even its
boxed lunchroom cuisine is an artificially spiced tasteless
mirage.
Well, if it isn’t a museum then what is it?

The Maurice Arthur School of Pharmacy Dancing

At Maurice Arthur’s we teach pharmacy dancing that is not
going to inspire even a dead dancer to have to die twice. We are
very aware that thousands of frenzied and exhausted veteran
pharmacy customers perish every year from doing the Maelstrom,
Hot Gotkis, the Tarantella, the Hurricane, the Twist and the
Heebie Jeebies.
From our mile-high central offices in Pocatello we have
commissioned easygoing unobtrusive music by soft rock bands like
the Soporifics, the Medicaids and The Dead Surgeons. We also sell
padded shoes with baseball spikes autographed by mercurial
Maurice Arthur for optimal laminated floor contact.
We of course never teach the toe-busting Cornish Jig. We
guide even our advanced students to gavotte slowly as if they are
wallowing in some intense hermetic Asiatic Meditation.
They are the saints who gracefully do something like the
minuet hard by the notoriously slippery and vertiginous Galloping
Incontinence Shelves.
Debonair Maurice Arthur, noted author of Waltzing to
Oblivion and The Oxford Encyclopedia of Funk, has tested on
himself every complex dance step he offers in his foot-boggling
array of courses. Maurice hasn’t died yet; he hasn’t even slowed
down. He is still among us, the legendary tap dance and soft shoe
champion of Wyoming.
Maurice Arthur is not the sinister and elusive Arthur
Maurice.
Then again, who is?
Maurice Arthur PhD graduates are equipped with aluminum
earphones from Taiwan to allow them to practice their decorous
pharmacy dancing anywhere or nowhere.
These cunning Taiwanese devices at the business class level
include a complimentary hushed and genteel laugh track.
With the muted guidance and the whispering benign expertise
of Maurice Arthur one can prepare for a jaunt to the most select
pharmacy or stomp to the Medicaids’ Arctic Polka in the comfort
and privacy of one’s own castle keep or lavabo.

Holy Lives Of the Bankers: Volume Sixteen

Mannon and Sons Oxford Edition of Holy Lives Of the Bankers
Volume Fifteen featured capsule biographies of Randrazitma
“Happy” Chipmoy and Zephyro “Zebra Boy” Lauren, the magical
investors at J.P. Morgan who made over and over again seemingly
miraculous coups in parsnips, Syrian pleasure cruises, trivial
spasm pills, slightly used Wurlitzer theatre organs, underwater
Macao mortgages given to shoeless indigents, lavabo
transcendental meditations, classic DOS Video Games and of course
their famous Siberian mammoth liver supplements.
Volume Fourteen had focused on severel well elelvated money
saints including apocalyptic Eric Hathaway, the Satanist adept
Biff Warren, all running illicit sales of volatile third world
government bonds, commodities of varied virgin Vitamin B12
vaccines and manures, all while lelfthandedly yet deftly and
flawlessly managing sudden bankruptcies.
In oldies but goodies platinum number Mannon and Sons
focused on the august hierophant philosophers of banking,
financial mahatmas whom the above celebrities revere as savants
of the near divine. We included anecdotes about financial
miracles performed in early childhood by the charismatic Muchta
El Urf.
This Centerfold issue takes us into the realm of the Satanic
Princes themselves. This is the first time Moloch has ever been
interviewed by anyone. Moloch remarks: “They tried a whole lot of
fancy messiahs with MFAs until they asked us to take over. We
brought them more goddamned love and peace than the good guys. We
dumped charity and honor that didn’t exist in the first place
with low cholesterol no-fault debt. We even exchanged suffering
and intimacy for comfort and amusement. Now they call us devils.
If we’re evil, than what the hell do you think of angels?”
In the Centerfold we offer a naked picture of Fritzie “Droit
de Seigneur” Horvath. Who is Little Fritzie?
Burn this issue. What you don’t know you can’t be killed
for.

News From Erewhon Pleasure Cruises

We have added another five decker Leviathan ship to our
immense fleet in response to a hunger of all of us to sail over
the world in style.
Added to the Foucault, the Simcha and the Rhinestone
Limbotomy we have built the Kevorkian, a five tiered vessel- for
dogs!
Our chefs provide your curs with fancy Flipino cooking. They
can swim in one of our three Abe Lincoln sized pools, the water
heated and perfumed, whipped to a waxy transparency by Hypolitte
Lauren. There is always a free bar. Our celebrated wolf howlers
offer them oldies but goodies in our twenty five night clubs.
Our staff is a bunch of naked female dog robots designed in
Pyonguang. They all look like some celebrity animals you know or
might think you know.
Your favorite pets glide down wide rivers to watch the
action on the shore thorough huge convex lenses supplied by Oscar
de la Rica. One can see wars, revolutions, public executions,
military parades, assorted masked carnivals and rare examples of
purging pious genocides on the land’s edge.
Your mutts can watch lovemaking on the hills of sixty five
countries, For canines with a more recondite temperament we show
surgeries opening in glass hospitals. The animals can almost
taste the blood. Yet they are detached from these uncomely revels
as if they are watching educational dog television.
Some call this canine paradise a prison for dogs, What is
that? What are they talking about? What does that mean?
What rewards for you, you ask, who pay the bills? If you
miss your job we have an office and desk waiting for you on our
legendary flagship World Empire to do some busy work.

News From the Syrian Tourist Bureau

As you might imagine we have been having some difficult
times at our Damascus offices. We are in the paradoxical
situation of recommending to all our customers that nobody ever
visit or go near Syria.
What to do? Send you all packing to Iraq?
We Syrians are clever than that. We have become an agency
directing people, all people, away from Syria. We can earn the
same salary in Syria by advising our tourist faithful never to go
near us or our country again.
Our own parsimonious Syrian chiefs could easily monitor how
many people we had attracted to Syria. They cannot even guess how
many prospective visitors we have benignly guided away from our
country.
Thanks to God, we still have our jobs and you have your
life. Guided by a loving God, Syrian common sense and divine
wisdom of angels we are all winners.
We are of course planning to leave Syria ourselves. It is
lamentably even too dangerous here for us. We now recommend Al
Oufa Airlines for everybody to leave Syria including their pets.
Al Oufa is the only Syrian company that offers no-frills one
way tickets out of Syria. You can’t even wear your clothes. You
must leave Syria utterly naked. Their slogan is very similar to
your excellent Roach Motel products.
You can fly out of Syria on Al Oufa but you can’t fly in!

Untergang Real Estate Developers

Some people call us the land baron Messiah. Believe me, we
aren’t angels. In fact we folks at Untergang specialize in
turning any corner of the Earth into a deadly grey gloop.
Untergang can pulverize all the mossy icons of the past with
our knife-like steely instruments of molecular and atomic
destruction to the point where even what happened to you last
week can never even claim to be a memory.
We know nobody likes to dance frenziedly in a cemetery. We
will replace your stale, nasty world that tires you with its
disagreeable banalities with images, music, even erotic
fragrances, giving you the sense of a new and sweetly odorous
reality that is static as a fog.
We serve a frozen cuisine dyed with garish colors, larded
with odd spices, of mineral mimicry that is not even your
usual fare of devouring traces in a thick sauce like a viscid
mask of what you hope is merely long expired but well sugared
prey.
Untergang’s vaporous citadels filled with celebrities and
villains will be better than the old one but only mildly better.
Impostors are more adept at what they lamentably are not than
anything authentic in Creation is.
If you weary on a day of our Untergang pastel magic, if you
starve for truth, long for anything at all still rooted even a
bit in the stale and scurvy alchemies of Nature, remember that
you chose freely to honor our mimicries.
Your loss, your fashionable choice to be cozened among
armies, is always in the end your responsibility.
However for a minimal fee we can zap that paltry sorrow away
with our Ausfahrt Ray plummeting down from our Ohnezeit space
satellite. Our blissful Ausfahrt Ray falls upon our Untergang
customers from the sky like a legion of steely hawks; it erases
all memory, language, even a sense of identity from your mortal
spirit like a powerful embolism stroke. Our customers often
contact the Ohnezeit and call down a heady blast of the Ausfahrt
before they enter the world of Untergang.

Organizations Anonymous

We at Organizations Anonymous guide with our clandestine
twelve step programs both the organizers and the organized out of
noxious zombie-like after-death experiences.
We are experts in those tedious communal lunacies in which
the group, state, institution, cult, common cause, even an
occasional dastardly individual, thinks against all evidence it
is alive.
We have of course been most successful with nations,
religions and ideologies, admittedly much less effective healing
antic animate corpses of their piteous and woeful resident
insanity.
How honestly puissant have we been, you ask?
Can you think of one organization, craze, taste, belief or
enthusiasm that has not run its hopes, given out its sartorial
uniforms to the rabble, that has not been observably defunct as a
dead chicken by 1945?
Do you think or hope that is an accident?

What, asks the classical libertine, does one do if one is
ultimately unorganized?
You do what we all do.
You take up a commodious residence in a museum.

Family Values Limited: The Books That Speak To You.

We at the House of Family Values only print books that reach
ordinary people like yourself. We have a particular focus on the
kin of the stars you may admire, despise, love or hate or even
regard with a chill envy.
Our books record the turmoil of their aggrieved close
relatives. We make every effort to find these kindreds of the
odious and beautiful. Some of these accounts are authentic. If
they are not, they are clearly what they should have said were
they alive and partial to saying anything.
All of our books are certified by Bill Cosby to be readable
by children. Of course your children can’t read. Certes, if they
could, they’d devour our line of classics.

1. Tis A Pity She’s Not A Whore by Percival and Melissa Lohan-
the autocrats of the notorious Lohan clan confesses what they may
have done wrong to produce their famous tramp of a daughter. All
of them, even her cousins, say they don’t need her money.

2. Son of Henry James- The rogue bastard son of Henry James,
nephew of Walt Whitman, daunting, legendary Sir Orson James,
talks about his dare devil life riding fast cars over the Alps,
spying for Albania, taking up with treacherous ugly women and
sneaking onto the last Soviet voyage to the moon.

3. Mad Monica Mayhem- A remote cousin of Breyer Madoff reveals
the secrets of his terminally dull life as a failed chiropodist
in Hackensack. He admits on the last page that he was the shadowy
stalker of Monica Levinsky, not Monica Lewinsky.

4. Billy Bob “Bugsy” Bush- the horrific and monstrous pariah of
the Bush family offers his immigration policy were he elected
President.

5. Death Row Mama- Marge Zilch has had sixteen children executed
by lethal injection piously by the Texas Justice system. She
doesn’t want seventeen and eighteen to be dispatched the same
way. She has moved to Syria.

6. Bloody Grandpa- The sensational and exotic reminisces of
Giachometti di Bruno, the satanic mercurial imposter who played
Kachiprada, a degenerate Tibetan Mahatma in the Peking Han court
after butchering the senile mystic mountain sage with an axe.

7. An Inedible Feast by Edmund Hemingway. Ernst Hemingway’s great
grandson talks about how difficult it was to be Ernst (not
Ernest) Hemingway’s great grandchild, yet have none of this Old
Zealand raconteur’s talent, charm or any other attractive
qualities whatsoever.Of course it wasn’t that easy to be Ernst
Hemingway. Edmund Hemingway is available for entertaining folks
at soirees or public executions if one might not call his
insufferable palaver entertainment.
Medical Liquor from Doctor Leshaun von Stoltzing

There are still 236 dry counties in the United States where
a cabal of the just and righteous in power have banned the sale
or guzzling of any booze as an odium.
Yet thanks to Doctor Leshaun von Stoltzing the bulk of these
communities of saints will now accept a certificate of a medical
need for liquor from a federally approved physician. Doctor von
Stoltzing in his notorious book, Redemptions of The Sewer,
detaills the advantages of sipping a large quantity of
gooseberry or quince cordial during the day if one struggles with
phthisis, lumbago or galloping and aggressive logus of the bogus.
When one is infected by catarrh or silently endures an
elusive neurasthenic malady it is always salubrious, says von
Stoltzing, to quiet one’s foot tremors when attacked
by Tasmanian viruses by gulping down infinite copious dollops of
indigo slivowitz or chug-a-lug from a steel plated pail of eau de
vie.
One can also wash oneself in a bubbly bath of melon wine,
let the potent brew fermented by a legion of haply celibate
Patagonian monks seep into one’s skin by osmosis.
An attack of the Uzbek gout can be effectively tamed if not
wholly eliminated by drinking thirty three glasses of Calvados
washed down with a chaser of feu de absinthe every day.
Doctor Lelshaun von Holtzing is selling a personal line of
cunning peppermint liqueurs that will infallibly cure some but
not all cats and dogs of constipation. Even if you aren’t notably
constipated you will feel better after downing a gallon of these
elixirs.
One can protect one’s spirit against mischievous imps
polluting one’s dreams at night with hellish amarants by downing
a gallon of honeyed cordials flushed down with raspberry
flavored vodka before one takes commodiously to one’s bed.
Senility along with aggressive forms of ripe insanity may be
averted permanently by swallowing a daily large dram of thrice
blessed Bulgarian Benedictine every morning after breakfast.
Doctor Leshaun von Stoltzing is bringing his brand of
medicine to many Arab countries as well. Though some say he is a
quack with a mail order degree from some uninhabited isle
southwest of Barbados he has convinced several Arab potentates at
the gaming tables from Qatar to Kuwait to allow legitimate
inebriation from such wizardrous beverages, of course always
under strict doctor’s care.
His cures for thumb dropsy, a plethora of cunning and subtle
passion fruit liqueurs, have changed the life of not merely
former Mickey Mouse Show celebrities but such bloody and daunting
desert sheiks as Tillmoof Al Tebab, the sinister Naeseem Il Arba
and of course the ineluctable but ferocious Kaleem Muckmoud.
If you live in a dry county or maunder in the gutter with
the triangular Albanian pox, rebellng from the whimsical rule of
some autocratic potentate tainted with a passionate
distaste for these or any other divine anodynes of Great
Dionysus, Leshaun von Stoltzing may be the perfect physician for
you. If he isn’t, his laughable, absurd fees are dirt cheap.

The Oxford Encyclopedia Of Early Twenty First Century Culture

The Oxford Encyclopedia Of Early Twenty First Century
Culture, translated into twenty three dead languages, is
available in deluxe audio and olfactory editions narrated by
centigenarian silent film stars.
At a more premium price one can get the Encyclopedia with a
chapter that includes your own very forgettable life and its
wretched soporific tediums or when given as a gift, the equally
banal existence of someone or something you love.
This authoritative and definitive volume will out of charity
dun an empty toff like you a mere quid for handling charges.
Lamentably it doesn’t list any culture at all in the 21st
century; haven’t you noticed, you worm? There hasn’t been any.
After all we senior and distinguished Oxford scholars
wouldn’t want to lie to you.
As a result one might say, given its lack of contents, or
perhaps rather the conspicuous lack of anything resembling
reality, our encyclopedia is much more a perception, an invisible
metaphysical article of faith, not a scurvy book disagreeably and
overly burdened with an insufferable physical existence.
If you don’t like our tome or even if you do like it, you
can return it free. We will gladly pay the non-existent postage.
Or you may simply keep it if you can find it.

The Realtors

The Realtors are four real estate magnates coming your way
whose day job is to destroy life on Earth as we know it.
The Realtors call themselves by day “developers”. With
developers like the Realtors Band you don’t need undertakers.
Bassist, sometimes synthesizer player Killer Joe Mamaliga
laments the lack of local enemies for the band. “Nobody defends
anything anymore,” he says. “Maybe these bozos ran out of guns?
When we knock off their cities they get up, move someplace
else. Hey, it’s a non-violent world; still the same damn thing
happens.”
Rhythm guitarist Elvis “Uncle Joe” LeSeur remembers
Tuscaloosa before his rock band worked there. “You could still
get fresh okra strew at roadside beer joints.”
Lead guitarist Nick “Genghis Kahn” Freivogel takes credit
for pulverizing most of Cincinnati. “Nothing left of the damn
place but parking lots, franchise stores, banks, glass and steel
skyscrapers and Arab convenience stores, ” he muses.
“There’s no people there either. There’s a Mexican servant
class; they aren’t people. Hey, what kind of city has only women
who want a quick one?”
Drummer Bob “Uncle Adolph” Boozer says he has done in
the whole of Cleveland. He’s laying siege to Toledo. “In the old
days people like me would starve out a town, scale the walls,
kill the patriots, ravish the women, burn down the beer joints
and the temples. We would lose some soldiers. Now we buy up the
same cities with funny money bank loans, set impossible rents,
fill the dumps with Welfare clients. Then Welfare bums disappear;
the corn-fed Yappie pioneers from Iowa move in, finally they go
belly up too. Too much money. Then we rent to foreigners, maybe a
few select illegal aliens, mostly anonymous Eskimo folk flown
in from Canada, only a few token very civilized giant weird
arachnid whatevers.
“Thank God nobody dies, kiddo. These days people, places
just disappear.”
Well, that’s just their day job. What they really want
to do is jam all night on the blues, sniff Abyssinian coke and
shake till they drop to their one of a kind heavy metal music.
At your local rock emporium The Realtors will sing their
controversial golden hits: Gimme Heat; You’re Out On The Street,
God’s Truth On the Roof, Terrorist Mama, You Can’t Flush, Thank
Bobilu Hank, Frank the Tank And Skanky Ali All The Way To The
Bank and of course platinim oldie but goodie: My Home’s A Parking
Lot; I Ain’t Got No Car.

