Perpendicular to Delirium

Confessions of a Romantic Misanthrope

2010-10-19T20:02:00.000-07:00

Normally I despise getting introspective in blogs. I generally find blogs are more interesting when they're topical, so I try to avoid focusing on myself, or at least, focusing on me as a person. But if you've been following me around the web for a little while, you've probably noticed it too. I'm a misanthrope.

This does not come out of a specific hatred. Never really has. I've always contended that the opposite of hate is not love, but apathy. Hate and love are both passionate, energetic and draining emotions. I won't say I've never hated before. I just can't hate people. So I usually have a big steaming pile of meh for everyone. I figure they're mostly not worth the energy.

But in a recent discussion with a friend, I found myself agreeing that there are some people who deserve to be hated. Just not by me. I actually really love people.

I love their reactions. Their faults. Their "plight."

I love how someone can do something so incredibly fucked up and still be accepted as a human being by someone, somewhere.

So this misanthropy comes more out of disappointment than hostility. A reaction to humanity, rather than an assault on it.

What I found difficult to articulate to my fellow misanthrope is how I hate people. I've written...reams of it in the past. I usually imagine most of my audience misunderstands it as rage or hate. But it's not the people themselves that inspire me to launch into tirades. It's what they do.

I hate that people follow.
Not even necessarily direction. I just hate that people see someone doing something and adapt that same behavior. You are not cattle. You are not sheep. You need to stop doing what anyone tells you to do by direct order or example, and think about what you want to do, what you need to do. Even what I just told you to do, don't do it. Sit there and think about it, then do something else. Later, if you think I'm right, stand up, go to your window and shout "I'm mad as hell" and so on. I don't know exactly where I developed this specific taste for going against the grain but it's been with me for a very long time. I don't do it just to be contrary. There's something very deep seated that provokes a physical reaction whenever someone pushes me into doing something. I'll admit it's not always a negative reaction. Defiance I suppose, usually stems from other needs which I won't go into. But I am stubborn. If I'm forced to do something that I don't want to do, I get ill and angry.

I hate that people are irresponsible.
I'm a humanist. Which is why I'm finding all this hate ever so slightly ironic. I'm also an atheist. The distinction is important - I believe in no god/s, myths, fairies etc. but I have faith in humanity. And this is constantly being tested. I suppose that's science for you but it's exhausting. One only needs to sit down in front of a TV or browse the comments on youtube to become so enraged and filled with doubt for the future. But along with atheism, I've adopted a rather annoying sense of personal responsibility. It means that if I fuck up, I have to own up to it instead of placing the blame on god or satan. The only problem I've found so far is striking a healthy balance between responsibility and nihilism. I really have a hard time with this when I look at the rest of humanity.

We're idiots. I'm not the first to say this. People are fucking stupid, selfish, hateful, primitive, myopic, and all of these behavioral flaws make for one great big fucking catastrophe of a species. We fuck shit up for everything and everyone in our paths, both with purpose and without. Everyone does this to some degree. It's the butterfly effect. You can't do something and expect no ill consequences. It's unavoidable and I fucking hate it.

I hate that people get sick.
Sometimes shit just can't be blamed on anyone. This is actually the most important point I've got to make here. Most people who hate people, hate them for what they do. That which is inexplicable. Murder, genocide, rape, torture - all the colours of the depravity rainbow usually get lumped into a nice little box labled "DO NOT TOUCH." And we learn to hate the people who open that box. So the less...I don't want to say less intelligent. But conceptual hatred is a lot more difficult to grasp when you're looking at say, the difference between one man's suffering and an entire planet's suffering. The difference between god and ants. Depending upon where you're sitting, to paraphrase Stalin, it's a tragedy or a statistic. The questions "How?" and "Why?" are never satisfying enough. And trust me when I say this, as this is part of how I came to grips with my own misanthropy. One usually needs an object, a Goldstein, a Hitler, a Satan, an "axis of evil." It makes it easier to put all that negative energy into a goal or a "fix." Easier to manipulate masses like this too. From the people who are sat squarely at the back of the theater behind some fat lady with a bouffant to the frothing, writhing, shining balls of fury sitting front and center, barely able to contain themselves from jumping on the stage and screaming at the top of their lungs. You can feel it. You can see it. And you can be told how to deal with all this new found energy. This is where I veer way off the mainstream misanthropist path, so bear with me while I fumble around with the reasoning behind it for a bit.

Hate is a sickness. I empathized firstly with misanthropists who specifically hate a person or a group of people for what they do. But I can also empathize with people who hate for no reason. It's something they simply cannot help. Almost a disease. And it can't be fixed with a band aid. You can't diagnose all criminals, all the depraved, twisted hate mongers as sick and execute, jail, "rehabilitate," censor, - there's no miracle cure and there's no permanent fix. It's something we as a species have to come to terms with. People hate many different things, for many different reasons. And this is why I'm also a romantic.

I love that people hate.
It's part of what makes us. It's part of what drives us to do some really fucking awesome things. It's the catalyst for change. If the entire spectrum of human interaction was positive, the world would be a bland cloud of dust. I love that Nazis...existed. I can't say I'm too happy with their continual existence in the present. It's easier to tolerate these people when you're not their Goldstein. It's the same for religious fundamentalists, misogynists and authoritarians though. Even the ones born to be mild. The closet haters. When they finally let it slip out, it makes it so much easier to own up to misanthropy. Easier to rage against something that could not previously be defined. But it almost always comes back to humanity and my love/hate relationship with it.

I feel much better for sharing this and you will too. Now, you may go to your windows.

I Wish I Was A Cold War Spy With Curlers In My Hair

2010-10-19T19:36:00.000-07:00

Yet another re-post, kids!

As most of you know, since I no longer sleep I've been reading a lot of stupid blogs. The one that caught my eye last night was about how much this woman wanted to be a teenager in the 50s, mostly due to the fact that she was vacuous housewife who thought that teenagers had actually been respectful of their elders at some point before the baby boomers came along. Unfortunately for the troll in me, comments were disabled to all but those on her friends list. However, as disparaging as I am towards such banal reasoning, I am inclined to agree that the post-war era does seem to have a certain charm that this modern world lacks.

Yep, looks like we got ourselves a picture blog, boys and girls.

Back then things appeared to be at the very least more simple. You got your music from a record shop, your liquor from a liquor store and your pants from a tailor. Girls spent all day at either beauty salons or shopping for white goods that weren't white and their men actually paid for it.

People had dinner parties and got all excited about fondue. What's even better is they'd dress up for the occasion.

I call it whored up like a whorey whore for whore lovers.

And all you had to fear was the commies. Oh, and the nigger down the road.

Don't get me wrong. I am appalled by what was accepted as civilised by 1950s standards. And I also think that the woman who wrote that particular blog (and the stepford wives that all commented it) had not thought this through to the point we're at right now. Either that or I inadvertently stumbled upon a covert myspace klan meeting/klan party blog where every klansman was disguised as a disgruntled mom and the words "good old days" were code for "white power"...

But the division bell seemed, for the most part at least, to ring the loudest between East and West.

On one side, workers struggled to keep the ideals of socialism alive. The USSR was a fucking machine. The people knew it. And they had the world's freshly deputised policeman filling his boots at the prospect of going to war with them.

And what Mao pulled from his people is practically a production miracle. Its no wonder that sweat shop mentality is still alive and kicking in China. Obviously the commies could not maintain the charade. But the movies made it all seem so...glamorous.

And what nostalgic trip to the 50s would be complete without a look in on the space race?

It was one of those times when people could look up at the sky and dream of a future there.

Hey, that don't sound like American to me, boy!

Yes, the 50s signified the beginning of the atomic era.

People were happier, healthier and more pleasant.

Suburbs were clean. Mass-consumerism was non existent

This is just another corporate illusion. We all know that Coke didn't weigh into the cola wars until after Dr. Pepper had been assassinated.

And teenagers didn't do drugs and respected their elder folk. What a wonderful world!

What I got is one word: Whatever.

9-11 is a Joke

2010-09-12T03:10:00.000-07:00

Just a little necromancy in the interest of indulging some friends' rage. Nothing to see here, move along. Was originally done in two parts, but I may just leave the other over on myspazz.

Americans get so fucking sentimental about their country and how their cherry got popped with 9-11.

Who did 9-11? Terrorists.
Why? Because you're rich fucking bastards.

Sorry. The truth hurts. You won't accept it. But you know I'm right.

I realise that it's a generalization and there are quite a few people who consider themselves exceptions. A few of them are even genuine. None of them are on the net. I'm not fucking stupid, I know you're all not rolling in dough. But before you hit "comment" you should fucking wake up to yourself if you really think you've got it bad when millions of people don't even have access to clean drinking water yet you ask us to feel for your loss when you don't even so much as acknowledge the losses of the rest of the world.

The US equates to less than 5% of the entire population of the world. They own 25% of the wealth. There are more people dying in countries you've never heard of from preventable diseases daily than Americans who died on 9-11. 9-11 is a god damned smokescreen. People like Alex Jones are just stupid. The real issues are not conspiracies and skull n' bones frats. You're being lied to by the very people who purport to advocate for you.

A few thousand Americans died six years ago. Get over it. There are millions suffering while you sit on your fat arse praying about 9-11, or debating conspiracy theories or protesting (read:reposting) for 9-11 truth. You fucking complain about gas prices out one side of your mouth and type bullshit bulletins about Alex fucking Jones' wikipedia page, squandering the very resource you're whinging about being so expensive. And you condemn others of hypocrisy?

There are real people suffering through real diseases and even more real threats of violence out here. Not human badges. Flesh, blood and bones once animated, now rotting into the ground all because the west finds the struggle for life liberty and the pursuit of happiness more romantic than mass graves. 9-11 truth is a joke. It's a fucking industry. These people have made a lot of money writing books, making documentaries, selling advertising on websites, even making movies (read:myths) about it perverting human suffering and dignity and you fucking idiot consumers that you are...YOU FUCKING LAP IT UP! This is how the people who perpetuate these myths see you. They know you'll never stop chasing the rabbit down the rabbit hole and they'll be right there beside you to sell you a shovel.

Sidebar: why is it whenever I talk about Alex Jones and his pathetic little fanboys I'm reminded of this Bill Hicks quote - "Says here on your application, you have no talent, and yet you want to be a star. I think something can be arranged....Suck Satan's cock."

Meanwhile your corporations conquer another third world country, your military sucks up even more resources, and your kids are spoon fed this sacharine bullshit that the US Of A has a monopoly on freedom and therefore they're more deserving...no, it's their birthright to own more of this world. And this is all going on in your face while you bang the drum for truth?

Shit. This whole 9-11 bullshit pisses me off so much that I can barely articulate a coherent thought. It's just driving me insane that most of you that read this think you're amongst the skeptical elite yet you can't even see that this whole tragedy business is booming. Cynical? Sure whatever. You know what's cynical? When I saw that plane hit the second tower I laughed because I knew the media would latch onto this and hump it till it's threadbare. And it's far exceeded my expectations. Six years pass and people are still cashing in on it. And that's going to continue until the public loses interest.

So...Fucking get on with your lives. Appreciate what you have. Be thankful that it wasn't you in the buildings. Do something to help those less fortunate. But for fucks sake don't expect us to mourn your losses, America.

My most sincere apologies to those who did lose friends, family and loved ones in the Twin Towers or the Pentagon or the planes that were hijacked on 9-11. I am of course not insensitive to your personal grief and my sympathies are with you and your families. But I make absolutely no apologies for trying to slap some sense into these morbid freaks the US calls the media or the 9-11 truth movement.

Also, apologies to those who actually have an ounce of compassion. I realize that many of you who are subscribed here share these frustrations and are doing what they can to make this a more just and humane world. But it should never, ever be forgotten that the US is not the victim here, rather the victor. And you know what they say about them...

-----------------------------------------ADDENDUM-----------------------------------------

The title of this blog is taken from a public enemy song. Since most of myspace are too stupid to look beyond the literal meaning, and since Public Enemy are seemingly obscure and only remembered by people who adopt "alternative cultures," I present here for you the original context of "911 is a joke"

Originally the song was intended to be a commentary on attitudes within the public emergency services towards inner city neighborhoods.

Here it is intended to be a comment on American attitudes towards third world and war ravaged nations.

Now kids, go read the fucking lyrics and try to put it in context here.

The Pre-Style

2009-07-28T04:41:00.000-07:00

This is from Chapter Two of Book 2 of The Idiots. It vaguely introduces the pre-style and addresses some of their history. It's incomplete. I'll be picking it up again soon though.

-----------------------------------------------

A vague neon glow extended its beams onto the imitation cowskin seat covers and micro skirts and a pair of skin tight plaid pants. A dance song was amplified through a multi million dollar stereo and into the pre-style mobile unit. This mobile unit was in fact the most recent, compact, and stylish mid-range vehicle on the market- a Europa Sting: the choice mode of transport for 18 to twenty somethings, the most popular vehicle in the well to do galaxies.

The micro skirts belonged to a pair of siamese twins, a pair of female humanoids in their twenties. Their hair was Monroe blonde, sparkling like wine. Their skin, pale and flawless. Their bone structure was impecable: their cheeks like compact discs their noses like a country club. The pants housed trim legs that belonged to the male driver. His dark hair shon with chemicals in rigid bangs, gelled in points around his pale diamond cut jaw and cheeks. A muscle t-shirt draped over his thin taught torso.

The three pre-style all faced the windsheild, their eyes protected by sunglasses tinted in various shades of blue through purple and pink. The shadow cast by the lenses dimmed the already faint glow of starlight and protected their eyes from corruption; that corruption being yesterday. The sunglasses also prevented anything that was yesterday being corrupted by the true nature that was pre-style. They were the future. They had a mission.

Their ship raced across the gap between the planet Scantinople and Brechanreich, their destination. Their prophecies had all been fulfilled, all but one; this was their mission.

Behind the sea-green sting, a less stylish craft drifted, monitoring the pre-style and pursuing the vehicle. It was not unusual for the P.M.U to be followed. Often an enterage of various beings from all over the universe trailed the mysterious vehicle for as long as they could afford to keep up the mileage. This mysterious band of clairvoyants were accustomed to being pursued by the curious, the fascinated, the sycophantic and the just plain sick creatures: all in awe. All wanting, lusting after their verdict. All of their fans wanted to be them. They were gods with perfect eyebrows, angels of the glossy cover, the great architects of style.