A Manual of Beggary

In helping America prepare for the Great Recession Aardvark
Books has put out a lavish reprint of the classic Chinese
textbook on beggary by General Su Li. This is probably the oldest
Chinese written document in existence.
A beggar should be neither surly nor appear completely
helpless. He must seem piteous. Only the surface matters. Beggary
is a casual adhesion. He may be even more pathetic than he seems
to be.
He cannot seem to be a dilettante at his profession. Merely
dabbling in beggary is an odium to most people. He must show
enough grunt energy and skill to suggest he is a reliable
professional.
A beggar may move from place to place to exact shekels from
the optimal amount of patrons; he may do better in one place
where people daily give him much more money out of habit.
A beggar should never regal his patrons with stories of his
past affluence. He should seem always to have been helpless and
ultimately piteous. If he came from a world in which everyone was
wealthy and powerful, sink in decadent amusement even if they
were sloths or morons, he should pretend he had never been there.
Su Li says that beggary is necessary to the cosmic balance
of the universe. All of us cannot be material successes. A
country without a tolerable percentage of mendicants in it is
doomed.

Illegal Aliens Of Alturia

Alturia is a country in which everybody is an illegal alien.
Even the managerial posts in its corporations and governments,
its very generals, demagogues, clowns and dentists are roles
taken up by people whose origins, identity, tastes, looks and
personal agendas are unknown.
Some say the President of Alturia himself like the
ineluctable god they worship is more of an illegal alien than
anybody else in the country. Like the President, nobody knows who
or where their god is, even whether he exists.
Since the Alturia’s shadowy army of illegal aliens began as
a cheap servant class, hired by a fey and lazy vanished elite
because these desperate emigrants were in Alturia illicitly, had
no rights in a very existence that was a national odium, many of
their more posh descendants are looking for a sense of history,
wondering whom in Creation they might be.
They have looked upon their servile crafts in the past as
sacred ritual embraces of identity, a kind of iconic and
sentimental lost paradise.
Yet these cults fail. Their elegant temples are now homes
for racuous AA Meetings.
Some philosophers reflect that perhaps there is nothing more
detached in his deepest spirit than any corpse, imp, ghost or
illegal alien who has lost or abandoned his roots.

A New Year’s Message From Bloodbath, Death and Beyond

Yep, the word is out, baby: we’re expanded into pleasure!
In the greatest revolution in munitions since Quonoxtl gave
us the stone club, Bloodbath, Death and Beyond is now
manufacturing all the current heating systems, air conditioners,
condoms, spongy designer sneakers, craft booze, along with
classic amusements like sitcoms, reality shows and sports events,
tourism and diets, all suitable for the whole family, a dungeon,
a wizard’s castle, any Norwegian luxury cruise or a socially
progressive moderate-security prison.
Goddamn it, we are going to make your swinish stay on Earth
as delightful as a prestigious Panamanian munitions company like
us can ever make it.
We’re taking you from the stone club to the golf club.
Listen, kiddo, our leaders, your leaders never wanted you to
kill or die in those oldtime small exotic wars. No, no, no. They
still just want to control you a little so that you never have a
life in the first place.
Believe me, we all know in Panama that holocausts, terror,
pain, force and repression over millions of years have killed or
angered everybody, effectively controlled nobody.
Baby, we get the point.
No more guns. No more trouble.
Once we called you a fool, a child, an alien, a felon,
uncouth, unreal, hated by God, an apostle of treason, a moron, a
rat, a creep; son of a gun, we still do so.
Hey, we just don’t want to hurt you anymore.
Sure, I’m smiling. Wouldn’t you? I’m the pleasure king of
Panama. Look, I just fell into munitions. It was my day job. I
always wanted to play the violin. Hell, musicians starve.
Ah, your poor slob, you’re such a bum!
So what?
Yeah, so the fuck what?
Wake up, put on your dancing shoes, come on down here, baby.
We sure know how to have a hellova good time in Panama.
Hear the big beat? Join the fun!

The Hall of Villainy

The Hall Of Villainy is closing, not merely for repairs
though covered with moss, slime and odd gigantic fungoids, a
shambling travesty of itself- but forever.
It has been renting its for scant shekels space to some
sub-units of AA for years. Once the largest and most incandescent
cathedral of evil on Arcturus, it not only is excoriated and
shunned by its public, mostly inebriated tourists in midtown
hotels; its gods themselves have picked themselves up and left
its sourly perfumed chapels to forage for blood-berries in the
wilderness.
Its vast scarlet-colored nave once loud with the terrifying
recorded screams of its victims, is mute as a flock of expired
termites on a dead world.
Even the singular purple rats who once consumed the candles
in its chapels and most holy sanctorums, the giant ravens
haunting their buttresses, the cockroaches who chew on the false
gold in its ample treasure rooms, beetles turned mad by their
desperate hunger, have discreetly taken off for elsewhere.
Its various smiling and mustachioed saints have proclaimed
they were never apostles of torture, mayhem and injury; they were
misunderstood, unappreciated, slandered, unjustly incarcerated,
martyred by fools and assorted clubhouse politicians, pilgrims
locked into some murky process of ineluctable redemption.
Yet the plague of ripe evil, the ravenous epidemic of
rampant and gaudy carnage, has never ended either in the core nor
the posh suburbs of its varied Byzantiums.
What has gone from the crepuscular and daunting temple is
merely an army of itinerant assassins, now on the invisible
prowl.
Even its saffron priests, a cadre of once barefoot monks
long gone to dabble at amateur shuffleboard or shop endlessly,
dancing to pastel music in a stellar mall somewhere, hardly mourn
the lost visibility of its once fearsome resident demons, the
fixed yet frightening marble statuary of a galaxy of honest
felons.

Ridalone: The Pill For The Incurious

Now you can purge yourself of all grief, memory and loss
with one do-it-all pill: Ridalone.
It’s not an Italian cheese; it’s an all-in one lozenge that
gives you not only all the vitamins you need; it guarantees you
all the soporific advantages of Kamasura meditation without
having to do anything but swallow a tiny pink tablet.
For the next three blissful hours you will think of nothing-
nothing but yourself.
Ridalone comes with a galaxy of ancillary products at a
hilariously nominal cost that will amuse you in their shameless
flattery when you use even one transforming pill. We have classic
films with morphed characters all of whom look like yourself.
Even the dogs and cats will have your face.
We have books by Tolstoy that are about you. All right,
they’re by Bubba Tolstoy. We have digital art galleries that only
have portraits only of you. We have wallpaper that has mirrored
cosmetically enhanced pictures of you.
We have piped in orchestral music that seems to gild, adorn
and accompany your every graceful move. We have an international
news service with a one of a kind personalized search engine that
offers you only news about yourself. We have a religion that
calls you God. We have laugh tracks that crackle ceaselessly
everywhere when you tell a joke.
Is Ridalone addictive?
Baby, what do you think?

The Zelda Young Adult Books:
Zelda of Nazareth by Achillle Le Soeur

The twentieth volume of the Zelda Series Of Historical
Revisionism, now also a video game, takes the now iconic Zelda
motif to a new apogee. Achille Le Soeur lately has regaled us
with revelations that Zelda Hemingway wrote Papa’s stories and
novels, that Zelda Shakespeare wrote the bard’s plays, even the
bad ones, and that Zelda Hitler was the real fashioner of the
Third Reich.
Zelda of Nazareth is the explosive and tempestuous
posthumous study by famed French author Achille Le Soeur that
proves from authentic Coptic sources unearthed from a trashed
monastery in Tunisia that Jesus of Nazareth had impishly filched
all of his ideas from his sister Zelda.
At select times Zelda impersonated Jesus when he was
required by a few skeptics among his faithful to perform
miracles.
More importantly it was neither Jesus nor Zelda who had been
crucified but Zukarami ben Ruchel, a local horse thief who to his
wretched fortune looked very much like both the comely Zelda and
her brother. Their pal, Judas, loyal to Jesus and Zelda, had
turned in the wrong troublemaking culprit to the Romans.
Later both Zelda and Jesus had quietly supported the ben
Ruchel family of sixteen children. Luckily the olive business was
profitable. Zelda felt most of her pithy nuggets her brother had
impudently stolen from her table talk were a bit sugary and
sentimental; she rued in some dour retrospect during her long
dotage that she had flattered herself by performing a few
dazzling carnival tricks for a claque of the willful and cozened.
Masterfully, Achille Le Soeur tells a compelling story of
excoriating vigils over several decades of quiet
self-recrimination as Jesus and Zelda of Nazareth, comfortable in
their exile afterwards in Scythia as grow and export gourmet
giant green olives, yet are haunted at midnight by assorted pesky
Jerusalem ghosts.
In a long scathing epilogue, at once oddly piteous yet
harshly moving, Le Soeur reveals that Jesus was profoundly guilty
that somebody, even a lout, a bum and crook, had died for him.
Some wags have averred that this series of books and video
games is being written not by the dead Achille but by the living
Zelda Le Soeur. Suppose it is?
If you buy this volume, you will get a generous discount on
some kind of Le Soeur’s next sacred tomes in our acclaimed Zelda
series: Zelda, Queen of Shangri-la, Zelda of Nirvana, Zelda of
Valhalla, Zelda of Mars, Zelda of Limbo and Zelda of Pandemonium.

The Encyclopedia of Banality- A Video Game

You are Gunnar Deisel Of Royal New Zealand Intelligence,
feared by your enemies, even your friends, for your legendary
intrepidity. You run into Mata Hari, Madame Bovary, Anna
Kerenina, Kalypso, Dido and Jezebel nibbling on curried truffles
wit little white teeth and swallowing mysterious lozenges in a
Shanghai den; you sleep with them all. Your experience plummets
you into a state of helplessness as you ruminate on the failed
redemptive power of amour.
You talk over how to divide the world into quadrants of
sheathed power and systematic theft with Winston Churchill,
Genghis Kahn, Joseph Stalin and Alexander the Great over a roast
beef and boiled turnip supper. You understand and are infected by
the woe of kings. The ambiance convinces you that you might do
better picking mushrooms while ruling over a straw hovel in the
wilderness.
You write epics, symphonies and operas that are heard and
fathomed only by ghosts. They get jobs as criticism and ritually
find all your Art coarse and despicable.
You feast upon roasted peacocks until the taste of their
aery flesh is cloying as the innards of long perished crows. You
guzzle a wine claiming to be vintage stuff from the
Franco-Prussian war; it is all rebottled from rancid rotgut
grapes, the final harvest of the fearsome Barfo Masson, the mad
brother of Ernest and Julio Masson, a monstrous slavering cousin
of the more violent Gallos who had been justly banned from
California.
Dauntingly, that pit of secular disappointment is only the
first level of this vaunted game of games. After surviving that
first sorry world you are vaulted into a paradisiacal realm where
the pleasures are inexplicable, vague, unnameable. You suffer
much more from these ineluctable transports; your very numinous
amusements are too intense, too unfathomable, annoyingly utterly
beyond your ken.
There are of course ten levels to this game. We are
fashioning its even more frightening sequel.
Yet to be candid even its shadowy mandarin artificers have
found the third level too unspeakably anguished for them, too
delightful yet sinister, too sugared yet venomous, to be savored
with any easy satiety.

Confessions From Wolfenstein Castle- A Video Game

This game involves ten unbridled and tempestuous affairs of
Lance Ospensky, trapped momentarily in many lurid and sensuous
rooms where he takes desperate refuge from the Luftwaffe,
assorted Valkyries and the S.S., while trying to escape the
immense Wolfenstein castle.
In each of them the resident and stunningly comely hetaera
in an ascendingly more beautiful skein of lovelies in these
chambers makes some despairing speech to the hero as Ospensky
escapes her perfumed lair.
The last of them, Olga von Hoffmanstahl, remarks to
the rabid Ospsensky as he departs her fragrant silk and velvet
quarters with a Kalupnikov machine gun: “You have a destiny and
swagger I admire, Lance; you cannot imagine my woe nor those of
your other amarants below us in the castle. We are mere imps of
video games, creatures of fantastical magic. God is merciless to
us. We are clever in amour and very beautiful; our fate is to
disappoint everyone.”

Astrological Universe- A Video Game

You are Howard Rourk, ace reporter for Cosmos, one who treks
out to the stars to find life in remote constellations. Rourk
finds not only the old stellar figurations no longer are linear
idleness of earthly animals but they seem to be depiction of
eerie shapes that come from some other evolutions, perhaps some
of them methane based or fungoid, in which two nameless entities
have once visited but have long departed.
The natives of each planet have cultures celebrating the
advent of these imps and their subsequent journey elsewhere. In
the ten levels of the game such civilizations inhabit Howard
Rourk discovers ever more fantastical versions of the cult of
these mysterious seasons in the past of planetary hospitality to
these singular demons.
On the tenth level Howard Rourk meets both of these entities
in a star system not far from Rigel. They read their scandalous
celestial memoirs to him. They also allude mysteriously if with
nacral civility to hunting down themselves a numinous entity
skulking in the ether whom they cannot identify who had preceded
them in these vast pilgrimages. Then they offer him a spectral
telescope to savor the harvests of his own immense journey.
Rourk realizes with some rue that the cultures he has
himself visited and left with some disappointment have added a
new run of bizarre ceremonies to celebrate his miraculous
appearance and departure.

The Devourers

If the Devourers give a concert near you it’s time to vacate
your locale and flee as fast as you can in any direction. Their
shows annihilate not only the stage but the stadium and
surrounding area for miles wherever they perform.
Their famous cosmopolitan hits, Going, Gone, Recherche de
Rien, Testimonio di Nulla and Eine Welt Alles Nicht Gemacht,
merely played softly on a half broken cell phone, have been known
all by themselves to make whole blocks of a city vanish.
Is it Dark Energy or Dark Matter that gives this band their
wizardrous powers? Since nobody extant among us has seen them, do
they exist at all?
We do know that their lead guitarist and drummer, Ralph
Sulfur and Fat Frankie Methane, were part of Marcel, a now
defunct band devoted to immense unending songs invoking the
memory, even offering darkling glimpses of past lives. Perhaps
these current Devourers one day had had enough of nostalgia.
What will all these myriad devourers do when they have had
more than enough of devouring?
Have they consumed all they have not to ingest themselves
into some improbable and involute oblivion? Where are the other
rock bands that had promoted extermination heavy metal?
Where is Terminator, Black Hole or Neutron Star?

The Zoo of Escaped Animals

Since the zoo business has been influenced by compassion in
the past half century the abodes of these captive animals have
been expanded from dank mossy cells to a more commodious house
arrest, finally an easy means to escape into the shadowy
hinterlands.
If one visits our zoo one sorrily will find no animals at
all, nothing there in fact but steel bars pulled out of their
sockets, barbed wire fences torn down, moats dried up, filled
with dead algae, adamantine walls crumpled, metal doors bent by
desparate creatures to guide all those once captive to make their
way back into the unknown.
Why would anyone want to visit such a zoo? We of course have
no answer. Since the unhappy residents once here were only held
by force, the visitors had come to watch them suffer, staring at
them, surly and depressed in their cages, our employees were on a
scant salary to maintain this bizarre world with offal and straw,
we must admit we are now the administrators of a zoo that
currently has no functional reason to exist.
Could we call our zoo a conduit to the past, a tradition, a
legacy?
We do. Yet for the young who cannot remember when our zoo
had been a zoo we call it a fiction.

Bank Error In Your Favor!

The People’s Nigerian Bank apologizes for our vice
president, Abondo Oswego, who absconded with your assets last
month; it has issued blue chip bonds backed by German marks worth
three million dollars we wish to credit to your American account.
We have dispatched the miserable and heinous Oswego. Of
course our only aim is to serve you: our treasured customer. In
doing so we are aware that this lucre, all made by Swiss
speculation in semi-demi-robotic Panama banana plantations, will
corrupt you to the point where you will maunder, perhaps forever,
a wandering ephemeral spirit haunting the sylvan spas, golf
courses, truffle markets, casinos, animal brothels with fresh
lobster pasta, varied caviarmongers and the underground goat
slaughterhouses of Babylonia.

Good News From The Beloved One

I am indeed your singular angel: The Beloved One.
I have come to you in the night in sable vapors of darkness
to be your lover, intimate, friend and companion. I bring to you
the carnal deftness of a nimble courtesan of my native Bali, the
passions of one who loves you with all the abandoned sagacity of
the immortal maidens of the Sangabong Epic. I am uncritical,
enduring and will love you forever.
I will be loyal to you and your friends; I will embrace you
when you are sick, leprous, old ugly, wallowing in debt and
penury. I will kiss your sweaty forehead when you are covered
with warts, boils and suppurating scars, haunted by vultures and
ghosts.
Yet I must warn you that my very divine blessings along with
the mercies of God do make men stupid, dependent, terminally
petulant, irascible and infantile. You might be better off
miserable and alone.