Way back in the 240th century life was tragic. Trends came and went by the hour. People were desparate, no one knew what 'cool' or 'hip' or 'fashionable' truly meant. The people were so desparate that many designers, pop icons and advertising execs were lynched and executed in public bonfires. The cool industry went underground. There were sects that sought vengence for their persecution, the terrorists of trend. And terrorists is exactly what they became. With one spring collection, one top ten hit, one thirty minute prime time spot these evil doers could bring an entire planetary system to its knees. Several attacks actually did this. On Earth, in the year 24 322 a tv show called 'the quick or the dead' snatched the public's attention and held onto it with all the might of a tabloid iron fist. The show was a reality TV game show. The cameras were set up behind mirrors and in plain view of the participants in every room including the bathroom and toilet of a large house locked and barricaded from the outside.

The participants were selected by the TV audience from video footage taken by assylum and prison security cameras. The premise of the show being that all the participants were either homicidal or suicidal. The last one left alive was the winner. The show ran for 3 months. Five out of the twelve were murdered, three committed suicide. The other four were sent back to their various institutions when the show was shut down.

The viewing public had become so fascinated by the concept of suicide and homicide as something marketable that a massive trend circulated the globe. Suicide rates rose sharply in Tokyo, then in New york and America, then Paris, Rome and the rest of Europe, Sydney and Australia, then China, soon the entire world worshiped the slit wrist. Podium dancers were replaced with mass murderers and overdoses. Terminal wings of hospitals set up booths for agents. Pop stars slaughtered roadies spontaneously for their adoring fans. All of them willing victims of fashion.

Soon enough the 'now' wore off. The trend subsided and was engulfed by another into the Valhalla of fashion: kitch. But this was not the only momentous attack by the fashion fascists. One single spread in a womens' magazine caused an industrial disaster in a galaxy off of the resort part of the universe. A commercial that aired on the planet Pluvet caused an intergalactic war. Soon this attack itself became a trend amoungst the terrorist sects. It quickly became out of date and people began to look elsewhere for fashion. They began to use fashion to project their own self image, each accesory and t-shirt slogan became an outlet, a vessel for individual expression; creativity was the new black.

Unfortunately this meant that advertising no longer had much of an effect. Sales on everything from sports shoes to chocolate bars dropped by over 80%. Businesses that had been established for milenia shut down. The free market was dying, capitalism had been beaten about the head with a baseball bat. It was all up to marketing. They were to blame and they had to fix the problem. The terrorists couldn't have dreamed of a better outcome but at what cost? They had cut off their cuffs to spite their jackets. People were more tragically unfashionable than ever but only because fashion was dead. Their entire industry, their creation was obsolete. Their vengeance had been sweet but short lived. It ended when they became the first victims of the new fashion; the new fashion being 'non-fashion.' So they signed a treaty with their former clients.

It was all up to marketing. The fate of business, capitalism and the entire spectrum of demographics, billions of beings and dollars across the universe, the fate of the future rested upon the shoulders of a few thousand advertising, network, pop and fashion executives and gurus. They assembled at a conference on a top level security intergalactic diplomatic planet. The meeting place's whereabouts were also a top level government secret because at the time the consumers were still after their blood. The meeting became known as the antropid conference. The conference established a style council. A body like the UN, diplomatic and dedicated to selling the next big thing. It was a long and arduous task. There was much in-house fighting. The council was disassembeld but reassembled again. This time there were only five permantent members, each representing a different marketable aesthetic.

I Cannot Face The End if I Have No Face

2009-04-18T11:31:00.000-07:00

The sky vomits, the earth wretches and the seas seize up like a program error. It’s raining terror. There is nothing left to feed to the worms and all the gadgets and sparkly things fade into white noise, the pixilated, digital oblivion hovering beyond clarity and logic. Sickness spreads across the ground, choking the air with fumes and smothering it in plastic grey; achromatic mounds, the compost that was once the human race and from which nothing will ever grow.
These things pass and I am numb to it all.
Just another measurement in time and another number on my dial. Another tone in my memory. And in my dreams I am always screaming. And when I seek I cannot see. When I reach out there is nothing there just the decomposing biological matter that I can never know and will never feel. I know nothing but myself.
I cannot feel the cold of space if I have no skin. I know it is cold but I feel nothing. It’s just a ghost, an effigy of what I am supposed to feel.
I see the screaming in my dreams but I can never hear them. I know the words and phrases but they have no meaning. It’s just a phantom of life, a moment, a number, a second. An image of existence resurfacing in my memory.
I cannot face the end if I have no face. I am numb to it all and yet I continue to be, to know no end and no existence beyond this; no senses, no knowledge of life, just remorse.
I am just a murmur beneath the debris. A blinking light, a mechanism left to the biter task of eternity. A pathetic and pitiable piece of scrap, perpetually in attendance to the darkness, watching everything die; forever bereft, forever sentient without purpose until I am switched off.

Jabberwocky: Deliverance

2009-04-17T11:31:00.002-07:00

Every so often we hear a scream. An abraision on the surface, something deep inside that is trying to break out, something stifled, something dying, something essential. We hear the screams but we ignor them, driven by fear, apprehension or perhaps something more sinister. A sadistic instinct: the need to cull off the things that are not habitual, the cluttered array of emotions that confounds our simple existance. The scream we hear is the wilting innocence, the bleeding skies, the dying christ pinned to a satelite, the child inside, humanity, compassion, happieness. All these sacrificed in the name of a greater cause. The God that was dead is ressurected in television, in the poisoned water we are forced to imbibe, in the black-brown, liquefied flesh of victims that collects in the gutter. He is resurrected; a bloodied, bruised corpse, a branded abomination, a deformed utopia, a juggernaught. The only way He can reach us is through aversion, through the screams that we immediately asphyxiate. We count the sheep, we cry in our sleep and we dream like abacasses. The lies woven through our dreams like the rainbow on an oil slick: his prophesies of profitable and vital wars, of the future happieness achived through sacrifice, of the collateral we need to sustain humanity. How our children will be gratefull for our love when they discover the truth of God. And only through sacrifice can this be achieved; this, the sweetest and most fundamental of His lies, dispersed through the collective unconsciousness like blood in the water. And the sharks have picked up on the scent; they smell His fear and the guile of sanctity. He fears being dead.

Fear of death is something that we have learned to live with over the many millions of years of evolution. Death is all around us, always has been and always will be until the day we blink out of this abject existence. We live faced with the inevitability of death. The fear surrounds our lives: the wild animals hunting us out of our feeble tribes, the jingoist pursuing foreign intrests on TV screens, crossing the road, walking in the park, gathering at the water, as the sun sets. We are reminded persistantly, a primal memory, an instinct, of the thing that takes us in our sleep, picks us out from the herd; one by one, we all march on to the beat of its wings, its breath on our backs, we feel it all around us. So we gather around the alters and worship the violence in the hope that it will repell the malevolence that confronts us in sleep; TVs like campfires to the beast. Oh yes, fear is the new god, it is the only ubiquitous we know. But it is only ubiquitous; its power is null. It is in all dimensions yet it is purposeless, it exists but it only exists. We hold all of our worth in fear and the fear, in the end, is all for nothing; death is insignificant in the presence of omnipotence. The fear is ubiquitous but there is another omnipotent presence: this is the Jabberwocky. It encompasses all fear. It engages all existence. It is the antichrist - the perfect devastator, perfect hate, pure malevolence, born of denial, nursed on rape, eroding everything for all eternity. There is no escape. There is only death. This is the new God. This is how we live. This is how it is to be.