Forgettable Reality Inc.

At Forgettable Reality Inc. we produce whole cities with our
special architecture wizardry that nobody can remember less than
one second after they’ve seen it. It’s not as you might think an
impish brain degeneracy, a radioactive pollutant in the musky
air, some lefthanded mischievous bacillus lurking in the
algae-covered stagnant water.
You aren’t dying.
We’ve perfected an impeccable style of building that every
human brain reacts naturally as God meant them to: by having an
utter short circuit of memory.
What’s our secret?
Look at our immense and daunting edifices everywhere, from
needle-like teflon cathedrals laceratng the sky to unisex
brothels, from adamantine sports stadia to shining office
leviathans, to find out!
Trouble is, you won’t remember what you saw.

The Neanderthal Apocanashads

The first publication of the only extant epic of a human
species not our own, translated by Professeur Achille Le Soeur,
is now available at your local airport.
Deciphered by anti-randomizing computer techniques only
available in our time, the hitherto incomprehensible Apocanashads
as it turns out tells the story of brawny and ursine Xobugo, a
red haired master chef who invented cooking with dill, wine and
goat cheese many millennia ago.
Persecuted by all pious Neanderthals as some kind of odious
and mysterious revolutionary, he takes a singular revenge on his
arch rival among the Denisovians in culinary expertise, the
villainous Duke Zok, serving a highly spiced bat tongue stew at
the Denisovians’ Winter Fungoid Rites: a cunning and succulent
dish praised by all the gods from Zerok to Mzirbk.
This epic is read optimaly while munching tacos.
Those who expect a swaggering tale of war and love in epics
may be disappointed by this somewhat bewildering and static
Neanderthal curio. The deities and people and even the assorted
pigeons in its narrative of vast gorging festivals often simply
fall over and snooze from frenzied ingestive revels and
over-eating.
Yet the obsessive focus of these venerable ancient humanoids
on the nuances and follies of inordinate feasting, finally even
without irony honoring their obscenely overweight gods and demons
with libations of dense and high caloric odorous mead beverages,
may widen our perhaps more cautious range of what may still be
significant or at least perhaps not entirely negligible for homo
sapiens in our present eddy of culinary enlightenment.

The Oxford Encyclopedia of Mediocrity

We are announcing our contemporary edition, Volume Twenty
Two, of utterly forgettable people and events in history,
somewhat less than larded by ungenerous and hardly copious
illustrations in one color by merely barely competent artists.
We don’t anticipate an obtrusively brisk sales of this item
for any personal use; candidly, we can’t think of any. Our usual
set of tepid and dogged collectors is confined to colleges and
libraries. Yet this is an indispensable research tool for not
merely scholars of the hitherto forgettable but anyone at all who
might be fascinated by the riddles and enigmas of mediocrity.
We are of course including essays on all fast food products
made in America: pizza, hamburgers, tacos and milk shakes. Our
slightly shabby car section focuses on Chevrolets and Fords. Our
almost equally undistinguished soda chapters describe twenty two
very unremarkable varieties of rather tasteless and watery root
beer.
We have a large area of expertise in television programs and
video games that reports upon these diverse amusements tact
qualify for our tome, all of them certifiably at once mildly
clumsy and vaguely boring, yet in the main hardly memorable even
for their faults.
We have a large section of capsule biographies of people
whom anyone would think with some fine justice hardly were
noticeable in their very presence on Earth. We have the same set
of uninteresting annals of the dullish if somewhat repetitively
desperate lives of innumerable and scurvy stray cats and dogs.
If you are a customer, not mentioned in our encyclopedia,
even in our footnotes, you are probably sorrily memorable in some
way. You might be a ultimately marginal hermit, or in our dour
assessment a gadfly, an agent of blasphemy and treason, a savant,
a ravening drooling monster, a genius, two headed, seven toed,
web fingered, a murderous lunatic, a rank felon, or an imbecile.

The Royal Dillingers

Now that the United States has been dabbling with its own
brand of royalty, the Royal Dillingers have generously done for
crime what the Rockefellers, Bushes, Cuomos, Clinton, Pauls, and
of course the famed Jesse Jackson duo have only contributed to
politics.
Fashionable Monarchial Dillingerism among Washington
insiders is the brainchild of the august nonagenarian Ralph
Dillinger, one whom some call the grandfather of royal crime.
The Royal Dillingers are a family of supposedly sundry
bastards John Dillinger had left behind him as he depleted banks
of their money. Some like Ralph “Mad Dog” Dillinger continue to
hold up banks.
Ralph Dillinger is possibly America’s oldest and most
revered bank robber. Jenny Dillinger has gotten alimony from
eight former husbands. Malcolm Dillinger is a well known white
collar embezzler working as a mole only at select brokerage
firms.
Lance “Dizzy” Dillinger sells car and life insurance that
never pays off. Rafael “Cocky Rocky” Dillinger gives people in
jail fake parking tickets even though they don’t own a car. Tracy
and Stacy Dillinger are notorious Cincinatti pickpockets.
Sally Dillinger in a royal wedding catered by a dissolute
uncle of Colonel Sanders has married Jed Bush, the daunting and
monstrous Bush the other Bushes never talk about. Sally has
generously bribed his scantily paid guards to live and make
babies with Jed, one both an arsonist and a revered founder of
the American Communist Party.
Jed wants to run for president, president of something, of
America, Canada, whatever. “From the Big House to the White
House,” is his cordial and whimsical campaign slogan.
They watch a lot of PBS television and get drunk on rotgut
wine deep in the nether bowels of the earth. They have a stable
liaison American style in his maximum security prison cell a mile
beneath the scenic Colorado mountains.
The head of this crime clan, former wrestling star, Lenin
“Malocchio” Dillinger, has decided to run for vice president. He
doesn’t want anyone at all to be president, not even himself.
“I know more about running vice than anybody,” he murmurs
darkly.
His third wife, sauve, sleek Sylvia Dillinger, one only a
Dillinger by marriage, says she will throw discreetly degenerate
parties filled with raffish real estate celebrities that will
give the White House the seedy demimonde glamor that the discreet
palatial court of a free popular republic deserves.

ISIS Realty Unlimited

We in ISIS have to resort to war in the Mideast to take up
destruction. In America under other names like Paradise Towers we
run real state companies. We talk of Luxury City, a Byzantium
settled by five billionaires and their robots.
We have obliterated most American cities so that there is no
relic or visual memory that there ever was last week much less a
past.
If God made Creation in six days nobody can find a sign of
them much less remember any of them. We charge enormous rents on
land and buildings that have no absolute value that drive our
dwellers and store owners to ordinary desperation, bankruptcy,
penury and exile without a single shot from a machine gun.
Since we own your elected officials, everything we do is
legitimate. We never declare war. We never have to. We have no
enemies.
We never murder even a mutt in America; it’s hardly to our
pious purpose to slay when the captives of our system won’t
contend with us even about the very extinction of their lives.
We spread our bloodless sacred arena of death everywhere; no
one has the will much less legal means to struggle against klkus.
Here’s the good news! ISIS Reality now is going public. We
are selling shares everywhere in rampant universal destruction.
Do you think you love death less than us? Think of the
alternatives if you find us vaguely immoral.
Call your broker if you can find him.
Look at your imperial portfolio.
You could buy bonds from Portugal, Spain, Greece or invest
in the city of Chicago.
If you are clever and love the inexplicable will of the
Nameless One, my brother, you are better off adding to your
dwindling stock portfolio a generous metaphysical investment.
One can with a single stroke as it were, honor both ISIS and
God with your holy embrace of the black power of death.

Maxims of Rameses: First Scroll

1. Since over four billion years on Earth every life form
including our own has done very well without books, visual arts,
music and even intelligence, there is a heavy burden on anyone
who makes these artifacts to convince anyone of their utility.

2. Since with neither leaders nor dogma nearby all the
current world culture is populist, republican and egalitarian,
it’s unlikely than anything that is too redolent of Kadesh, now
lacking an empire with a standing army, will ever have an
influence on anyone on the planet in the near future.

3. Modern Egyptian life manages its dupes by pretending to
be its butlers. If prior ages were afraid of their kings and
priests, this one is terrified by its seeming servants. We survey
the sky for hawks while done in by moles.

4. If we accept that every biological organ in the past had
a utility, when one sees an absence of an instrument for survival
among any life form that would to well to have it, there are
probably equal reasons why it is not there.

5. One can have the technical means, intelligence, talent
and industry to do something yet still not achieve it. Plainly
whatever it takes to do some things isn’t these virtuous
qualities alone.

6. Time machines and robots are merely two of our numinous
artifacts in Egypt that live only in our imagination yet do not
exist.

7. Pharoanic institutions are at least as stupid and
suicidal as people are if they are loud and more persuasive to
the cozened. Commonly princes and priests have more contempt for
the populace as well as life itself than any individual of
malicious and evil character would dare to embrace.

8. A choice of two scoundrels does not make a case for
democracy in Kush if it hardly makes an advocacy for autocracy
either.

9. Freedom is among other things freedom to take up
elevation of the spirit. One can be a slave to one’s imaginary
limits as well as an unwilling thrall to external despots.

10. Even in Egypt, a porcine and obsessional life of trivial
addictions and banal egoism though fashionable lacks ambition.

Maxims of Rameses: Second Scroll

1. I have made strangers into citizens of Egypt by being a
little more generous to them than I should be.

2. Since no belief system even slightly inhibits massacre it
is preferable to be known as an empty nincompoop than an
enthusiast, even one mad for rare varieties of Yemenite cheese.

3. Kadesh reduced my holy places to rubble, the hairless fey
hierophants of Kamal Al Oof replaced my golden temples they
routed with subterfuge, not battle, with an insufferably hideous
travesty of an Egyptian sanctorum, a trapezoidal hovel fashioned
of dull mottled brass.
To ravish the sacred admittedly is a rare delight; which of
these two alien hordes was more my enemy?

4. The imperfect is hard to love, easy to please.

5. Even life after death is better with money.

6. Diplomacy and the middle path must fail with whatever in
Creation lacks credos, leaders, priests and an army.

7. It is the ambition of every pharaoh to be his own enemy.

8. Success eliminates a dimension of hope.

9. Gods propriated with a bit of succulent roasted lamb
garnished with a surfeit of almonds are preferable to the moral
and baleful deities who disdain such a generous and rich portion.

10. An unorganized hunger for novelty has defeated more
pharaohs than any war.

11. A severe itch for casual transports is a punctuation of
measure and sobriety with a season of libations to the moon.

12. My Babylonian makers of bread never go to my public
executions. They fear they have lost a customer.

Maxims Of Rameses: Third Scroll

1. Some lie; others come to different conclusions from the
same facts.

2. If I could I would make doing anything at all along with
hope itself a capital felony. I would put the toads of the Nile
in jail.

3. Crime is always the business of the government. I am most
avidly for some numinous punishment of my subjects for the sundry
crimes they commit after death.

4. I honestly want my citizens to be ignorant, dependent,
stupid, inwardly ultimately slothful. Only my priests tell me I
should be a hypocrite and say the opposite.

5. I was always happy to talk to Moses. One needs to sup
amiably with enemies.

6. People suffer when their antagonists are mere curs.

7. Some people want to be understood, will aim for intimacy,
even love. Others thrive only because nobody fathoms them.

8. Even lovemaking can be conceived by others as a pretext
for injury; our own murder may be perceived by the worst of us as
a boon.

9. One can find more truth in an alley or brothel than a
court, more honesty in a cemetery than in the marketplace.
Yet we choose more courts than alleys or brothels, worlds
stuffed with loud fishmongers rather than bucolic graveyards. We
obviously don’t value honesty or truth.

10. If a pharaoh has no friends, he should need no friends.

11. Egypt does best when it has no competitors.

12. The invention of writing has only given authors the
power to lie after death.

Maxims of Rameses: Fourth Scroll

1. Since action is the child of fear and pain, if history
is progressive, the aim of men and gods should be to do nothing.
The living in volume, unlike the dead, are successful
whenever they can doing nothing or at worst almost nothing.

2. To rule over the dead doesn’t require managers, foremen,
slaves, priests, latrines, hopes or any sugary and numinous
belief system. Nobody from Horus to Thoth has asked me to rule
the dead.

3. To be a monarch over the living demands wearing a protean
domino of energy and motility.

4. Tut among the pharaohs of the past was the only one to
try to inspire alertness and intelligence among a populace
without an enemy.

6. Slavery, called by many names including freedom, remains
slavery.

7. My scribes remember dourly the pharaohs who could not
offer whatever they had pledged to nurture their subjects; they
are silent about those less clever despots who honored their
promises.

8. Since power offers the means to waft out charity or vice,
we are lucky that at least the gods are never quite as immoral as
they could be.

9. Morons and the gods have a taste for banality that would
baffle a a genius or a libertine.

10. Those in Egypt who watch executions are degenerates;
those who stare at nothing are either dead or mystics.

11. If I had built cylinders instead of pyramids nobody
would have found my architecture mysterious.

Maxims of Rameses: Fifth Scroll

1. Of course I would prefer all my subjects to be dead. At
most I can persuade them to do nothing.

2. One of my wizards displayed a golden chair to my court
which tethered a sitter to its cunningly gluey seat. He lisped
that I might dole it out to my subjects in volume for nothing as
a subtle hedge against scurvy rebellion.
I replied to this sly serpent-adorned mage: Wizard, I need a
more magical chair that chains everyone to it efficiently when I
run out of glue.

3. I prefer not to make any laws; a law stands between me
and my whim.

4. Those in Egypt whom I can’t kill or silence always have
the option to be my enemies.

5. I would rather be loved than adored; I have settled for
being worshiped.

6. Our daunting gods are bizarre, merciless even to their
favorites; I encourage penitential pilgrimages to their temples.
Such hideous and murderous deities make me appear comely and
charitable.

7. In Egypt we treat cats and crocodiles as gods. Other
societies pay even more sacred homage to their assorted lovers.

8. Pharaohs even in their private amusements usually prefer
magicians to clowns.

9. We begin by wanting justice; after a while we are even
more avid for mercy.

10. Out of charity I have confined literacy in Egypt to a few
stupid priests.

Maxims of Rameses: Sixth Scroll

1. I discourage will, independence or honor in my citizenry.
The notion that Egyptians might occasionally do something I don’t
want or are tardy to do something I do want annoys me. Yet I live
grudgingly with their mulish diversity as they maunder over Egypt
as long as they keep their reductive hungers shallow and trivial.

2. If my exchequer had enough gold to bribe every one
of my skulking and imbecilic citizens generously to live like me,
nobody, not even Thoth, Set or Horus, ever bribes me.

3. A pesky variety in Creation, a dark gift of the
mischievous Thoth, always defeats me. No matter what I think or
do there will always be some god, some gadfly, even a stray
dung beetle impishly foaled by heaven to oppose me.

4. If there were neither nothingness nor money in Egypt I
would have to invent them.

5. Outhouse builders, lawyers, doctors, priests and pharaohs
are always comfortable among desperate people.

6. Children fear the old; crones dread the new.

7. Nobody praises change or evil; some phenomena and people
need neither advertisement nor flattery.

8. I don’t enjoy my priests praying to strange gods,
fishmongers praising a vintage catch nor dogs barking too
much. They all might be plotting something.

9. At best a new policy brings a new woe.

10. I make the poor dependent on the rich; the rich are
always dependent on the poor.

11. A pharaoh must be mostly polite, accommodating, civil,
understanding, cordial to enemies, while cunningly reserving the
option to be otherwise.

12. If a pharaoh is rude while exacting taxes, people will
think he is a thief.

Maxims of Rameses: Seventh Scroll

1. I would like to make Egypt happy; my subjects might have
something to defend.

2. I offer slaves a chance to be sated; yet nobody wants to
risk their life for mere satiety.

3. A country like Egypt, founded on an idea, can be
anywhere.

4. My wizards advise me to promote progress, innovation,
refinement, hope in my rule; I feel that an intense boon from me
that makes strength and memory expendable is more venomous to my
subejcts than a murderous asp.

5. The dead and my favorite crocodile are masters of
stillness.

6. The gods of the populace come from the bottom of the
Nile. They stink of wastes; they are subtly odorous of muddy
rivers.

7. Any pharaoh does better ruling over citizens whose
satisfactions are at once treacly and trivial.

8. I listen to the frail cries of the newborn. An infant may
be incontinent and ignorant; at least it lacks illusions.

9. We in Egypt choose to lose small wars rather than try to
win large ones.

10. I worship the virtuous if I never emulate them.

11. The armies of the dead, many crocodiles and five of our
defunct gods have fewer vices than the living.

12. The Nile fish markets cater to avarice; at best our
fishmongers may tolerate curiosity.

13. Some remember what once had been, others have no memory
whatsover of their losses, a third group live in a dark place on
the moon where nothing has ever happened.
Many who prefer the first of these immortal disappointments
live in Egypt.

Maxims of Rameses: Eighth Scroll

1. If love and war are often taken up out of habit by
the living, silence while doing nothing is the very character of
the dead.

2. I have hunted for fantastical beasts because I know I
will never find them.

3. In Egypt only Ishtar can elevate Osiris from Hell; the
Hellenes assert only Ariadne’s thread can guide Theseus from the
labyrinth. Yet most men from Egypt to Hellas lack any
appreciation of women.

4. Egyptians are at their worst sottish whoremongers; the
Hellenes admit they prefer a tragic grappling with the minotaur.

5. We will live luke dung beetles under the shadow of
sphinxes long after we have forgotten their mysterious utility
for us.

6. I am wary of travesty; it implies the Ideal.

7. A hilariously amusing pharaoh might postpone any
revolution forever.

8. We pharaohs try to rule by terror, bribes, appeals to
honor, interest. Yet a pharaoh can’t terrify or bribe everybody,
few in Egypt are honorable, nobody within on Earth knows their
interest.

9. To embrace power from acts of seduction sometimes seems
unmanly. Though war is risky and often fails, though deceit is
everywhere, mendacity is not really quite our genius.

10. Wrathful gods without priests never offering articulate
commands absolutely confound any means of an pharaoh resolving
even a minor contention with them. At the bottom some divine
crocodiles are neither bribed nor mollified by tribute, civility,
submission or death.

11. Most people in Egypt have no hunger to defend any good
fortune they have had in their lives three weeks ago.

Maxims of Rameses: Ninth Scroll

1. A science that tells me only how things are like other
things offers me half of reality.

2. Freedom offers its slaves and thralls a fair choice of
masters.

3. Families, lovers, pets, enemies and strangers are less
contemptuous of others than governments.

4. Elephants, imbeciles and the gods never engender twins.

5. The wizards of Kush, reading the future, say passions
disappear, enthusiasms lead to torpor, everybody expires. For
this insight they are called savants.

6. The immortal gods remember and suffer more than humans;
both have more woes than the dead, beetles and mice.

7. The past is less knowable than the future; everybody in
Egypt lies about last week.

8. Monsters and those set apart may be wicked but they never
worry that they have ever been a banality.

9. Apparently the ordinary like nothingness is always done
in volume.

10. Priests in Egypt only offer lies; a pharaoh must also
know where to find wisdom. When I need intelligence I import a
few roguish felons from Kadesh.

Maxims of Rameses: Tenth Scroll

1. The aim of even a mild, momentary and frail amusement is to
replace Nature.

2. Even the dead can be exhumed. Only the gods always have
privacy.

3. The tragic genius of humanity is that the old, the ambitious
and the puerile and hopeful live at the same time.

4. More evil is done by power, self involvement and peacock
vanity than by malice, revenge or spite.

5. When the few rule the many it is called tyranny; when the many
govern the few we think it is freedom. When either rebel from
their local princes or gods it is called blasphemy or treason.

6. We pharaohs like a slightly comical trial, a flamboyant
and well attended horrific public execution. The gods though
equally avid for revenge against a vast legion of assorted
malefactors are never in a hurry as we are to exact justice.

7. We may have brief lives; they nearly always last longer than
our enthusiasms and our passions.

8. Whether it is more absurd to worship a cat than a crocodile
can set off murderous contentions among our priests. We can do
better in Egypt than a choice of two lunacies.

9. Since empires are best for people who don’t work, most people
in them over-value doing nothing.

10. Some pharaohs are sure that power comes from being for
oneself. A clever prince knows that power comes from seemingly
being for others.

Maxims of Rameses: Eleventh Scroll

1. Kadesh, a vulgar government for, by and checked by the people,
can be no better than its people.

2. Egypt utterly corrupts only one Egyptian: myself. Kadesh, a
republic and democracy, corrupts everybody.

3. There have been ten Resurrections of the Dead in Egypt. One
would think that after two or three resurrections we would have
learnt something.
All these elevations have made our animate Egyptians feel
marginal and trivial.
Even the most benign of the wizardrous resurrections
presided over by my priests are a sinister proof that a select
legion of the dead will always be more interesting and beautiful
than the scurvy and slothful army of the living.

4. The difference between one Egyptian and another is whether any
of them can make use of their desperation.

5. The invention of writing, some say by Thoth, was a first step
on the odorous road to necrophilia.

6. Memory even in dung beetles is a confusion of the past with
the present.

7. If the gods valued or cherished anything mortal they would
suffer much more than we do.

8. The sky-gods do better at avoiding us.

9. Some in Egypt have complained everyone in my court are empty,
stupid or a notably porcine, even incontinent cabal of slavering
libertines. Perhaps they need to look the courts of Kush filled
with men of austerity, intelligence and piety. Nothing on Earth
has seduced, killed or enslaved more people than focused piety.

Maxims of Rameses: Twelfth Scroll

1. One can be corrupted by bribes, terror, power and carnal
passion. I might be the most virtuous man in Egypt. At least I
cannot be bribed.

2. Those in power are always at least mildly surprised by
rebellion.

3. Indifference, even public ridicule, is the most tolerable
instrument of disdain to be endured by pharaohs never loved by
the populace.

4. If I were a cretinous beggar maundering in the fecal,
rank, malodorous stews of the Nile I would never doubt that any
of my equally insufferable amarants loved me.

5. The old age of all pharaohs is dismal. One can never
retire.

6. The history of Egypt is either a tale of its pharaohs or
a story of diverse people escaping them.

7. If I could only rule over the dead I would try to make
them all think they were living.

8. When it is illegitimate either to invent or embrace any
novelty a clever pharaoh must import his amusements and weaponry
from Kadesh.

9. The central illusion of any tyranny is that its citizens
have a common life.

Maxims of Rameses: Thirteenth Scroll

1. I have instructed my scribes to wrote papyri extolling
the virtues of slavery. Unfortunately nearly all my subjects are
illiterate.

2. The arthropod monarchs south of Kush are lucky. They
never endure a rebellion.

3. An infallible sign of decline in a microbe, a human or a
god is a ruling hunger for amusement.

4. Of course I have thought of elevating a legion of false
pharaohs to loud arenas of seeming rule. Such a vulgar ploy is
beneath me.

5. Since Creation is free, the life of a pharaoh is
inherently tragic.

6. A pharaoh must straddle rule and the need to devour.

Maxims of Rameses: Fourteenth Scroll

1. As long as we organize anything we are going to have a
pharaoh.

2. In the writing of the Chaldeans their priests speculate
on the woes of the residents of the moon. The sorrows of the
inahabitants of stony orbs resolving around the most remote stars
turn them dour with sadness. They say that these citizens of icy
far off places lament how far they are from their local suns, how
much nurturing it would be were they close to the tireless
sources of light.
The Chaldeans are fools. The brightest stars net and devour.
They don’t seem to know either that when a pharaoh gives his
attention to anyone at all but a passing lover it is either to
enslave or to kill his prey.
Even the gods know that truth about other gods. That is why
not merely in Egypt but in both the nether pits and the thrones
of Heaven the only gods who survive are the invisible ones.

3. My neighbors, the Babylonians, are sun and moon
worshippers. When I mention civilly to their ambassadors that the
sun burns and consumes anything that orbits too close to its
fire, that the moon nurtures nothing with its offerings of silver
vapor, these Babylonians change the subject.

4. We have had some lively trade in jewels with the monarchs
of India. Their ambassadors affect an indifference to the
phenomenal world; they claim it is unstable, illusory, unreal. If
they believed any of this death-laden rant they would not be
living at all much less India’s despots.

5. If one marches into the unknown regions south of Kush
from Egypt one must embrace a life desperate with anguish,
riddled with disaster. If one take up known Egyptian life one
suffers at least as much from catastrophes one shares with
others.

6. Nobody knows why autocrats live better materially than
slaves. It might be a consolation of merciful Horus for an
inferior life.

7. Some are destroyed by loneliness, some by intimacy.

8. Evil, decay, pain and oblivion is inevitable; the genius
of Egypt is always to be large and rich enough to ignore even its
worst losses.

9. Some pharoahs are rogues; not all rogues are pharoahs.

Maxims of Rameses: Fifteenth Scroll

1. I never want to be too efficient or intelligent a
pharaoh. There is more liberty and satisfaction in Egypt for my
citizens of enterprise residing as they do in an inept government
than there ever is or ever could be in an honest and pious regime
of legitimate freedom.

2. Any action popular enough that I deem it a crime must
have enough roots in Nature not to be entirely a felony.

3. We pharaohs are all failures. We aim at the power of
gods; we never achieve it.

4. My courtiers who call for peace evidently want other
people to fight their wars.

5. Diplomacy always goes better when one’s foes know one has
the option to be monstrous.

6. Legions of barefoot Nile beggars steeped in boils,
phlegmy ooze and dementia, embedded in bloody contention with
armies of brave and desperate dung beetles, kill for a single
kernel of corn lodged in a gelatinous cow pattie.

7. When I eat a dish of peacocks the spirits of the perished
birds call it a massacre. I call it lunch.

8. The ordinary tragedy of many libertines as well as
ordinary people is that if their insane hungers do not kill them,
they are often long lived simans who usually outlast their
passions.

Maxims of Rameses: Sixteenth Scroll

1. Egyptian governments tax you for what they do, those in
Kush for what they don’t do.

2. I encourage faith in many gods; a pharaoh himself
believes in nothing.

3. Any imperial faith system aims at a global war without
bystanders.

4. I would show much more charity, mercy and pardon in my
spirit if Egypt had ever wanted it. One should never give anybody
anything they don’t value.

5. A court in Egypt always knows who is out of power. They
turn pious and call for justice.

6. If Egypt never holds pharaohs responsible for their
policy, Nature will.

7. Regretting an action that has mired one in a bad end is
very far morally from ruing its lack of ethics, honor or penchant
to do injury to others.

8. People in power tend to sleep comfortably with whores.
They are familiar with their character from their court.

9. If I weren’t famous, if I lacked any comeliness or
notable qualities, I would be only halfway to becoming invisible
as Ishtar, Osiris and Horus.

10. It piques any clever pharaoh that lovemaking involves
physical intimacy. One can only be killed by an intimate.

11. Nothing can be nowhere. Power always has to be
somewhere.

Maxims of Rameses: Seventeenth Scroll

1. The Kushites invented stone catapults, now an ordinary
weapon of war; these Kushites have ensured almost in passing that
nobody whom they assault knows their antagonist and killer.
I suspect both life and death generated from unknown sources
might one day become as fashionable.

2. The leisurely way the gods take up their actions might
inspire one to live a thousand years to discern the design if any
of much of their policy. Since few live long enough to honor an
inquiry worthy only of the deathless Astarte and Horus, much of
mortal life is baffling.

3. All good causes lose all by the last battle; bad causes
are often better organized than good ones.

4. I am not a mechanist. Some human character including
genius and perversity thrives in the improbable.

5. If Nature has no center one might be mad to be a pharaoh.
Yet under a thousand names there are always pharaohs.

6. In popular republics the despots dress like beggars.

7. If one must choose between excesses I always opt for the
vices and venoms of intelligence rather than those of stupidity.
I admit my preferences are more dangerous than the palpably
scurvy ones I dismiss.

8. Nobody in Kush was ever corrupted by ugliness as they are
often destroyed there by beauty.

9. I doubt whether hope, youth and comeliness are merely
Egyptian diseases.

10. A pharaoh merely has power to make some actions
illegitimate.

11. The assumption of a corrupt age is always that the past
has been no less degenerate and mendacious than themselves.

Maxims of Rameses: Eighteenth Scroll

1. Power is known for its terror and sensation. It does
better when it is unobtrusive and hides in the ordinary.

2. Admittedly there is something unnatural about monarchy.
Yet freedom is merely the license to be one’s own despot.

3. It Kadesh they abolished taste and measure or any notion
of crime besides non-taxable inebriation to accommodate their
plethora of dunces, rogues and sloths. They had to live with the
harvests of such an elite.

4. Kadesh honored their stupid citizens with privilege; they
aimed to create a nation of beggars. They calculated imbeciles
and slaves, dependent and inept, would be loyal to them in a war;
they were weren’t patriots, brave nor much adept in the end as
the defenders of that doomed city.

5. It’s the nature of slaves to blame external causes for
their griefs while gracelessly and grudgingly perpetuating the
rule of their masters. Yet when one is free and a pharaoh one
cannot ever escape the woes of one’s own manufacture.

6. If everyone were a pharaoh who would thresh the grain
that feeds them?

7. The gods and mites that escape the eye share an
invisibility if not any wisdom.

Maxims of Rameses: Nineteenth Scroll

1. Tut, who efficiently enslaved the entire population of
Zadok, understood that even his ultimately degenerate empire
needed a bottom class of vigorous slaves.

2. When the whole of Zadok rebelled against Tut in a
righteous rage, burned down all his palaces, annihilated his
army, then massacred him and his whole court publicly he remarked
during his slow torture before they finally slew his dismembered
carcass that it was plain his servants no longer respected their
own servitude.

3. If one can’t be invisible one can be banal.

4. Tut’s sole regret was that he had never invented a new
vice.

5. Since we are more frightened by what we do know than what
we know, it is preferable for many things and people to be
unknowable.

6. It is a kind of virtue even for a pharaoh in a motile
world to be able to mimic the mein of a slave.

7. A clever lover cultivates virtue, compassion, charity,
character and measure. They can then hope that with such high
qualities their intimacies might occasionally last longer than
three weeks.

8. I listen civilly to everyone in my court. I only ask they
don’t walk off with my crockery.

9. I claim I am the messenger of the gods; in Kadesh most
rulers say they are the servants of the people. In Kush most
people admittedly don’t even represent themselves.

10. People commonly justify theft and murder; nobody has a
good word for arson.

Maxims of Rameses: Twentieth Scroll

1. Egypt is a country of strangers.

2. To rule Egypt is to govern strangers.

3. Strangers are at best detachedly civil.

4. Strangers will cut one’s throat only for a good reason.

5. Strangers think nothing of offering the most abandoned
carnal intimacies; yet they are never available in such
libations, alms and sops to personal folly.

6. Strangers are always simpler in mein than any real
intimate.

7. Strangers can retreat forever.

8. Strangers are ambitious only to wake up in the morning.

9. Strangers are interchangeable with other strangers.

10. Strangers can be dismissed at a whim. There are always
more of them.

Maxims Of Rameses: Twenty First Scroll

1. One can learn how to make epics or do anything novel in a
priestly program that teaches the sacred craft.

2. The right laws can prevent evil.

3. If one can’t be happy one can at least wallow in misery
in some comfort.

4. Granary speculators are also political philosophers.

5. One can outlast one’s disappointments without damage.

6. Everybody’s life has a meaning.

7. Being obsessed, corrupt, bribed and dependent is better
than slavery.

8. There are no limits to being even more simple.

9. Only those who make coins lawfully are free.

10. Life after death is never dull.

Maxims of Ramases- Twenty Second Scroll

1. Nobility is always something of a disappointment.

2. When traveling I always reside in a brothel. If I cannot fine
one I am comfortable in a room of assassins. Anyone who takes up
criminal enterprise has more reason than anybody to keep their
base peaceful.

3. Pharaohs are cordial to their enemies in private. An
antagonist among the powerful is simply one more rival.

4. I would be more violent than the populace were I ever one of
them. Even in Egypt we all aim for freedom, privacy and equality.
Sometimes it comes to us in a bed, a swift midnight departure or
an alley.

5.If one were to listen to the powerful they have left off making
even trivial mistakes an instant after their ascendence.

6. Some say pharaohs dare not embrace any private intimacy. Many
wags remark they have given up nothing.

7. Wealth means one can pay for parsimonious, dutiful or grudging
ceremonies of carnal affection that the populace garners to a
surfeit for not even a pittance.

8. Since nothing has any absolute value it is necessary for
pharaohs to cultivate those racous or5 unctuous market shills
adept at claims that for us the circumstances are otherwise.

9. Since many of us in Egypt are dependent on and vulnerable to
assorted witnesses for information we should punish heavily those
who lie to us.

10. Unlike myself and my court the felons in my dungeons know
they are in jail.

Maxims of Rameses- Twenty Third Scroll

1. A pharaoh never asks a baron, courtier or lover to do anything
he may suspect they can’t do.

2. One gets the best from people with a genius to amuse when they
are performing. They pay Horus for their gifts with a general
emptiness.

3. If insects could lie to achieve anything they would do so.

4. Pharaohs keep lions as pets. Lions are never prevented by
terror from feeling affection.

5. Very few pharaohs have notable passions for justice. Morals
and honor are tastes of a gaggle of hermits and the powerless.