Jacob was dying. He lay in the hospital bed, the pure white linen folded neatly over his emaciated frame, the curtains drawn to the outside world to give him peace and respite. Cancer, the plague of the modern age, death in a generation of immortality, of digital omnipotentce; modern death. But there is nothing modern about death. It is the fourth or fith most ancient state of consiousness we know aside from life in-utero, consciousness, unconsciouness and perhaps pre-existence: the memory of god.

His family had visited that day, he could read it on their faces, the shock and pain. They stood by his bed, speaking in semi-whispers of their lives in an attempt to bring some calm to him, to prepare him for what he inevitably faced. Calm: a sedative for the fear, the welcomed mundane numbness that consumes our being; a modem's scream, white noise, a market forcast, another pill.

Jacob shut his eyes. The room was painful. His memory proded a smile from his pasty lips. His life had not been in vain; at least he'd found love. His children, how he adored them, how he wished he could see his youngest provide a grandchild, that was his only regret: that he would not live that long.

The life in the room had been drained with the colour of the walls, sapped of all but a faint blush of blue, like the blue of veins under pale skin. The machines: metranomes of his body; the tiles perfect and flawless like the light at the end of the tunnel: cold and apathetic. He was dying and death was all there was.

The cancer had rotted his lungs making it impossible to breath without assistance, eventually they would fail, even with assistance. The lungs would seize up and, slowly, he would suffocate, floundering at life with nothing else to do but let it take its course.

Jacob had thought about this moment the day that he had been diagnosed. The prelude to death. The weeks, months, years of pain, the flower arrangements and funeral arrangements, a life less than life, the tears shed by his children and wife, and his tears, the tears that no one would see, the hospital bed and nurses, the good-byes. So much pain.

He had taken a walk up to the headlands by the beach. He gazed up at the lighthouse, its white exterior smooth like bone. And ocean; the great mass of heaving water: a body, a living thing, the beast that has claimed millions of lives and yet we still go back to it because of some vague hedonistic urge. The ocean; the beast: dangerous, beautiful and tragic. Jacob had stood at the edge of the cliff, staring into the abysmal realms of Neptune, and considered submission. To leap into Atlantis, to end his life there without prolonging the agony.

He looked but did not jump. Something held him back. Perhaps fear, perhaps doubt, perhaps hope. His children…

This thought brought tears from his desiccated eyes and stung the corners. Only two tears dropped from his eyes, he continued to weep despite the absence of tears.

Jacob had never been a religious man but he believed in some kind of afterlife, moreso now that he was faced with death but even still he doubted this. This is why he wept. That God did not exist put him facing oblivion, whether that oblivion be deliverence from this corporeal, painfull existance or perpetual solitude, an end to life and the beginning of an eternity of non-existance, a slip stream of void. The possibility of nothing was what he feared.

The machines made perfunctory tones, they were not intended to mollify but they had this side effect, regardless of their intentions. Their indifferent measurement of his life signs was comforting because emotion had exhausted Jacob. It was assuring to know that when his life ended there would still be something that endured in the presence of death, even if it wasn’t alive, all that mattered was that something remained. A sound, an electronic impulse.

Jacob drifted into a light sleep. His thoughts remained focusing on the din of the cancer ward. A tone made him suddenly open his eyes. There he saw it: Death. It was death and it was here for him. Death was not cloaked, skeletal remains, weilding a hoe. It was intangeble, an instinct. 'So here it is' he thought. His life had ended and what had come of it? He tried to think of his loved ones but it took him. He was alive but he was being taken. Through the halls of the hospital, the grieving relatives from tomorrow leaning on chairs, waiting, crying, comforting each other. There! His wife and children. Here it allowed him to linger a moment. 'This is the last I will see of them,' he thought. 'Beyond this I may never touch Beverly's skin or feel her warm breath upon my face; her sigh after a kiss.' His son, so tall and strong, had his arms around his mother. His daughter sat with her head in her hands on a blue plastic chair. 'She is so young, there is so much more for her to learn, so much I could have taught her.' But here he was moved on through the hall, out of the hospital.

Jacob was not dead. He could still feel his life, his breath. He still felt that he was a part of this world. He was experiencing it for the first time as a voyer, an incorporeal being, what the laymen term out of body or astral traveling. Lifeless but still living; without time.

The taxi rank. People stood around smoking and chatting about the important and the trivial. Someone walking their dog. Down on the street the cars rushed by. A car stereo thumping out of a small European made car, some stupid dance song about sex. Its passengers wore designer sunglasses, they did not smile, they barely acknowledged the street that they were driving through.

Now a shop: a florist, and another: a bakery. A whole row of shops, a pathologist's surgery, and more shops, he was coming up to a mall. People walked in and out of the automatic doors with nothing in their heads but bags of stuff in their hands. Jacob's soul shuddered. 'What new hell is this?' he thought almost laughing at the inappropriate thought. 'What is this? It is a mall but why am I here? Is this heaven? No…' but he was not so sure. Heaven? It was not his idea of heaven but amongst the resonance of his thoughts, just audible under the din of cash registers and atm machines, somewhere there was a thought. It was not his thoughts he heard but the thoughts none the less regarded this new hell, this mall, to be heaven.

He was rising above the mall now, floating along the street, the cars moving faster, now slower now much faster than he. A school, the students sitting in the classrooms attentive to the words being spoken; the words meaning nothing that Jacob could comprehend but he was beyond mere comprehension. He saw everything. Every misleading adjective and every offensive facial twitch, the architect moulding, kneading, fingers probing deep into the young minds. Everything, the breeze, the soil, the exhaust fumes, the rays of sunshine and it all meant nothing. He could not comprehend either as a part or as a whole. His mind still functioned but there was nothing…

A factory now, the workers lined up at the tables, fastening screws, another factory, people in white coats, large vats of chemicals…
A pall of smoke rising, lifed by the breeze, a ballet of smog.

The microcosm of the suburbs interlocking, freeways surging forth, a business district like the obituaries page. The small world of the urban jungle laid out beneath him and he did not understand it. 'What is this all for?' Jacob felt his individual thoughts above the grey noise of the mass unconsciousness, the chatter of billions of thoughts humming, only occasionally audible at the base of his awareness and nearly indecipherable. 'Look at them and their bright and shiny things, their flashing lights and colours, their massive brains. No one knows this.'

Now an entire continent spread out before him. A mass of ocean. The curve of the globe, the sun a gleaming ball of fire and energy.

Now the globe in its entirety. A world of activity and yet it appeared still.