6. A pharaoh may cultivate a mein of weariness with his labors.

7. My war policy is to lose jewels I have never wanted or valued.

8. A plethora of wizards in a court testifies to fear among its
politicians and generals.

9. Truth to any pharaoh is whatever act or belief stifles change.

10. A beggar or sot may glean sacrifice and loyalty from their
friends; gods and pharaohs are lieges of their enemies.

Maxims of Rameses- Twenty Fourth Scroll

1. Lions never need a pharaoh. A pharaoh sometimes needs lions.

2. We all need pharaohs to organize Egypt much as we need
servants to remove our trash.

3. Slaves are free of their own destiny.

4. Slavery has more respect for those who labor for us in Egypt
than offering them scant or adequate wages. Slave masters all
assume one does not want to work.

5. Soldiers and martyrs have the luxury and vanity of dying for a
cause that is not their own.

6. Bread and courtesans share a dread of growing old and stale.

7. Some courtesans in their age discover they can attract lovers
with their character.

8. Extreme age often has in its own perception an undeserved
grandeur.

9. If we could get slugs, ants and beetles to serve us wholly we
might have to look for some deeper delight in our leisure.

10. It is either the genius or burden of humanity to hunger for
pharaohs.

Zolocaust Affirmation

Zolocaust Affirmation is a book by Uzbeki yo-yo master Izmir
El Oof; it claims all white collar jobs in the West are Hitler’s
heinous and nefarious plot to organize the untermenschen into
oblivion.
It was a top secret plan of the late fuhrer to debilitate
and utterly waste the lives of his enemies,
The Zolocaust puts all that are mentally feeble enough to
take the money into innumerable office buildings all over the
world. They move papers from the left to the right hand side of
their desks until they slump, collapse and keel over in a heap
onto the floor from their chairs. Often they are merely a pool of
ooze.
Himmler himself had suggested that in its decadent phase
these hapless and despicable victims would be taking in
pornography on little Zolacaust movie devices as they expired,
melting into a gluey ichor.
The satanic plan of the Zolocaust was to enslave all gulls,
punks, creeps and chimps with money, torpor, comfort and
synthetic electronic pleasure, even to blur illusion and reality
itself enough to turn them all into babbling fashionably
psychotic artificial bees gobbling honey.
Says El Oof, when the fuhrer wondered how he might keep the
Deutsche Meistervolk, his allies or himself from such a plague,
Himmler said simply : “Mein geleibte fuhrer, we Nazis will all be
protected by our virtue.”
Izmir El Oof concludes ironically that the best conspiracies
outlast the conspirators. It is the way of the yo-yo.

Breaking Into Katunya

From the Oxford Encyclopedia of Penology

Katunya was always an experiment. A prison with no convicts,
no walls, no locks and keys, only sleeping guards and a
no-show warden, an ambassador from shadowy architect mahatmas,
Katunya opened with no hoopla whatsoever, content with a
decreet silence, in the middle of the Nevada desert in the summer
of the millennial year 2000, trucks carrying frozen food to its
refrigerated coffers could see seen from the acrid air gliding to
and from the facility. A special train route bringing sundry
electronic devices terminated lightlessly in its back yards.
The first break-in into Katunya began a half hour after
Katunya announced in a publicity release that it was rejecting
all further residents, none of whom after the first waves of
sloths, brilliant rogues and exiles where other than boring
drudges, none of whom had committed any crimes, even banal ones.
They emigrated to the outskirts of Katunya, bribed guards,
slept with its amorously inept staff, used power tools to cut
through three feet of steel and concrete, traverse its intricate
and odorous nether sewer system, left simulacrums of themselves
behind them in their chambers, all only to occupy for a lustrum a
single cell of Katunya. They hungered to sit in a chair and stare
at nothingness. Then the Angel of Death took them away to an even
more rare paradise.
St. Francis of the Clouds, the zippy saint who had offered a
sermon to sundry nimbuses, deemed such heavens retreats. Bugsy
Seigel had once called them hotels; Bill Zeckendorf viewed them
as real estate developments. Some said called Katunya a
prison. Yet people from all over the world, even Mars and
Jupiter, came to Katunya.
In a tribute to Seigel Katunya sported a lobby featuring
mythological convicts on its ceilings: Prometheus, Cervantes, Sir
Walter Raleigh, Casanova, both the Rosenbergs, Jean Genet and
Charles Manson. The cells. luxurious digs always included an
amusing array of live, mineral and fictional hetaeras.
Respectable penologsits at Oxford are not at all concerned
with Katunya. We are looking rather at the problematical
imitations of this eminent prison that have erupted like dragon’s
teeth all over the West.
Rank and noysome dumps for the sweaty polloi offer pallid to
farcical versions of Katunya in great volume; the altering of
character in such insufferable hellholes is all too well known.
Most of its white collar residents in their hunger to be
other than prison guards are notable only for their study of
dusty grimoires of medieval magic: the most odious and despicable
of the American Liberal Arts.
Richard Nixon Correction Institution, the Bill Clinton
Hospital for the Criminally Insane, seem to be only the most
nefarious of these institutions. Both the Nixon and Clinton
lockups, shabby mimicries of a model only honored if at all by
the Benedict Arnold Hermitage For the Ontologically Challenged,
are vulgar.
Too many of their electronic devices are plastic, breakable,
covered with rotting ooze, their furniture often larded with
reconstituted rat hides, their cuisine is laced with sugar, salt
and killing inorganic preservatives.
Moreover their service is scanty, slow and grudging, hardly
surprising given that their staff are often scurvy barefoot
refugees escaping from godless Communism.
Katunya admittedly is a better way of life than many a known
existence. Yet we at Oxford deem it is hardly the only
necromantic door that can guide a sated pilgrim to journey haply
with any success from the desperations if Nature.

The Andrew Carnegie Institute Manual For Avoiding Theft

We pundits at the Carnegie Institute suggest three
ways of preventing a sack of your home while you are restlessly
probing the frontiers of delight in sundry pleasure palaces of
this remarkable planet fashioned for epicures.

1. You might purchase our Music Not To Be Robbed By, a ten
CD set of raucous pieces specifically commissioned by us from the
best musicians in the world, pieces never to be heard by anyone,
even rats, Played in all rooms of your home as you
absent yourself from your manse, music never to be heard spun out
by a sonic elite, a thriving bit of commerce undertaken now by
the most select composers on Earth. The money is good, the
intents piously moral.
The effect of such clamor is to deter burglars from
absconding with one’s troves of property and memorabilia.
Everybody including the composer is a winner. He also composes
his own music to protect himself from himself along with assorted
barbarians with pickup trucks.
If many musicians find it distasteful, even vaguely
dishonorable to be asked never to be heard they are welcome to
content themselves with their stellar careers in the colleges.

2. Take up disguises that give one an opaque mein of
being nothing or less than nothing, in debt, unstained by
the illicit possession of anything, even a pair of socks,
Most of Creation is very good at this celestial stratagem.
What else is the universe but a landfill of scant waste and void?
Learn with us from the stars to be empty. Study God’s ether
to seem like a lightless eddy of nothingness.

3. You can sign up for our classes in bankruptcy on our
Pittsburgh campus at any time. You will graduate from our
training infallibly to be one whom nobody could envy in your
overwhelming penury.
Can we build fortresses thick enough that they cannot be
breached, have selfless guards that cannot be bribed, hover like
mock arachnids over our amassed treasures yet be one day not be
dispatched by something or somebody, a Hottentot, a lout or a
god?

4. Be openly, shamelessly poor. We at the Carnegie
Institute will train you to be utterly without resources. In fact
we will even pay you generously to want nothing, be nothing and
have nothing.

An Open Letter From Gabriel D’Auvergne

It’s not often that I emerge from my Zurich manse to offer
any communication with the world outside of the fortresses and
bulwarks of my banking fiefdom whatsoever. I am currently
invisible as many of the lesser gods and considerably more
powerful than many a major imp or jinn.
Born into a world in which humanity took up huge
ceremonial massacres they called war, had priests that extolled
starvation and humility in peacetime, stalwarts who quarreled
with their mates, parents, children and community with a kind of
tireless ordinary pique, unamused at anything because they
lacked our current plethora of affordable amusement, hungered for
the real if limited shards of freedom and power in a material
paradise money can buy. I gave you all what you wanted.
I have nothing in my soul but love, charity and compassion
for all life. I run a tyranny that cherishes life. We abhor
public executions; we will not dispatch even a few slavering
maniacs.
I inherited a planet always one step from rule by Genghis
Khan; I have ruled our murky corner of Creation as a dream of
every desperate creature on Earth from the amoeba to the
platypus.
I have sensibly withheld from you the right to make your own
money. What is money? As Falstaff said about honor, it is an
elusive mote, a mercurial vapor, a nothingness, even less than
nothing. When I generate these oodles of sham nothings I may
piously call it currency manufacture; when you do it of course it
is counterfeiting. You have lost nothing. Nothing cannot be lost.
I had also declined to bestow upon any of you any real
mature power. Instead I offered you a large selection of amusing
addictions, a honeyed skein of tolerable mortal indentures. They
sufficed for nearly everyone and even few dogs whether one likes
the implication of such rank tastes of slaves or not.
People all over the world are scrambling to my fiefdoms,
happy to show up naked, hungry. They will do better as beggars in
my numinous baronies than they ever did as kings wherever they
came from. Yet I have lately sensed a restiveness among you that
I find not insufferable but inexplicable.
What do you want from your government? It can’t be freedom.
You won’t take it when you have it.
It can’t be adult power either. You are corrupted not by
jejune and childish hungers; at bottom you find perpetual infancy
preferable given your character. You say you don’t want to
be chained to anything or the whimsy of anybody; every social
organization, amusement or enameled lovely gewgaw is some kind of
drug, sugared pleasure after a while, terminally addicting.
Perhaps you don’t know what you want. Moreover, what do I.
one who at least partially has lived and sacrificed to please you
as nobody ever has, when apparently nothing was ever good enough
for you, want now from you?
For me the answer is: nothing.
I don’t want iconry, gratitude, appreciation, affection or
even dutiful acknowledgement of my generosity and global charity.
Just leave Zurich alone.

The Story of NYTA- The New York Times Recovery Program

Every evening at six o’clock members of NYTA gather at
otherwise empty churches and cemeteries to share their recoveries
from reading the New York Times.
Most of them ooze out chamber ire as they remember their
prior history of believing in “developing countries and emerging
nations”, the “legitimacy” or anybody or anything, the virtuous
austerity of statesmen and assorted secular bishops, the
presumption that there is any value at all besides fastfood
consumers to supposedly intelligent shabby genteel people in New
York who call themselves intellectuals, other orthodoxies, a
subspecies of terminal gulls crowding cites like eyeless
Norwegian rats, richly credulous of any newspaper or
media organ or three card monte carnival hawker or Tibetan
charismatic is offering any honest facts all, applauding the
latest gaudy updates in the tinseled gifts of Santa Claus.
Given a small market of formally educated novitiates, one
might wonder, give the demise of equally mendacious if less pious
rags with larger circulations among the more barefoot polloi west
of New Jersey, what pecuniary magic worthy of Solomon and Merlin
keeps the NYT afloat?
Charming, ebullient Hamsa Al Guf, president of Cognitive
Infecting, a seasider of Deutschebank and the half-imaginary
Toronto Marlins baseball team, knows the inside story.
“I’ve assembled a staff of old Pravda, Isvestia, Papal Bull,
Sodomic Revels of Allah, the Daily Worker, Meine Seele Uber Alles
and Manic Mahatmas of Tibet, the best journalists you are going
to find on this planet,” Al Guf says. “If you’re dumb enough to
buy into my bilge, you deserve it. If people were dumber I’d
happily give them porno.” He adds: “I used to be in the brandied
bon-bon business once. I still dabble in hustling sniff movies
and cane sugar.”
NYTA is not associated with the notorious Buzz Runyon, once
a NYTA stalwart who now regularly burns effigies of Thomas
Freidman, the zircon pope of the resident NYT phantasms with
ultimate grandeur, mostly the ghostly perfume of globalization.
Runyon sells these Thomas Freidman icons in volume for setting
into spectacular flames in individual NYTA households. Runyon has
a day job at a shishka-bob palace; after midnight he sells
organdy-colored incendiary organic marshmallows to the faithful.
“I want people to be able to walk down the street and see
what is in front of them,” Buzz Runyon says in dissent. “Does
that make me ambitious?”
Al Guf thinks so. “The best people in the world hire me to
ooze out honeyed delusions,” Al Guf says. “Their parents once put
me to work killing people. Insanity we all can survive is what
looney bins, Socialism and we at Cognitive Infection are about.
Baby, ain’t that progress?”
Maybe. NYTA has expanded to include NYTUFU, people who know
others who read the New York Times, even NYTGADYGIT, whose
enemies once read it. Some of NYTA’s own terminally addicted
sires had insisted as well they be buried with copies of The
Times’ massive Sunday edition.

The CANTDOIT Newsletter

“When I realized I couldn’t make an honest car,” says Barak
Mooney of Flint, Michigan, “I formed CANTDOIT in 1981.
“I met a lot of distressed people like me, folks couldn’t
make an honest house, one that wouldn’t fall apart in few years
with a leaky roof, couldn’t cook a plate of chicken that wasn’t
stuffed with chemicals, addictive soda pop that would poison
anyone who guzzled it, worked for a Justice system that put
people in jail for sniffing the wrong weed, schools that couldn’t
teach kids how to read or write, a government that stayed afloat
by borrowing money, rhomboid wine glasses with holes at the
bottom, doctors who couldn’t diagnose anything but always wanted
to operate, wives and husbands who wanted from the get-go to
pillage and sue each other, kids who didn’t want to be parented,
grandparents who wanted to play shuffleboard in Florida,
television sets that with a thousand channels couldn’t give me a
faint smile.
That’s why I founded CANTDOIT.
It feels good to be able to say: I can’t do it.
Try it. Whisper it. We at CANTDOIT make CANTDOIT our daily
mantra.
It used to be the old, the dead, infants and morons couldn’t
do it. Now nobody and nothing can do it.
We are the largest social network organization in America
nowadays. Some people say we have become and are America; we have
quietly and politely replaced America.
I don’t think so.
We can’t do it.

APES Newsletter

The American Public Executioners Society announces a new
very affordable way to take up a banal if not flamboyant demise
fashionably sweeping the voguish cities of America.
For centuries we immortal Masters Of Death have been
disdaining pious Spanish auto de Fe, French ultra-scientific
guillotining, classic English hangings replete with a hungry
crowd gobbling cockles, bangers and chips. We aren’t much either
on poisonings, stabbing and gunshot deaths. It’s all too
wretchedly private, too carnally personal, too disgustingly
intimate.
Today in our hygienic chapels in our Phoenix central
officers we honor Eugene De Feu, inventor of the many of the
modern ways to dispatch celebrities: the electric chair, the gas
chamber, the lethal execution. De Feu might be the most important
name in executions history. We have established the De Feu Chair
in Yale.
Yet nowadays we are out to kill people in volume. We
executioners are now voters, republicans, epicurean democrats and
socialists, even affluent libertines.
We cherish earnest death in volume as some do life with the
same enthusiasm. We have erected in all major cities of the
United States vast glass and steel cathedral Byzantiums in which
row upon row of felons are slowly tortured, then destroyed like
insects by sitting at desks staring at computers.
We whisper to them as they shuffle their inky embossed
papers that they are commanding something, running something,
doing something. Otherwise we retired hangmen and veteran
electrocutionists presume they would get up from their chairs,
blink their eyes and vanish from the scene, perhaps to pick
apples and cranberries.
We executioners know only we are their reliable champions in
self destruction. They are arid withered convicts more piteous
than arsonists and murderers.
Sitting in skeletal chairs, they are netted maniacs and
felons tethered in limbo without parole who have never committed
a crime.

The Mechanists’ Ball

We are selling tickets for the Mechanists Ball in New
Spokane next month.
The keynote speaker is Doctor Achille Le Soeur, author of
the Encyclopedia of Sometime Science, the largest book in the
world. Three people have been crushed by it of not mortally as it
fell off their shelves.
Sometime Science is about things that happen sometimes.

The Oxford Alternative History of the United States

The thirty thousand page collection of authoritative
and definitive Alternative American History collected by scholars
from York to Dover by Achille Le Soeur is impressive in its bulk.
Of course, so was Orson Welles and Pavarotti.
There are twenty seven volumes, three addendas with
footnotes by Sir Richard Bunyan, an immense introduction by Earl
Nigel Bran, copious illustrations by Maxim Parish and a
thoughtful mediative afterward by Lord Amos Kingsly.
What’s the difference to any of us whether Harold Truman was
really Harry Truman or Harry Truman was really Harold Truman?
Perhaps it was Harpo Truman.
Yet if nobody in America cares even what happened last week
in this country perhaps Achille Le Soeur and his scholarly
colleagues are right to launch this Oxford Definitive Alterative
History as more interesting than what if anything actually
happened.
People do often sleep through things. They also forget
things. Few of us want to linger at all much less inordinately
over who or what fought the 1813 War. If Le Soeur says it really
took place, if one credits its existence or one’s own existence
at all, in 1814, why cavil at accepting the prospect of obscurity
in such fossilized murk? In Nature the unknowable is really the
unknowable.
Yet one has to wonder what the intent of the Oxford
enterprise might be if any if they claim that World War Two
was followed by World War One. One also questions the sagacity of
asserting that the American Civil War was between the East and
West, not North and South, a canard last year’s revisionist
Cambridge Alternative History as confidently claims.
Moreover could it really be that the leaders of America,
East and West, were all blackguards, popinjays, rapscallions,
mountebanks and scoundrels? Were five of them saints? It might be
true; it is improbable. Lies must be more persuasive than truth.
Who one might ask both Oxford and Ceabridge is Six Gun Jim
Orkney in their hagiographias of American presidents? Why does Le
Soeur as the disgraced Nigel Bran well as claim that Nevada is
titularly a state; really a blessed holy site like the Vatican?
This Oxford history, offered at a heady but nifty price that
makes all but prodgial zillionaires unable to afford it, even
adequately house it, will nevertheless have a reliably brisk
library commerce- to what dark metaphysical end I cannot auger.