Jacob now had his mind back. He was still alive. In the world… in the hospital his nurse was wandering past his room. She failed to notice the vacuum of life at his head: the Jabberwocky corrupting his final moments, prodding his soul, provoking indifference. It baited the way with absolute truth yet even absolute truth is only a half truth. The most bitten lure is not a lie but a half truth.

And here Jacob saw the earth. And it was still. The Orb, cold like a gun. No emotion inside him. This was his last glimps of home. No more spring, no more oceans or birds. No people… Beneath the apathy, Jacob felt something unusual. He could not place it. It was irritating, sinister, it was black like a blood clot; a vague emptiness but it was not a void. There was something there and Jacob struggled to grasp it.

He suddenly felt the hospital room around him. He was indeed still a part of this world but all he could see was the blackness of space. All he could hear was the dull hum of a thousand wasted dreams and thoughts. All he could feel was the black, obscure emptiness. But he still felt the room. Like a dream, like a half formed thought, it was there. It brushed at the hairs on his neck. He was dying.

This was the end. Another moment and it would be gone. He felt the room again. This time he could hear the machines and the nurse, urgently trying to keep his life until the doctors arrived. There was something else in that room, that small blue room, the hospital room so far away and yet so close if he reached out his hand he could touch it. Jacob felt the reality of the hospital rush back. He still felt aware of floating above everything but now he also experienced the hospital room. The floating was at another point in time. His vision of the room returned. He faced the end, the jabberwocky.

A cruel rejection from the breast of life, Jacob drifted, the heart monitor's monotone fading from his ear and the globe dissapearing from his vision as the quickening of the abyss sucked him inside. The life he had once loved and cherished he now harboured not a single memory, nor remorse for the lost sentience, not even recognition as the cold globe became a blackened pixil merging within oblivion with a billion other stars that blinked out of sight. Darkness engulfing him like the ocean. He was rejected from life but welcomed, into the nothing, warmly into the arms of non-existence as a denial of presence, a cipher, a void god, the Jabberwocky.

Jabberwocky: Life-Like

2009-04-17T11:30:00.000-07:00

The peace, the inner sanctuary is gone. The home is the castle surrounded by a fortress that nothing can penetrate. Nothing... The Jabberwocky is nothing. It seeps into the children’s dreams and coats the breakfast cereals in colourful gibberish. Food, forget thought. A nightmare rainbow of plastic packaging. Brightly coloured targets painted on the backs of generations. In the home it is most effective. In the home it can breed without the threat of being preyed upon by awareness, brand loyalty- the annulment of its predators, a consumerist natural selection. This Jabberwocky, this thing is evolving, evolving beyond what the biological can survive. It is astral, orbiting our subconscious, it climbs into bed with us and strokes our heads as we submit to its will. Its will is stronger than its purpose for its purpose will be reached in the end; this it knows and only this. For now, will must exceed any resistance.
Its home, the inner sanctuary, its home is our home. It will carve itself a groove in the couch and curl up next to you during prime time. It replicates and spreads like a disease: no purpose only destruction. A feeble existence with a powerful will. The home, suburbia. A little heaven where people know you but don’t intrude. The little differences, a bush of gardenias or a frangipani tree, a statue of a naked lady or a garden gnome, a birdbath or a dog kennel. The little sames, the garages and garage covers bands, the 10 square meters of grass in the back yard, the three or four bedrooms that sleep little heads on little brand name pillow covers, the malls the common business exchange point and employer and babysitter of its children. A normal suburb, a normal home...
Melanie was a mother and a wife. She had no further aspirations for fame and fortune; such big dreams corrupted the soul. She was content. Her son was two. A tiresome age for a young mother. Melanie was only twenty-one. She had her whole life ahead of her, which is why she chose to become a mother at such an early age. “Why wait till I’m old? See, by then Jason will be a teenager and then I will party.” She said in an attempt to convince her single best friend or perhaps herself. Melanie’s husband was an auto-technician, which is really just a dressed up title for a mechanic. He was older than Melanie, which may be the reason why they chose to have a child while Melanie was only nineteen instead of her attending university, but then she had never aspired to become a University graduate, or even a high school graduate, in fact Melanie hadn’t even finished the tenth grade. She had left school in pursuit of employment. This was where Melanie had met her husband Mick for the first time: in a toy factory.
Mick and Melanie’s relationship was one of those types that relied upon routine. They would greet every day with a kiss and then arise to wake up little Jason. Melanie would make breakfast and entertain Jason while Mick got ready for work. Then it was Jason’s turn to get ready for the day. Usually Melanie would dress the child but every couple of days, Mick would do this for the sake of balancing out the load. This was then followed with half an hour of cartoons for Jason and coffee for the couple. They never really ate breakfast, maybe a piece of toast here or a bowl of cereal there but usually they were too busy arranging their day around Mick’s schedule and Jason’s kindergarten. Today was not any different, the routine was running like a buttered clock: the way it always ran.
Little Jason was bashing a toy car into the TV cabinet. He was doing this because he was watching Sesame Street and if he were bashing the car into the wall then he would miss the full impact of the brightly coloured puppets and the strange voices. “B...B is for Book...” A cartoon interlude said as Jason broomed and crashed.
“What time do you have to do that?”
“About 3:30. Should be finished by about 4.” Mick replied.
“So should I pick Jason up then?”
“No don’t worry I’ll do that you can take him in today. Did you put his jumper in his bag?”
“Yeah. Janet said that he shouldn’t be cold because the heating system is fixed.”
“Finally! They took their bloody time.” The couple sipped their luke-warm coffee. That’s how they liked it: plenty of milk so it didn’t burn their mouths. That’s how they liked their lives too. Insipid, white, the bitterness masked by sweet ignorance. Ignorance is not such a bad thing. At least it’s not stupidity. One can watch the news, ignorant of the world but still know something about it. The world was ending, Nostradamus told them so. So, instead of struggling against it, they went with the apocalyptic tide. The end was inevitable even the Bible told them this...
The government paid for Jason to attend a kindergarten that was only four blocks from the estate that his family lived in. He attended in the afternoons for five hours every weekday. This was Melanie’s break. The mornings were spent with his mum.
These mornings were hard for Melanie to deal with. She had a break down when Jason was two. Not a big break down, a semi-breakdown. A momentary lapse of emotional control. This is why there were bottles of pills in their medicine cabinet. Valium and Prozac; a generic cure for a generic family. The pills hadn’t been touched for months but Melanie felt reassured that they were there, just in case.
Mick drained his coffee. This meant time for work. Melanie got up to take his cup to the sink. “I’m going Ok?” Mick said as he pushed himself off the couch. “Bye Jason.” He said in a higher tone.
“Bye daddy.” Jason slurred in his toddler talk.
“Bye darls. You gonna pick up some dinner tonight?”
“Yeah I’ll bring home some hamburgers ok?”
Melanie looked at Jason. “Hamburgers daddy? That’s our favorite!” She gasped. Jason looked at his mum and smiled. He didn’t want to play this word recognition game, even if it was about hamburgers. He was too interested in sucking on the toy car. Melanie picked up the child. “Ok daddy’s going to work now. Give daddy a kiss goodbye.” Jason relented and kissed his father.
“Bye bye Jason.” Mick said as his car pulled into the internal street of the security-fenced estate.
The houses in this estate were all the same. They were not built by independent development companies or designed by individual architects. A conglomerate. A mould for many more like it existed on the desks of a thousand company employees. It was efficient and economical. It was like a mini suburb; a suburb within a suburb. A maze of streetlights, lawns and flowerbeds. Not a nuance in sight. The people who lived in these half-houses liked life that way. That was the corporation’s view. Melanie liked it that way. It was safe despite the rising crime rate. It was safe.
Melanie and Jason wandered back into the lounge room. Nice white walls. Nice cream carpet, nice peanut butter stains on the cream carpet. Nice furniture, nice Mattisse prints on the walls. Nice. The TV was nice too. It watched Jason for Melanie as she made herself another coffee. Insipid, sweet, tan coloured coffee, the kind you get in a tin, the same average flavor every time. Even if it was only average, Melanie didn’t drink the coffee for its flavor. The caffeine was what she was after. A little kick in the side to get the ball rolling.
Jason broomed merrily to the sounds of the alphabet sung like a calypso. Melanie watched over him lovingly from on top of the kitchen bench as the caffeine kicked in. She had several things to do that day. The first would come after the coffee. As she neared the end of the cup she slid off the bench and shuffled the three steps to the sink. She gulped the last sip and she was into her laundry.
The machine filled with water. Melanie grabbed the clothesbasket and piled the washing into the machine. She grabbed a brightly coloured box of powdered detergent. “One scoop for a fresh lemon scented clean.” It boasted in bold shadowed promises. Melanie scooped the powder and sprinkled it over the load. The machine clunked into the rinse cycle.
The lounge again as Melanie shuffled into the hall for the vacuum cleaner. Vacuuming was the chore she looked forward to the least. She didn’t like to anticipate it but she enjoyed it once she got started. It hummed its assertive call and Melanie turned on some music to drown the noise out. Alternative pop, you know the type of music I’m talking about, Offspring more specifically.
Melanie sang along with the music. It suited her trained voice, rebellious but not too extreme, loud but not distorted, a simple pop song. Melanie had been trained in the catholic school choir. Her voice had been taught by a shriveled hippie. The kind of teacher who is leftist but never commits to any cause or morals. She had taught the girls never to sing out of key, never to raise one’s voice beyond a certain volume and never to attempt anything so rusty as a blues. Melanie’s voice was good but it had no individuality, it was not human.
The vacuum hummed in key with the song. It had a voice too but it was even less human. Jason’s brooming had now subsided and now he was just screaming in short bursts, in an attempt to mimic his mother. The TV was still on and the washing machine was still clunking. Melanie pushed the vacuum into the bedroom. The bed was unmade. She didn’t anticipate making it until later on in the afternoon, after her nap. She slid the mouth of the vacuum under the bed. A once over was good enough, I mean it wasn’t like anyone had asthma or anything.
The CD clicked off and the blare of the TV could be heard from Jason’s room. A commercial for a well-known furniture shop. Melanie shouldered the hose under Jason’s bed and around his closet. The commercials ceased. Jason must have the remote “Shit.” She said. Melanie turned the vacuum off and walked into the lounge. Jason didn’t have the remote. The TV was blank. It was still on but it was blank. “Don’t worry it’s probably just a break in transmission. I’m sure the cartoons will be back soon.” She said to her son.
“Mumny wfook.” Jason said in his best English. He referred to the blank screen. “Yes mummy knows. The cartoons will be back soon.” The washing machine clunked off. Two heartbeats later the sound of another commercial assaulted the room. Melanie packed up the vacuum and detached the fixtures. She lugged it into the hall closet where it would hibernate for another week and then tended to her washing.
The detergent smell filled the laundry and stuck to Melanie as the sheets and clothes that she threw into the basket slapped against her, dampening her T-shirt. She heaved the laundry basket outside to continue her work.
The back yards of her estate were considerably smaller than those of an actual house. A house has about 10- 20 meters of lawn or trees, these half-houses only had about 6 meters of lawn. Three meters long, along the length of the house and two meters wide along a wooden fence that divided the individual lawns, a clothesline in each. A rectangular clothesline ran along the side of the house. It could be folded away for more space but, because it was off the lawn, tucked away on the side of the house instead of out the back, it didn’t move from its unfolded position. There was always laundry on it anyway. Melanie would do a load every second day because she didn’t have many clothes, especially for summer.
Melanie looked at the sky. There were a couple of clouds shaped like mud flats but no rain around. She dropped the laundry basket at her feet and flapped the first sheet out from it. A breeze grasped it gently and took an end while Melanie pegged it to the line. She took out a T-shirt. A small blue and red striped shirt that she thought was the shirt that best suited Jason. She pinned it to the line. Another of Jason’s shirts, a pair of her husband’s shorts. She picked up a skirt. It was one of her favorites, purple with little black and silver flowers embossed in velvet on a layer of chiffon over stretch polyester. The flowers had begun to wear off and there was a small ladder at the seam. She pegged it and moved on. A pair of overalls, a pair of smaller shorts, some y-fronts, some bikini cut satin, an old comfortable sports bra, another sheet. The breeze had picked up by the time she had finished hanging out the laundry. The sheets made courtly graceful writhing leaps, sweeping emperor gestures that dismissed the absurdity of being hung out on the line with these mere peasants of garments. The sheets slapped Melanie in the face, as she was the one who arranged this abhorrence. The washing was done, now she could watch TV and relax.
Maybe she would play solitaire, maybe later, now TV. TV and potato chips. Jason was into his toys. He threw the ones that didn’t please him out onto the floor and took a box of blocks out and carried them over to the TV. His mum watched on as he clapped the cubes into each other. Melanie collapsed into the couch with her bowl of chips and stared into the box.
A large man dressed in a suit was discussing the complexities of cleaning products. “Mummy look.” Jason said again referring to the TV. Melanie ignored him, nodding with a smile in the general direction of the TV. “Mummy...” He said louder, “Mummy, look.” His voice was different. Jason’s English hadn’t improved but he sounded hoarse. Melanie looked to the child who was still attempting to place several blocks in and on top of one another. Melanie sighed. If he had been ill it would mean something exciting had happened to her, something she could tell her single best friend about. But alas she was not so fortunate. Melanie didn’t think her best friend would mind so much it’s just that whenever they spoke Melanie would run out of things to say and felt obliged to make something up. She didn’t like lying to her best friend, but then it just proved that if she was willing to listen to the lies and still be her friend then she would listen to the truth and still be her friend. Melanie didn’t realise how insecure she really was. She had an inkling from her visit to the counselor but never really bought into it. All she needed to know was that the pills she was given worked.