The Vicomte Hugh Eldritch Tamberlaine

The Quagmire String Quartet

The Quagmire String Quartet with its residency in North
Alberta A and M is a refined ensemble specializing in music
redolent of real but mildly annoying chamber oblations.
These tethers are the barely tolerable kind that infallibly
net the mortality of the weak in genteel bondage to some very
imperfect intimates.
Since no music has been written to plumb this important
aspect of human life the Quagmires have commissioned a small
legion of professors in Alberta and many Arctic points north to
write music that is marginally endurable yet mildly irritating,
grudgingly acceptable yet the dour source of a many a clandestine
inner rage that lugubriously eats away at the lower guts like an
half somnambulistic ulcer.
The Quagmires have a genteel disdain for the direction not
only of Western music but all music. To them the vast Arts of the
world are tawdry, sensational, gratuitously erotic, larded with a
glitzy salon epicurean shallowness, at their hub, in a word: in a
vulgar way like beauty and ugliness itself, much too interesting.
Human Art, say the Quagmires, has all the surface mortal
attractiveness, seductiveness and comeliness of a graceful
edifice or courtesan. “We can do better than that,” says second
violinist Felix Krum. “The Earth may be our abattoir; it is not
our brothel.”
Their Ordinary Renaissance of the Quagmires is not merely an
aesthetic; it is at bottom an iron moral directive to their
audiences to root themselves deeply in a tolerable autocratic
tepidity.
Many composers have traveled to Alberta to be part of what
the Quagmires have called The Ordinary Renaissance. They are
guaranteed a scant salary and an igloo.

The Fiascos

The Fiascos are coming your way for a midnight concert at
Daumer Hall in the Bundy Room next Wednesday.
They will perform Spoiled Brat Stomp, No Corpse Left Behind,
That Old Gang of Mine, Rock Around the Schlock, Snorting the
Blues, Cheat Them Or Eat Them, Elastic Plastic, Burn My College
Degree, Somebody’s Nobody, Dear Old Dad, A Season In Sodom,
Satan’s Tailor, Naked In Limbo, Piss For Oblivion, Tender Gender
and The Old Ice Cube Trick.
Lead guitarist Bronko Fiasco has quit his executive position
as head of the Department of Education. “Shit, I never taught
nobody nothing,’ he said. “I always felt I was working the
boondocks in a big time con.”
Bassist Bozo Fiasco was an Attorney General for the Justice
System. “We make up crimes to lock up real people for fictional
reasons,” he tells people. “Then we put them to prison work
turning out green Chinese spinach noodles.”
Their annoyingly chirping vocalist Bruno Fiasco, a college
president before their success dedicated to the idea that 18th
century England was alive and well in Montana. When asked by the
media experts how American higher scholastics would fare in their
quiet quest for any illumination whatsoever without him, he says:
“If they can think they are toffs in an imaginary country with
me, they can be just as crazy without me.”
He adds: “Kiddo, as Plato says, being bonkers for a loon
isn’t just learning how to be totally daft; it’s remembering from
past lives as fools how to be utterly nuts.”
Synthesizer player Bobo Fiasco had superivised Family Court
proceedings from Washington. “We just broke up families,” he
said. “We helped people betray each other when the usual suspects
couldn’t figure out anymore how to be treacherous without our
help.”
“Trust me,” he says, “I didn’t invent perfidy.”
Drummer Babaloo Fiasco had managed the vast bribing conduit
larding the pockets of Congress and the Presidency, greasing the
pockets of the long time cabal that keeps American jobs in Asia,
Mexico, Australia, Pluto, anywhere but the United States.
When asked what will happen to his clients now that he is
working as a musician, he remarked: “I don’t know. These places
were always poor, weren’t they? They’ll sure as hell know what to
do when the big bubble collapses. Being broke and hungry is part
of their tradition.”
The Fiascos of course are not the best if they are hardly
the worst rock band in America. Their significance for most of
their audience is that they have all left their powerful day jobs
to be entertainers.

Executioners’ Notice

This is to notify you that next Tuesday at 10:00 we will
drop by your home or apartment. We neither like you nor dislike
you. We never murder anyone or destroy anything with passion. We
have no reason whatsoever to dispatch you.
Yet we aren’t killing you by accident either. Your name has
come up in our data as one we are mysteriously contracted to
destroy.
Whether you expire in pain or not as you become one more
expendable corpse is as you might imagine deeply immaterial to
us. We aren’t after all performing a surgical opertion. Frankly,
we don’t expect you to survive our visit.
We aren’t paying our sinsiter call to rid the world either
of your odious presence from any sacred obligation we have to
God, to a potentte, or to honor the enigmtic whim if somebody
quite mortal who plainly doesn’t much like you. You certainly
haven’t been found guilty of any crime.
You are if you are on our list you are probably much too
ordinary to be a felon.
Yet, you are going to die, unless when we arrive, you have
the sense and cunning to be elswhere.

A Message From Clone Drone Systems

If you’re tired of your miserable life you might need a
Ceylonese clone drone.
Surprisingly affordable, made some place in Asia, dolt ask
where, the clone drone is made from a saliva sample of your DNA,
an android fed with memory banks we take painlessly from you with
electrical wires attached to a tiny Setzchuan flash drive. Then
you take off for wherever.
If you can’t afford the Business Class platinum clone drone
because you’re a creep and a beggar we’ll give you the Rhinestone
Muzhik, a flash device filling any beast at all down to a microbe
with your memory. You put the scooped out, insane creature in
your home or homeless shelter and leave by the back door.
Our cheapest Muzhik is a small Ceylonese lizard.
Let everybody else live with an army of Rhinestone Muzhiks.
What will you do while this clone drone dutifully does what
you did?
You might join our other escapees in Ceylon.
You do whatever you want there or do nothing. You do less
than nothing- in comfort.
You just don’t do the same damned thing you did.
If you do, you might need to buy a Business Class platinum
clone drone or a Rhinestone Muzhik twice.

Raoul Gosling: From the Billionaires Anonymous Newsletter

“I never thought making oodles of money was an addictive act
of manical self destruction until I joined BA,” said Raoul
Gosling, the BA feature speaker in our annual Qatar conference
last week. “I spent my time doing in people, countries, even
minor Scythian gods to get more damned lucre than I ever needed.
“I joined BA after a big binge blowing up an emirate that
made nine lizard species extinct. I tearfully got on the phone. I
made a call to those all those lizards, nations, assorted folks,
jinns, demons, whatever, apologizing for my horrible life, trying
to make amends.
“I talked and talked about BA. They didn’t care.
“All they wanted to know was how I made billions of dollars
though I was plainly a monster and creep. These poor suckers
wanted to be crazy as I was.
“I said: look, I was bonkers, I killed and lied bigtime to a
whole lot of folks.
“They said, they murder and hustle too. They’re nuts too.
Still, they’re cold, hungry and broke.
“I threw more BA pitches at them. Most hung up on me. I
called one back and said: If you want to be a billionaire, you’re
injuring the wrong people.”

Xxumpta

Xxumpta is the modern cult that never tells its faithful how
beloved or important to God, history, Nature or anything else.
Xxumpta exults in your near non-entity, your triviality,
your ultimate banality, your irrelevance to all. No one slanders
anybody else as Xxupta. Nobody and nothing is worth even slander.
Xxumpta has no temples, leaders, testaments, prophets nor
followers. Why should Xxupta organize brainless flotsam? We have
no beliefs. There is nothing to believe.
We have no martyrs, no banks, no land. What is death,
substance or money?
XXumpta is ultimate nothingness.
You are a lightless shard of XXupta.
What does Xxumpta ask of you?
Nothing.
What could you ever sacrifice to Xxupta?
What could Xxumpta take from nothing?

Maxims from the National Undertakers Newsletter

1. Everybody dies; everyone is a customer.

2. We encourage pharmaceutical companies. We are in no hurry to
do business.

3. Undertaking is a native American industry. We cannot be farmed
out to China.

4. We support affordable burial for the rabble in outer space.

5. We are always ready to bury drones as well as people. We are
okay with empty coffins.

6. We accept any corpse who wants to be buried in their car.

7. We will inter any onion of your choice in our fabled Vegetable
Cemetery.

8. Our Graveyard of Fictions is utterly imaginary. It doesn’t
mean its immense unseen mausoleums of mephitic vapor don’t exist.

9. If most of our gravediggers are Mexicans, our stonecutters are
machines. We pay the Mexicans almost nothing, our machines
nothing at all.

10. We are a sacred enterprise. Some of our priestly surgeons
specialize in gravedigging for the living.

Zhunging the Zhang

The Zhang is the ultimate Chinese car that will finally take
that burgeoning realm out the slave state mode to a new
freedom. The Zhang is a car that is never the same. General Hxd
Suk Quook, its founder, insists that anybody who works for him
who makes a Zhang he himself can describe utterly and simply will
be executed after terrible slow torture.
As a result all Zhangs are at least slightly different from
the dull Pythagorean model of a Zhang.
Perhaps the variability is only a titanium instead of a
silver steering wheel. At the frontier a Zhang may explode, have
square wooden tires, collapse upon the driver with a lethal
strangling grip or are vehicles armed and garbed with a vaporous
ineluctability.
General Quook by these revolutionary measures intends to
take once rustic and impoverished China out of the dull realm of
predictability, force, slavery and banality to celestial
paradigms into an deep embrace of Nature.
General Quook himself rides a Zhang he is understandably
loathe to tell anybody much about. Quook steps on the gas pedal,
and zhung: he is riding his unique Zhang beyond the speed of
light, zhung-zhung-zhung, a pilgrim soaring headfirst into the
ultimate starry wilderness.
Some say General Quook has gone mad, has repaired to the
endless and varied Bangkok brothels for a long rest. This is of
course a bolus of vulgar slander.
The ubiquitous General Quook is here, everywhere. In the
subcellars of his castle keep, surrounded by a staff of exploding
suicidal drones, the General is now working on dangerous,
unpredictable noodles.

From “Patagonia On Five Dollars A Day” by Kokomo Fudge

The twin cities of Ferropolis, the Drone City, and
Savrinsky, The Citadel of Solarity are close to the Antarctic
Circle. After one takes in the penguins and krill-eating whales
of these viscid chill oceans one does well recovering from such
insane icy safaris to repair to the singular amusements of
Ferrpolis and Savrinsky.
Ferropolis is the drone capital of the world. It is
populated by robots, manufactures androids, produces varied
cyborg parts for the globe from teeth to knees, makes silicon
mineral fertilizers and provides fabled entertainments in its
tourist centers that one might expect from these masters of
weaponry, lovers, spasms which defy satiety and sub-atomic
comforts.
The whole population of Ferropolis, even the lizards, cats
and dogs are pure androids. It is an urbia for seemingly animate
beings who are not dead but have never lived.
One has to bring one’s own cuisine to Ferropolis or starve
slowly to death on a seductively odorous native fare that looks
delicious enough but is really all some sort of cunningly
processed aluminum.
After one is sated by the intense carnal delights of this
unforgettable silver city one might profitably spend at least one
night in Savrinsky. Savrinsky is a retirement colony of people
from all over the world who have hungered to take up the American
Dream affordably. Savrinsky is sometimes harassed by native
Antarctic marsupial wolves hoping to loot these residents.
As a result the population of Savrinsky all have Ferropolis
assault weaponry; Savrinsky citizens all live in electronically
protected fortresses surrounded by deep and foul moats chock full
with snapping crocodiles and vicious golden sharks.
Ferropolis provides all of the many drones Savrinsky needs.
Since every inhabitant of Savrinsky lives alone they are happy to
use Ferropolis products for everything including suicide.
They are of course many lamentable suicides in Savrinsky.
One might be lucky enough to attend a Savrinsky funeral. All the
pallbearer are drones. Only the corpse has ever been alive. The
funeral music, composed by silicon Ferropolis harpers, is oddly
indifferent, pastel, diffuse.
Savrinsky natives are hospitable enough if you can swim
though fast and well enough through legions of chomping fish,
then scramble wet and terrified to their front door. They will on
sacred holidays serve you heaps of pickled reptile meat.
Afterwards they like to read local newspapers with their
guests, chortling loudly in the signature Savrinsky cackle as
they reflect upon the perverse and sanguine volatility of the
world.

Akiro Moto’s Maxims of Emptiness

1. There is nothing to observe or understand about nothing.

2. The absence of something is as important as its presence,
particularly when it is self evidently an odium.

3. A grain of rice is only edible when bloated by water.

4. A noodle, unlike eternity, has a mortal beginning and end. A
noodle is always devoured because lamentably it has such a shape.

5. A vice is no less miraculous than a rock or a star.

6. If solid bodies are nearly all ether they never have the
lapidary impeccability of a perfect vacuum.

7. Whatever jetsam appears, then vanishes, lacks the stability of
what cannot be observed or known.

8. Inhabiting the finite is a desperate and tragic task for the
mortal and animate. Residing in the infinite as well is the
hermetic high labor of a savant.

9. Most of Creation is empty. Perhaps it knows something.

10. If Asia has no genius for morals or politics it has a rich
surfeit of articulate and very exportable metaphysicians.
Release Notes For Plutocrat 7.1

We’ve fixed the bugs that made Plutocrat 7.0 a frustration
and disappointment if a classic one for many of our gamesters.
The bugs of Plutocrat 7 are gone. No more wandering through
endless anonymously decorated five star hotel lobbies; no more
fighting to the death with alien lizards after room service.
We are aware that many of you would prefer Plutocrat 7.0. it
seems less laden with sugared artifice. You may like the anxiety,
desperation, general annoyance of an imperfect world, revel in
the pique that the old version of the game has given you.
For you we are also issuing Plutorcrat 7.2, You can wallow
in the world that perversely if perhaps justly finds you
contemptible.
Even stray dogs will urinate copiously over your shoes. Your very
servants will all be revolutionaries that scheme to destroy you,
set up a grim Bolshevik commune in your wine cellar and
larder. Your mistresses will alll have pesky venereal diseases
and
a taste for tearful confessions of your unending monstrousness at
assorted court trials. Your friends will vie very competitively
for whom can betray you more dramatically and treacherously.
Yet for those who like a perhaps more sentimental ambiance
Plutocrat 7.1 might be your sugared metier. There is now a clear
path out of the vast mephitical odorous bogs of your many golf
courses. There are large and very visible doors on the five star
hotels. Room service if done by giant cockroaches is never
insolent. You are never afflicted as you were annoyingly in
Plutocrat 7.0 by distracting intestinal troubles of the lupine
industrial buccaneers at your financial conferences.
Your private airplane may not crash as often after an
inexplicable explosion. Your pilot might not be suicidal. Your
mistress are still all former models and actresses; they may be
charitable, not as gung-ho for theft and litigation.
Your servants seem to enjoy in a masochistic way being
slaves. We have eliminated all robotic thieves formerly in your
retinue. Our yak leather shoes are more sturdy. There are fewer
beggars licking your toes when you visit the colonies.
You have the same enemies in both improved games you’ve told
us you’ve enjoyed in your e-mails. They are still often irritable
plutocrats like yourself. Mostly they are colonels, priests
advising the rabble to embrace humility and passive reflection,
the usual few aliens looking to conquer the Earth, the assorted
mugwumps you call satanic or libertine atheists.
Your enemies are much more civil, even witty. Some of them
after awhile admire you and become your allies. You have at your
feet several adoring discreetly perfumed curs. You have a run of
amusing hobbies. You like to make scathing and subtly slanderous
portraits of people like you.
Plutocrat 7.3 is available though not for everyone. It
offers a dangerous world which also is utterly inexplicable.
Most gamesters will want and play all four versions of
Plutocrat. After all Plutocrat is a game. One can always easily
walk away from any mere artifice.
Release Notes for The Search For Oblivion 4.1

We know you gamesters will be very happy with the
improvements in our signature 3D adventure spectacle: The Search
for Oblivion.
Progress is progress. Perhaps these aren’t improvements. We
have streamlined our game for those who like things simple. You
are still Duke Fugami who make the cocaine deal of the century in
a cellar in an armed fortress in Jackson Heights to become an
instant billionaire.
Or are you? In our previous version you were also double
agent Big Mike Grope, working undercover to bring down a
nefarious Columbine ring of ruthless drug buccaneers. Now you’re
a simple crook.
Your epic coup has certainly brought Wall Street a massive
boom set of speculations in imaginary Patagonian stocks for a
wild manic week. You have paid off a whole precinct of cops, even
given a prodigal skim to the whole FBI down to the hot dog
salesmen in the lobby of their central offices, yet you are still
fabulously, unthinkably rich. Duke, you say, how the hell do you
hide your assets?
In The Search for Oblivion 4.1 you never go to Epstein’s
Island, never, dabble in gross underage sex, run for vice
president, cavort nimbly with skeletal models on a yacht. You sit
in a diner nibbling on foul meatloaf, sipping ordinary clam
chowder. You talk in a focused banal way that lulls anyone within
range of your soporific conversation into a near slumber. Your
slumped mein is instantly forgettable.
You amble to a nearby public library to play Executive 3.0.
You are in this game Howard Rump, CEO of a company really
owned by a potentate in Qatar that has venomed the water supply
of an entire city with your sourly fragrant chemical wastes.
You were always white collar in the corporate world. Though
armed only with a degree in English specializing in minor poems
of Geoffry Chaucer, you were clever at promotional exams, were
always as a miraculous result elevated to many administrative
positions among the elite in your country.
Your ascent has been tainted with white collar miseries only
mandarins in your world ever have had to endure. Papers come to
you in a neat pile to sign. Some are thousands of single spaced
pages. You scribble your name. You never read them. Subordinates
ask you about technical things you know nothing about. You’ve
learnt to ask them to write a memo and say nothing, even less
than nothing.
You close the door to your cubicle with a tragic sigh, open
your laptop and play An Obsession to Devour. You are Dirk
Suckenick, leading a morbidly overweight clan into a geography of
landfill after you were locked up by aliens in a gigantic
Shopping Mall.
We are also preparing The Search for Oblivion 4.2, a
moronically simple video game. You are sipping watery coffee in
the diner. You are embedded in ordinary vague despair, near
broke. In 4.2 you are depressed, incurious, dyspeptic and banal.
Someone like you could never have made that cocaine deal.