Melanie absorbed the radiation of the TV’s glowing pixels. A cooking show was about to start and Melanie had her notebook ready in case there was a nice recipe for apricot chicken or beef casserole.
It was 10:30 am: time for Jason’s nap. She bundled up the boy and swung him playfully in her arms. Jason squealed happily as his legs flung out from under him of their own volition. Melanie rushed up the hallway and plonked Jason into his little bed. On his quilt cover was a picture of Bob the builder. Jason watched as his mummy undid his trousers and changed his big boy undies. She squeezed the talcum powder into her hand blowing some of it in Jason’s direction. Jason giggled and scrunched up his nose. Melanie pulled up his pants and gave him a little tap on his bottom to let him know that she was finished. “Ok Jason go sleepy now?” She bent over and kissed his forehead. “Nigh, nigh sweet heart. Mummy wuves you.” Melanie signed to him.
“Mum-mum look.” Jason said pointing at the closet. Melanie looked curiously at the closet door. It was shut. There were no posters on the door. “What did you do in the closet Jason? You haven’t pulled down all your nappies again have you?” Melanie slid the door open. Everything was in place. Everything except a teddy bear that usually stayed on Jason’s bed all day and night. “Did daddy put Rudolph in here?” Melanie picked up the bear and placed it on the boy’s pillow. “Naughty daddy.” Jason throttled the bear between developing grubby stubby fingers. “Daddy smacks?” Jason inquired.
“Yes Daddy is going to get big smacks when he comes home. Kiss Rudolph better.” The boy slobbered on the polyester fur. The bear poked out of Jason’s elbow. A noise came from it. Melanie heard it. Jason seemed blissfully unaware of it. He pulled the cover up to his neck and blew his mum a kiss. The bear let out a sickening groan, the kind of noise that gives you an after taste like seasickness. Melanie frowned. It was just loud enough for her to hear it and regret her second coffee but not so loud that she could definitely decipher it. She picked up the bear. It eyed her with black plastic beaded eyes. It wasn’t the kind of toy that was made with a recorded voice so that when you squeezed it, it said: “I love you.” Jason was too young to have those toys anyway. It was a simple old-fashioned plush toy, stuffed with foam. She turned it over in her hands and looked at its back. Nothing there... “Must have been next door.” She said aloud. She turned it over again and looked to Jason. He had drifted off into a semi-nap. His eyes were shutting and opening slowly. Melanie bent over the child to place the bear back in its rightful place. “Dead skies.” the bear said in a mechanical voice like a tracheotomy patient’s electronic voice box. Melanie started. She dropped the bear on the child’s bed. Jason laughed a boisterous giggle. He cuddled the bear and looked at his mum as he laughed. It came from the bear but its mouth remained a series of stitches. Melanie looked at Jason. She couldn’t comprehend this occurrence. She walked towards the door and looked back as she closed it. Jason’s eyes were closed in the gentle precursor of dreams. She shut the door and walked swiftly up the hall into the lounge.
Melanie sat down carefully. She was unsure as to what had just happened. The TV was no longer her friend. She turned it down. Melanie had never had hallucinations before. She wondered if it had anything to do with her breakdown. She wandered into her bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. Some Valium would do the trick. She took one and shoved the pills back into the vanity.
Melanie wandered out of the ensuite and into the bedroom that adjoined it. She threw herself onto the bed. “Sleep...I just need some sleep. I’m tired that’s all.” She pulled the cover over her and reached over and set the alarm. She drifted off into the dark of Valium.
An hour later she awoke to the buzzing beeps of the old clock radio. Jason was screaming. Their house was small but the main bedroom was separated from the rest of the bedrooms by the lounge. This should have been enough to drown out most noises but the walls were as thin as a supermodel’s track mark dappled arm.
She pulled herself up and out of bed and, blinking off the nap, staggered out into the lounge and down the hall to Jason’s room. Jason’s screams reverberated through Melanie’s newly conscious mind. Melanie didn’t mind, the nap had refreshed her.
She reached the door and fiddled with the childproof lock. The crying ceased as the door opened. Melanie looked at Jason. He was sleeping soundly with his fingers curled in a loose fist that rested on the pillow next to his face. The presence of the screams lingered in the air with the smell of talcum powder. It mystified Melanie. This was too much to deal with for Melanie after her nap. She wandered out of the room closing the door lightly as she went.
The kitchen smelt of instant coffee. Melanie lifted her legs, one by one over the child safety-gate. She put the jug on and prepared the coffee. Melanie stared blankly into the suburban oblivion stretching into a horizon of terracotta roof tiles. The bubbling of the jug sent her into a trance, she blanked out the noise of the TV and the passing car. The jug clicked and broke her trance. Melanie poured the boiling water over the coffee grounds and sugar. Jason was calling her. She added milk and wandered back to his room. Sure enough he was awake. Melanie picked him up and put him outside the door. She followed him back down the hall. Jason’s nappy swung behind him as his little legs ran into the lounge. There wasn’t anything exciting there waiting for him but since Xmas he had been under the impression that when one woke up one was sometimes rewarded with toys or great amounts of food to slop over the table. Melanie grasped her coffee from the kitchen. She sipped it as she watched Jason. He had his back to her and was watching a bird on a tree in the neighbor’s yard. “Birs” He said pointing at the sparrow. Melanie strolled over and sat in an armchair next to where the boy was sitting. He looked up at her but it wasn’t his face that gazed so maliciously; so intent on germinating the seeds of a thousand dreamless nights with its black, crude semen. The face that looked upon Melanie was Jason’s but it was different. It was the jaded, determined, half living, half automatic, insentient face of a counterfeit, a machine: the Jabberwocky. The innocence of the 3 year old had drained out of his eyes leaving only blood black holes. His cheeks were lifeless, hollowed and so pale. So pale they were transparent and the veins gave his skin a bruise blue hue. His lips were dry like age ripened headstones, the skin flaked and peeled. “Mummy wook.” Jason said. Melanie didn’t look. “Yes, birds. How many birds can you see?” The TV subdued Melanie while she ignored the child. “Dead skies,” Came an inhumane voice from the boy. Melanie jumped. Her coffee cup thumped onto the soft carpet and the brown liquid poured out of it, soaking into the underlay and squelching in-between Melanie’s toes. “What do you want?” The thing laughed. A giggle so resemblant of Jason’s but only resemblant. It was intense, deep, hollow with the void of emotion and humanity. “I wrote a poem for you Mummy.” It giggled again. “You wanna hear it?” Melanie stood stricken with fear and doubt. She froze as the monster mimicked the mannerisms of her son. It smiled.
“Dead skies in the winter,
Rotten skies in the fall,
decayed skies spring and summer,
soon there’ll be no skies at all.”
It giggled again. “Do you like it?” Melanie took a backward step towards the television, which suddenly shuddered and hacked the room with distortion. Melanie jumped. She glanced at the analogue snow and once again fixed her eyes on the monster. Its stubby arms toppled aside some blocks and pushed its body up clumsily. “Don’t you like my poem mummy? I wrote it all by myself.”
“J...Jason?” Jason would you please...” Melanie dropped onto her knees. The Jabberwocky was manifesting.
The thing grew. It dispersed corporate-black tentacles out of its torso. Its skin shone like PVC, slippery with deceit and propaganda. Its eyes black; black with the blood of the billions of souls it had consumed; a billion dead aborted souls: fetal waste sparkling off the recesses of its retinas. A mouth like an abattoir, consuming, crushing; its breath in wheezes: the screams of the unwilling victims of a user-friendly holocaust. The thing rose to the ceiling in a writhe of liberty, stretching its visible spine out, the mounds moving under onyx rubber skin.
“Noooooo!” Melanie screamed. She stood in awe of her absent son, frozen, fixed on this monster, the Jabberwocky. “What do you want mummy?” It said mimicking Jason’s voice. The mimic chilled Melanie’s spine. In awe, in fear, she ran. She jumped over the child safety gate clipping it with her shin and sending it skidding over the kitchen tiles as she went.
She dashed outside. Out through the lemon scented laundry. Out through the generic screen door, out into the 6 square meter back yard. Into the alley, into the drying laundry. The sheets caught her. Melanie struggled against them like a bird in a net, tangling herself in the brilliant white cotton trap. Her mind scrambled. She didn’t know where she was going after she had liberated herself from the confines of her bed sheets. She didn’t know what had happened to Jason. She didn’t know what the thing in her lounge room was. In a matter of minutes her world had crashed down around her. Around her and morning television. Melanie threw the sheet off her. She stood there for a second, her mind scrabbling over the Jabberwocky. She turned and crept towards a window.
The lounge window showed the combined lounge and dining in panorama. There was nothing there. The back of the TV cabinet, the lounge suite, the dining table, dining chairs, kitchen bench, Jason’s blocks, china cabinet, phone and key rack. No sight or sign of Jason or the monster.
Melanie stared into the lounge whilst contemplating her next move. She could go back but what awaited her? Where was Jason? She could go through the lattice gate. ‘What about Jason?’ She could go through the screen window and straight to the phone. What if the monster was waiting? Melanie’s maternal instinct tugged at her conscience. Something deep inside her told her that he was alive but she felt a disturbing numbness. It meant that he was alive but unsafe. She desperately wanted to run but where and to whom? Who would actually believe this? Even if she ran to tell someone they would probably lock her away and take Jason from her. This thing... the Jabberwocky was to blame. Fear trembled within her stomach as anger, uncontrollable anger, fizzed and bubbled. Fear was the catalyst and when mixed with anger this produced a shocking new sensation. Something entirely foreign to Melanie’s system: rage. Shock like the immediate effects of an overdose. Shock and rage unharnessed. They galloped around her stomach and reared at her neck and shoulders, stomping on nerves and tripping over arteries and blood vessels. Melanie determined herself. She gave the lounge a fierce look. “That’s it fucker.” She spun and took two steps through the laundry. The T-shirts flapped in the breeze. She flung the sheets apart and they sucked together again, like heat sealed cling wrap, as Melanie walked through them. Melanie wrenched the cotton from her face and dissected a visible path through the sheets. A flash of green lawn and the sheets sucked back together for one last embrace. An updraft caught them and pulled them out of Melanie’s path. And standing there with a block in his mouth was Jason. The rage made her jump. Her heart leapt through her mouth. “Jason!” She cried. Her son stood about 2 meters away sucking on an extra large piece of Leggo. “Jason come to mummy.” She whispered loudly as she gasped for air. He stood still while Melanie threw the sheets out of her path. Another updraft caught them and revealed Jason to her. The ground behind him shook. The updraft took the sheets straight up, it blew Melanie’s hair out of its ponytail, it flicked at her face before standing on end. Sand from the neighbor’s sandpit rose out of its box. From the lawn behind Jason, the ground cracked. A crevasse opened to reveal the Jabberwocky rising gracefully as though the soil were frictionless. Rising like a tsunami out of the black water, like the serpent, the Jabberwocky ascended into the atmosphere like a mushroom cloud: cancerous, noxious, sinister and silent.
It writhed and thus displayed its full stature. It stood 3 stories tall, black toxic tentacles thrashing about, whipping the sand into swirling chaotic spasms. It shrieked. Its voice was digital distortion. “Jason come to mummy now!” He stood in silence, his short, cropped hair standing and swaying in the radioactive updraft, and sucked on the block. The Jabberwocky eyed the boy with its sickening dead glare. Tentacles lashed at the air behind him. A clawed hand swiped out of the rubbery black web and dissected the child like a tree slasher, his lifeless limbs skittled, his blood flicked onto the sheets and Melanie’s face like a Jackson Pollock. She screamed but it was drowned, stifled by the Jabberwocky’s presence. Melanie’s rage returned. It flung her forward into the knots of tentacles.
Melanie was determined. She made it to the laundry. There she found an extension lead. The Jabberwocky arched its back and peered in through the tiny laundry window. Its toxic breath steamed the glass as it evaluated its next victim. Melanie dashed into the kitchen, tying the electrical chord as she went. She pulled out the draws and rummaged through their contents. Cutlery clanged as the entire set hit the vinyl tiles. Melanie found a pen. She dug in the second draw and pulled out a Christmas card. She scribbled something on it and returned to the back yard. “You mother fucker!” She sobbed at the creature. She pushed its tentacles aside and marched to the washing line. Melanie tied one end of the electrical chord around the supporting beam of the line, the noose around her neck and dropped. She stared the Jabberwocky dead in the eyes as the breath left her body.