News From the Fritz Himmler Gallery

A clearance sale of the Fritz Himmler Gallery opens on West
59th Street this week. It features treasures from the Wanda
Madowska Collection, mostly paintings of Pietro Piccaso, Achille
Renoir and Michelangelo Corleone.
Glue-fingered Fritz Himmler of course had walked off with
all of the Madowska Collection in World War Two while other
members of the Wehrmacht were busy killing people randomly. Fritz
Himmler more sensibly was focused only on stealing Great Art.
The Madowska, Polish nobles famous themselves for mounting
their own orgies, massacres and obscure pious sacks were
notorious for their lunacy and venery. One, Ladislaw Madowska,
invented a new form of degeneracy with glittering microscopic
rubber trapezoids.
If the Madowskas spent their time listening in divans to
the madrigal of Giuseppe Palestrina or the two hundred edgy
string quartets by Demi-Kappelmeister Bolislav Guardino, they
deserved to be lightened of all their gaudy troves of Art.
Fritz Himmler had a team of sleek steely tanks carry off the
famed Muckendorff mosaics the Madowskas had collected from
Anabaptist and Trappist monasteries near Krakov. What indeed had
the Madowska’s contributed to Art? They stole everything and
invented nothing, Himmler once remarked.
If Fritz Himmler left the Madowska palace a mere skeleton in
his depredations; our modern Himmler Gallery on West 59th Street,
designed like an imaginary Ruritanian Abbey, is the improbable
beneficiaries of Fritz’ nearly forgotten pillages.
As one walks into the New York Himmler Gallery one views the
Simplicimus Marbles by same haply nameless medieval stonesmith
yclept “le maitre”. In the back corner of our show is the
legendary Le Jardin de Les Monstres Ordinaires Tryptich by
Guilluame Cristomo Barf. Mounted snugly in the center of our hall
is the monumental Parade des Moutons by Fidel Pizzaro.
This week one can pick up for a few stray coppers the
Portrait of a Duck by Giacomo Rubens. One looks up at the
sinister ceiling murals of tropical vultures by Angelo Aretino.
The crown of our show is doubtlessly Keine Ruglach Bei Mir,
the infinite and numinous found pieces of volcanic ochre quartz
collected by in Mongolia by Fra Sergei Sergoff.
We had offered the hermetic archives of the Goering Archive
last year to some hardly negligible profit. Luckily we Himmlers
have more than enough money. All proceeds of this clearance sale
will by given to certifiably insane felons locked in the maximum
security prisons in the anonymous depths of the Colorado
Mountains.

Publicity Release: Bundy and Sons

A History Of the World
By Achille le Soeur

Bundy and Sons are pleased to announce the publication of
Achille LeSoeur’s A History of the World, an encyclopedia written
for every public school child in America. Le Soeur’s slim volume,
written with a small vocabulary in simple sentences, contains in
its large print and pictures in primary colors a tale of the past
in which not one person was intelligent, talented, independent,
innovative or notable in any way.
Thankfully Le Soeur is educating a generation of our
children, all of whom deserve to feel good about themselves. If
we value our sense of self esteem we all would be better off
ourselves or at least feeling better if none of these scurvy
people existed. What were they trying to prove?
Achille Le Soeur is of course the Wurltizer Prize winning
author of the acclaimed Anyone Series. Notable among these
beloved volumes is Anyone Can Be Offed, Anyone Can Fly A Plane,
Anyone Can Be President, Anyone Can Levitate, Anyone Can Dunk,
Anyone Can Flush, Anyone Can Do Foot Surgery and Anyone Can Watch
Porno.
This pithy tome naturally excludes Beethoven, Napoleon,
Julius Caesar, Jesus, Moses, Mohammed. Einstein and Shakespeare.
Le Soeur also leaves out the anonymous Hottentots who invented
the bow and arrow and the boomerang.

The Oxford Encyclopedia Of Unimportance

“In histories, memoirs and biographies one should be
inclusive rather than selective; nobody knows what is important,”
remarks Pseudo-Callisthenes in his biography of Alexander the
Great.
The Oxford Encyclopedia Of Unimportance gives an account of
all the phenomena in the universe that nobody, not even the
arachnid demons of Andromeda, has deemed worthy of their
attention.
The purpose of this Oxford Encyclopedia is hardly to
acquaint anything with facts nobody finds interesting or somehow
other than insignificant, but to invite its readers to wonder
whether or not what they do find informative or amusing meets the
standard of illegitimacy of unperceived information, is other
than the same wretched trivia.
Most of our readers regard the rise and fall of empires, the
vertiginous follies of politics, the supposed sugared existence
of celebrities festooned with money, the advent of apparent
miracles, even recipes for cooking lentils as news they sometimes
stop to take in at least in passing.
This Encyclopedia invokes tedium, pique, torpor, even a
quick spasm of choleric rage to provoke its readers to take up
what if anything might be beyond the range of its irrelevant and
tedious if utterly earnest pages. One has had to be very
selective in the more iffy entries. For example what Shakespeare
ate for breakfast is not included in this tome because
Shakespeare is interesting.
We advise you if possible not to peruse even one article of
this encyclopedia. It may disturb one with the reality of a
Creation that is if nothing else infinite and shamelessly
prodigal.

Warheit von Berlin

Himmeleingang Und Sonnes, choclatiers, the leader in
bon-bons giving artificial character, offers a new line of ice
cream and soda pop for an hour of honestly purchased sentiments,
certitudes from Byronic melancholy to mildly pleasant
instants of brainless felicity. Even our worst exhilarations and
depressions in these sugary infusions are sublime moments,
stupors and funks you can escape.

Flavors:

Unterschein- Vanilla
Todtwasser- Chocolate
Mitternacht- Butter Pecan
Gluckische Tag- Mango
Krankeit- Kiwi
Ausfahrt- Raspberry
Untergang- Caramel
Geistgesang- Pistachio
Winterreise- Rum Raisin

Leibesfreude is our frothy concoction of mixed liqueurs,
Macedonian giant cloves, pears and apricots. Leibesleid au
contraire is our signature leaden pudding-like dessert, plum
flavored, deeply heavy with powdered vodka-marinated black
walnuts.
These creamy desserts and colas are all liberally spiced
with assorted pharmaceutical remedies from our laboratories.
Haply these chilly chemical anodynes kick in only after a while
to quell these initially sometimes autocratic and savage
transports.
All except the pesky Geistgesang Pistachio flavor and
perhaps the Caramel are etudes in wispy phantasmal amusements,
passions, illusions guaranteed by us to last no more than an
hour.
We at Himmeleingang have survived or at least outlasted our
own magicks. We are of course at Himmeleingang our own best
customers.

The Cooperstown Hall of Infamy

In its baleful and daunting appearance the legendary
obsidian Black Hall at the core of this castle with its
apostrophe of classic baseball felonies offers a formidable and
coldly sinister vista to the tourist in Cooperstown with its
night-colored thorny turrets and interior indigo hellish fires.
The visitor is not likely to forget the sense of dread and
despair that its licorice-tinted architecture alone wafts out
impersonal and venomously to strangers on a holiday.
Within these grounds one can savor the great crimes and
shadows of heinous maniacal bringers of evil and mayhem to this
sport at some very affordable leisure.
The permanent display includes a cunning holograph theatre
offering the entire Black Sox World Serieis fix of 1919 that once
had dismayed the entire sporting world. One can listen to feisty
and salty conversations between Pete Rose and his bookie. One can
attend a dusky chapel featuring the authentic obscenity-laced
tabletalk of Leo Durocher.
Why is this sourly perfumed den of corruption the most
visited site in Cooperstown?
Jock De Ripa, its garrulous curator, suggests that there is
a grandiosity and choleric importance to embracing clearly
malefic actions of the nocturnal saints of this refuge the most
tedious pap-ridden tourist finds oddly attractive. These
seemingly adipose but happy visitors, he says, are not afraid of
evil but terrified by their own banality.

The Scent of Eros

We are the platinum dating service that puts you in contact
with beasts, enemies, bores and ruttish people who are mildly
disappointing. We don’t assume like our rivals you are innocent,
virtuous, beautiful, disease-free, deserve the best or the
best. Hey, we don’t put you in contact with the worst of the
worst
either.
Maybe.
We do hook you up with assorted plegmatic people,
toilet-trained well washed animals, woeful entities, mischievous
spirits, rueful poltergeists, a few half dead skunks who will
make your life interesting if not satisfying.
We know very well that if you are using our platinum dating
service, not the silver one, you are plumb out of anyone in your
vicinity who will tolerate, indulge or put up with you and your
impossible character.
That isn’t going to stop us from fulfilling your dreams even
if, thank God, you don’t really know what they are.
Our silver and platinum dating service is entirely free. Our
gold and lead one is too expensive for anyone but a rajah.
How the hell do we make our money? Are we sitting here in a
funk drinking Gypsy Rose, lurking in the fetid and rankly
ichorous gutters of paradise?
No sirree! We have a deal with the airlines, the bus
companies,the trains and assorted used car shills that will put
even someone like you, a veteran pilgrim of love, cruising next
to our god, the scented Eros, all on the road to salvation.

Unter

When you want a ride worthy of your haunting sense of
desperation and galloping peril Unter is the quintessential car
service for you.
All our Unter drivers must have criminal records. Many are
legendary for have driven getaway cars in classic bank robberies.
Most Unter drivers are certifiably insane.
Our elite Unter drivers smash into walls, leap over bridges
into chemically toxic rivers, detonate explosive devices that
vaporize themselves, their passengers and innumerable passersby
to make a political statement. Are they saints or mere solders in
some volatile phantom cause? We porcine executives at Unter don’t
know anything about the inner life of our drivers.
Unter offers you a bargain a saint or god cannot refuse. If
you survive Unter you can become the new Unter driver.
Whether you surive Unter or perish, the ride is free.
Perhaps you might want to work yourself for Unter. You might
even want to be one of our CEOs. Of course we have steely
standards of acceptable behavior at all levels of Unter. If you
haven’t lived a life of carnage, injury, loss, chaos, and
rakehell mayhem, forget it.
Our cheapest Unter drivers are notably indolent. They refuse
to drive anywhere. If you hunger to sit in a stationary car
sniffing the escaping gasoline from our leaky engines while you
meditate piteously on your ceaselessly lethal luck, you should
throw our driver out of the car, take over the wheel, then drive
with a whooping wolfish howl into an infinite oblivion with Unter
now.

Maxims of Thebes

1. All food turns to manure; baked crocodile meat with
lentils is equal to peacocks tongues.

2. All varieties of erotic tastes honor a passing inordinate
hunger to embrace and ravish half the human race.

3. Odd and even numbers are the same; haply they are often
gracefully framed by each other.

4. All men, cockroaches and dragons who are born and die are
to the immortal Ra-Zu-Qet equally trivial in value.

5. Pyramid statuary by either 0of-At and Guf-Gopp are
interchangeable; both master sculptors are stonemasons.

6. The difference between one lover and another is hermetic
and subtle; the nuances in amorous distinctions are often
exaggerated.

7. Boredom is not the worst of griefs.

Plotz and Futz

Plotz and Futz are made in our pristine laboratories in
Newark. Be a patriot! When you are buying Plotz and Futz, you are
buying American.
We sell Plotz in volume to be taken orally, with needles or
an inhaled vapor. Some gobble all three versions at once. Plotz
is for the cognoscenti the lethal cocktail of choice whenever a
horrible public death is the ultimate government approved
corrective.
Plotz of course is the tripartite lethal cocktail developed
by prestigious Texas and Arkansans Correctional Facilities over
decades to provide a lingering death in the pious guise of a
vague surgical operation.
K.L. Bazooka, chief guard at the Little Rock Penitentiary,
says: “Buddy,, Plotz beats them all for legal murder. I used
Plotz on the last two litters of cute little puppies from my
damned nymphomaniacal hound dog.”
Of course most Americans, hopeful, optimistic, are not quite
ready for Plotz. They think they might get promoted, win the
lottery, take revenge on their enemies, sail on a cruise to the
white beaches of the Bahamas.
Plotz plainly is not for everybody. If you like your life at
all, enjoy your absurd and brief existence in any coarse way,
Plotz is probably the last medicine you might want to ingest,
shoot, sniff or even seriously think about.
Plotz lamentably will always have a niche market. Still, if
you aren’t in our view a legitimate candidate to use Plotz you
might be very happy with Futz.
Our virtual reality program, Futz, doesn’t kill or maim you,
make you crazy, even slow you down. Its glittering demon head
sets simply take you away from any reality but our select pastel
worlds, erotic and graceful paradises we offer you affordably as
a merely mildly addictive relief from your tedious, banal and
painful hellhole of a life.
“I couldn’t do without my six pack and Futz,” K.L. Bazooka
says.
Don’t mistake Plotz for Futz or Futz for Plotz. Good
Housekeeping Certified Doctors say; keep both Plotz and Futz in
separate locked cabinets in your medicine chest.

Doctor Posner’s Afordable Therapies of Destruction

Are you depressed, old, fat, in debt, poor, ugly, charmless,
a burden on lovers, foes, pets and strangers? Are you filled with
rage at enemies who are contemptuous and merciless as demons?
Doctor Posner understands your hunger to destroy yourself
and others as no other counselor of the unhappy, spiteful and
woefully aggrieved does.
Some say Doctor Posner began his career as a foot specialist
He was an internist to Doctor Gerber afterwards as a dietician
and baby doctor. They remark his interest in annihilation of all
and everything is a dilettante’s hobby.
Let them all mutter such wretched persiflage and more. One
day they will come to his office with their honest problems,
ready to resolves them, grateful to a counselor and ally who
listens deeply to his patients, happy with a soulful therapist
who values heroic direct action.
Doctor Posner provides the classic venoms that will take you
or some select favorites of your choice whirling and tumbling
into oblivion, perhaps damnation, more likely some hermetic
condition beyond existence or lack of it inexplicable as life
often is itself.
Doctor Posner is a one-man encyclopedia of mayhem to oneself
and others. He has made snuff movies, written and illustrated
horror comic books, penned thirty volumes of banned unsavory
sinister narratives, composed music to hate or die by, designed
gigantic scarlet-doused architecture fit for a proper death of
somebody or something, even everybody and everything.
He is consultant to every strong man colonel in the world.
He is on the staff of several prestigious undertaking
establishments. He has made several intemperate and swaggering
speeches in the United Nations. He owns most of the huge fields
of pauper’s graves, the plastic mini-cemeteries one can find all
too often on the southern tip of Tasmania.
Doctor Posner knows your pain, rage and despair personally.
He has attempted to commit suicide eighty times himself without
success. He has jumped off cliffs, buildings, vaulted out of
flying jets. He has dived to the bottom of the Pacific Ocean. He
has sat in a vast trove of exploding dynamite. Nothing happens.
He himself has murdered over five hundred people; he has
never been arrested much less prosecuted. The Justice Department
has a four color picture of him on every wall of their offices.
Doctor Posner greets every patient with his sublime
signature axiom: “I cannot live. I cannot die.”
He gives this shibboleth away on buttons and t-shirts.
He does pro bono work in posh insane asylums.
He takes most insurance and Medicare.

The Zircon Sermon and Martyrdom Of Xiang Quo

Xiang Quo learned his business tragedies from his work as a
young man American publishing. When he returned to China he was
put in charge of a shoe and factory in Ziangang. Addressing his
wokrers upon his appointment, Xiang made the following Zircon
Sermon:
“I thank you for garbing the feet of the whole world with
your nimble talents. Yet from now on I will give you little or no
pay at all for your labor. You may have to take a second job,
perhaps in a rinky dink community college in Sok Woa teaching
glory to the fish or birds like a celebrated Western saint.
“Every shoe you make from now on will be submitted to us for
our often rude and negative evaluations. We will hold on to your
shoes for a year and half and then decide whether we want them at
all. Very few of you will be able to make your way though our
labyrinth hellhole of managers, agents, clerks and their dogs.
“Even if we accept your scurvy shoes we will do absolute
nothing to sell it to its natural markets anywhere. Your paltry
shoes wail be one of the biggest secrets in China. Moreover
everybody wail make money in our business but you.
“I realize this new policy will chase away any of you who
are any competent or nearly so, invite you to take another job. I
also know a society without shoes is one that is usually brutish
and impoverished in a thousand ways.
I will remain on salary. You may crumple. I will thrive. Yet
I do appreciate you.
In Beijing the elevated hierophants of the Supreme Communist
Council heard about Xiang Quo’s Zircon Sermon and immediately
sentenced him to slow torture and death.
As he was being led to the gallows Xiang Quo remarked in a
clarion voice to his executioners: “If you were all normal
American intellectuals you would have accepted my definition of
your wretched proper place at the very bottom of the world. I
should have stayed in New York and had a publishing career.
Sometimes one does better sojourning among the insane.”
The beautiful Princess Li, watching this bloody spectacle of
death from a balcony high above the enormous gibbet, hearing
Xiang’s farewell harangue to a loutish and unappreciative world,
took pity on Xiang Quo. She freed him, sped him off at midnight
on a plane back to New York City.
Melancholic in exile, he remarked: “I’m wealthy; I’m not
happy. American intellectuals are an odium. I’m disgusted by
them. Besides, their self destructive character might be
contagious.”
Xiang Quo is now bringing his expert publishing skills to a
morgue in Yonkers.
“The dead like intellectuals need nothing,” he says. “They
understand me.”

The Abominations of Ramf

Ramf, a king of Magog, was determined never to be accused of
taking up any abominations. He was not sure what abominations
were. In his dread of these sinister enigmas he built a castle
with fifteen concentric high turreted ringed walls bordered by
wide and deep moats, filled the brackish water and imported
crocodiles from Kush. Within the inmost ring he sat in a chair in
a stupor and peered mutely into space.
He was visited by Groag the legendary harper to amuse him
with a few amorous songs in his chamber. He asked Groag whether
he had escaped the riddling abominations the king had long
feared.
Groag said: “King, there are a host of abominations that
come from doing nothing.”

Excerpts from the Annals of Brokers Anonymous

Hi, I’m Cliff Ratcliffe, your featured speaker, a recovering
broker.
Some say we in the West are all brokers.
Brokers are people who never have enough money; they are
addicted to making ever more money. They want to turn all of
Creation including outer and inner space into money. They would
like to be buried under soggy paper heaps of cash.
I had a suit, socks, a hat and a coffin made of five dollar
bills. I would eat chocolate covered coins at banquet shows. I
drink champagne glasses of clotted green ink.
I turned everything I did to a profit. My love life was on
home porno web sites. I have sold my dung and urine to Canadian
rutabaga farmers. I can sweat glittering silver money.
I’d go out at night wearing paper masks that looked like
iconic Presidents, mug posh-looking strangers, pilfer obese
wallets and steal greasy forks in diners.
Nobody knows when the hell you hit bottom. I began to rob
money from myself. I wanted to change my name to Money. I prayed
to and raged against a suburban God who had a formidable
investment portfolio. I smoked stocks; I tried to inhale bonds.
One astounding day I realized I didn’t need all those
copious gobs of lucre. I don’t know why I had that thought on a
Tuesday, not a Thursday. I can’t say why I ever had that
stupendous insight. Maybe it was fatigue, a bit of coke or God’s
Will.
Now I’m a recovering addict. Still I live among a horde of
brokers, quasi-brokers, hemi-demi-semi brokers, all lunatics
utterly mad for money. Everywhere I go I see shopping malls,
banks, mortgaged real estate, steely cars bought on time, flashes
of credit card plastic, rotted flesh of people hanging limply
from the Herculean spires of Hellenic-looking Savings and Loan
Corporations.
I may be a little more sane; I can’t escape the old asylum.
I have thought of living deep in a cave. Mushrooms are never
bright or dark green. Bats make a beautiful music.
Yet as they screech out their lightless shibboleths
sometimes I think I could make a bit of spare change out of those
damned little bats.

CUE: The College Of Ultimate Entropy

Anybody can join our school, even reptiles and protozoa.
Sometimes we think everyone in the cosmos is already enrolled in
it. You don’t have to do anything, be anybody, read, write or
even do simple childish math.
There are no grades. There is no failure.
You don’t have to show up. You can run protests because our
courses aren’t about yourself. Our students do. You can major in
yourself. You can take out a student loan and spend it on
yourself or put the money on a horse.
We run mail order courses in being yourself to all prisons
and insane asylums. We have a special price for our medical
school for the dead. You don’t have to be buried in a certified
cemetery. You can be enrolled right from the morgue.
Our president Lily Field, has never been seen near or even
far from the vicinity of the school. We are not even sure where
we are, whether we are fashionably nowhere.
Our vice president, Siddharta McCoy, is in jail.
Everybody has their own individual bathrooms. The toilets
are selectively designed for any slight eccentricity in your
buttocks. Nobody will be or could be comfortable sitting on these
johns but you. If they try, they might even fall butt-first into
the sewer, be silently flushed away to oblivion.
One doesn’t graduate from our school. One loses interest in
being there.

Ronald Coleman University

We are taking applications for the Ronald Coleman School of
Liberal Arts. As some octogenarians recall Ronald Coleman
himself was presented to the radio public as the head of an
American college, Ivy University, an institution he directed with
the pluck ,measure and sense we all expect from even the middle
class English.
The viable principle of Ronald Coleman University is that
anybody with a Liberal Arts degree with a vague English or
mid-Atlantic accent can do anything. He may be the compassionate
warden in a prison, a equitable director of a barefoot Hottentot
colony, write competent dilettante sonnets in French en passant,
invest in safe securities on any financial exchange including
those rife dens of rampant speculation in Shanghai, can be
imposter princes, doctors, charming genteel rogues, professors,
Monaco jewel thieves or even select celebrity dentists. They
thrive as curators of American museums.
We have many hundreds of thousands of jobs to give the
graduates of Ronald Coleman University. Even if you graduate at
the bottom of your class you will alwaus get sterling white
collar work. These posh employments offer a steady income, enough
to put down for a mortgage on a moderately comfortable house, a
capacious bar of excellent Port and Sherry, a dark colored middle
range car sitting in a snug garage.
Our well known graduates are famous for opening rose
gardens, growing odd nameless orchids, consoling invalids in
hospitals. They are filled with charity for those who are even a
trifle less genteel than they are. They are of course well known
makers of taste in the prestigious book world.
If this heady future for your life doesn’t suit you for some
insane reason, we also have in our vast subcellars the daunting
and terrifying Arnold Schwartzenegger University. This is a
no-frills college wallowing deeply in an eternal night, a bloody
collegium of muscled violent warriors; to graduate its Liberal
Arts program is to survive it.
We also have Benedict Arnold University, a college for women
who believe the late American rebellion was a mistake.
Our very equitable loan program will hardly put you
in irreperable debt. We leave that sweet benison of indenture
to others giving you a superficial reason to live. You will get
free to wear with some pride, perhaps even with rue or rage,
a genuine extra large Chinese manufactured four coloured Ronald
Coleman t-shirt. See you in class!

A Review of Fertilizer Planet: A Novel by John Le Vabeaux

Fertilizer Planet is a scurvy narrative of fantastical
science fiction to the point of being at once incredible and in
insufferable taste for reasons inexplicable to all but the
author.
One must admit Le Vabaux is satanically ingenious in his
descriptions of scurrilous language evolving among the citizens
of his mother planet. Various kinds of ordure are related to
effusions of cows, horses, pigs, rats or chickens as the endure a
deluge of ichorous variants in the disagreeable baleful weather.
Yet it is hard for anyone reasonable and sane to accept Le
Vabaux’s premise: that a world nearly identical to Earth is
pelted day and night with immense and odorous seas and avalanches
of manure and urine by baleful entities who call themselves the
gods.
The novel is the story of how one hero, Roger Buck, and his
voluptuous and eternally sensually hungry mate, Terry Paradise,
manage to dig and extract themselves from being interred beneath
falling deific defecations by taking a rocket to another planet
in the Andromeda system.
There they revel carnally until they fall over in a stupor,
their transports pelted merely by great inchoate balls of
mephitic inorganic chemicals, methane often heavily scented with
glittering sulfur.
Lamentably this escape from ultimately disagreeable weather
is presented by Le Vabaux as an earnest heroic tragedy, a safari
one might find unthinkable as a motivation for perusing a fantasy
book while sitting comfortably under pellucid blue skies in a
chair.

A Review of “Jingles for Imaginary Merchandise” by Mel Ott

Something must be done by the traces of society that are
left to us as our scanty portion about the ultimate desperation
of poets. This collection of verses by one who disguised himself
behind the name of a famous but long expired New York Giants
outfielder is some sort of sinister apogee in a vague hunger to
be part of an aery world commerce in absurd products that dolt
exist.
Is this book a satire of the business faith? If it were
where is the wit and savage excoriation of folly one expects from
parody and travesty? These jingles in their earnest counsel would
do as well as the familiar ones we are accustomed to if they were
attached to anything or anybody anyone ever wanted or could want.
Perhaps this book has come to me for review from some
alternate universe where these tawdry products are all real.
I am glad to hear that perhaps in another cosmos Mel Ott is
alive and writing persuasive jingles. If not, if these poetry
book comes from our own very prodigal world, I can’t imagine the
purpose of such a weighty volume. It contains many ten of
thousand of jingles. Could it be covertly an ornament for
propping up other books?
In that case I congratulate this poet in his suave advocacy
of my severe and obsessive need for any of these items. Yet
living in this world I cannot purchase them.
Why would he be asking us to crowd our supermarkets
searching for merchandise that is entirely imaginary?
That mysterious aim and underlying aesthetic seems too
perverse even for poets. I suspect this huge tome is part of a
giant money laundering deal about which I am not aware.

LaGroyne Fung’s Oscar Acceptance Speech

I wrote The Smell Of Shit as a rap song, a comic book, and a
novel before I made it into a movie. My aim was only to get
people to buy it at stores asking for “copies of The Smell Of
Shit”. Can a fragrance be emulated? Why would anybody want a
bogus and cheap version of an odor nobody wants in the first
place? It still strikes me as weirdly comical to have people in
armies making such an equivocal purchase.
I didn’t give credit to Jane Austen’s novel Sense And
Sensibility, the obvious source of my film. I explained nothing
of the murky meaning of the orgies of slate and limestone to the
Korean cartoonists who did the actual work on its mineral
pornography.
I confess I was somewhat less than honest when I told a
drunken general in the Uruguayan army the battle scenes would be
used as a depiction of sacred massacres in a novel of Tolstoy. I
said Ralph Tolstoy. I meant Felix Tolstoy. He heard Leo Tolstoy.
Yet what would the Uruguayan army do with their parlous
mortality were they not hired by me as fake spidery aliens?
I might have been less than transparent as well when I used
real chocolate covered poison darts in the sundry multiple
execution scenes.
Art is like that, folks. Genius and novelty is always one
step from litigation.
My lawyers are settling an immense class action suit from
the entire cast against me and a few near comatose bystanders
shooting up heroin in the floor below the studio. I say: good.
That’s why one has lawyers.
I want to thank my mother. If I had been less than her son
I never could have made The Smell Of Shit.
Assorted agents have asked me: what’s next for me? Son Of
Shit? The Bride of Shit? Uncle Shit? House Of Shit? Doctor Shit?
It’s hard to say. I might retire. Like many people I’m very
good at doing nothing.

The Casanova Awards of Plattsburgh

You are invited to receive your coveted Casanova at the
Adult Films festival at Plattsburgh on Thanksgiving Day of this
year. A Casanova of course is a solid gold statue of the famous
amorous icon of yesteryear you’ll be proud to keep on your coffee
table or mantelpiece.
Congratulations! You’ve been voted the best character actor
of Adult Films in the past decade. You have been selected by
celebrities, among them Alexa, Max Headroom and Siri, from a
truckload of prestigious films taken by hidden video cameras now
in every lodging and hotel room in the country.
You deserve to be honored. You have given the public a
plethora of erotic gold that has enriched us all in and out of
Plattsburgh; you are an aery idol of an innumerable army of a
shadowy public perhaps you were unaware of. They are your
faithful; they appreciate you.
When you book a hotel room in Plattsburgh for the event
please mention our name as member of our Hall of Fame to get a
steep discount on their prodigal pancake continental breakfast.
The blueberry jam is on us!

The Oxford Encyclopedia of Bare Competence: Eighteenth Edition

Our new history of bare competence sadly includes many fewer
entries than our 1904 Seventeenth edition. Our impeccable
standards for mediocrity have hardly been in ascent; they have
actually egregiously plummeted. Apparently even a drone-like
competence seems to be a rarity in our current century.
We included as an addenda our history of the Arts with none
in it but very limited mediocrities. The survey of reliable if
slightly soporific achievements in these artificial Elysian vales
may amuse some, give a needed aid to a just slumber for others.
Our history of philosophy omitting anyone of any wisdom from
Plato to the present may be entertaining reading after a stiff
brandy and cigar.
Perhaps our most innovative element in the new edition is
the absence of any entries at all in its account of politics. We
have located a few politicians in Tierra del Fuego who seem to
have some provincial candidacy for a haply unobtrusive
mediocrity. Whether it is running Tierra del Fuego or their
limited skills that might qualify them for our encyclopedia we
cannot say.
Our 1904 edition had been the sacred text as it were for
many an autocratic regime in the last century, fiefdoms that had
hoped to create a society of ordinary people doing ordinary
things until they dropped dead in some banal but expensive way.
We hope our current encyclopedia will be as valuable to those
among us who are hoping to colonize Mars.
We in Oxford appreciate perhaps more than most that a world
of tedious drudges maundering among the rabble might be
preferable to our own. A realm of slavering morons might be every
more to the epicurean taste of many in the outer frontiers of
civilization. For those who would value a planet of incompetent
and babbling imbeciles we are offering another rather
inordinately fat yet hardly definitive encyclopedia.
If you mail us your now perhaps seemingly willful pollyana
1904 edition or the vintage yet admittedly even more overly
liberal and all too tolerant 1976 version, the one festooned with
its addenda of cabals of maniacs, felons and insufferable bores,
we will reward you with a substantial discount on our now rather
more accurate opus.

Nemesis, Tumbleweed and Memory Lane

The prestigious Chatraputra Media Systems of North Bombay
announces the advent of three social networks if you have
sensibly had enough of that vulgar American Facebook. We bprrow
all of Facebook’s excellent data to offer you Nemesis, a social
network in which you have only antagonists, people who deem you
detestable, repugnant, criminal.
As they barrage you with their diverse rank opinions of your
character you will gradually feel free of the weak need to
have any support or sympathy for others. You will finally be
free, mature. Your few friends will admire you for your
independence and daredevil audacity.
Tumbleweed will connect you with an infinite army of people,
organizations, even a legion of rabid stray wild animals who are
indifferent to you. They can’t be bothered paying enough
attention to you to find you ultimately repulsive, a trusted
broker or a lover.
Tumbleweed gives you mastery of the world of strangers. It
puts you instantly in Krishna’s cosmic airport.
Memory Lane of course is our standard oldie-but-goodie
Chatraputra media instrument for chatting with yourselves and
intimates you knew in past lives. We have updated it to include
jinns and demons from past Creations you may have never met but
perhaps whose sanguine deeds and depravities have influenced you
to take up your own vices..
Memory Lane Prime allows you to banter amiably with God.
Your friends will be surprised to hear what God himself has to
say and not say about anything and everything.
Please do not confuse us with Katraputra Limited of South
Bombay. Of course we have unobtrusively borrowed all their data.
We know who you are. If you register with their sorry version of
Indian social media you will never chat cordially or otherwise to
even yourself much less God, enemies, brokers or strangers.

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