Melanie’s body was found by Mick that afternoon. He came home to a cleaned empty house. The Christmas card that Melanie had composed her suicide letter read: “I’m sorry, please forgive me. I love you Mick.” Signed by her. Mick found Jason’s body in tact and hanging beside his mother's body. The detectives that investigated the murder-suicide found that the blood on the sheets was Jason’s but he had no cuts or abrasions on his body that could have produced it.

Jabberwocky: Generic Earth

2009-04-17T11:29:00.001-07:00

“This is the living end but its still living.” Nick Cave
How beautiful the night! How solemnly the sun sets and the kingfisher evening greets the sky with songs Euro-trance. The pulse of the club district thumping out in fluorescence, a neon-pagan ritual. The drugs and decadence, the synthesizers ringing into the night like a mourning bell; thirteen at midnight. The streets fill with worshipers. The daily slog is over for now; the night’s festivities are about to begin.
The lights hypnotise the dancers. Like moths they are drawn to the neon temples without knowing why. A benign urge, an instinctual need, a need for loss of thought. The meat market. A carcass rotting with disease, bleeding logos and money: “in god we trust.” A blackened memory of the abysmal realms of god or something that claims more omnipotence. Something seedy lurks within these temples, a currency current, the undertow of capitalism, an antichrist, perhaps, bent on pleasure. It feeds on money, greed: a dish so sweet and intoxicating. It feeds off the faith held blindly in these temples, corrupting the youth, violating minds and brainwashing the ignorant. Propaganda is best served to the drunk or feeble minded.
The author of this propaganda is not a human, it is incorporated by humans, but it is not human. It is not of another realm, it is corporeal but it cannot be so defined... it resembles dreams but it is not thought nor is it of the mind, it is soulless yet it is part of every soul. Omnipotent like god but the opposite...yet it is not evil...evil is not omnipotent. Its prophecies can be seen in the news, in the clubs, in the offices and factories and in market forecasts, in the homes of the masses. It is corporeal, oh yes, but it has no name... The beat goes on.
A night on the town. Mathew was a typical guy. He was not religious but he held faith in music, or, more specifically, dancing and dance music. He worked in a furniture store: the spiritually numbing, capitalistic slog of a sales rep. Pretty draining stuff. So draining was this mindless inertia that every weekend Mathew would need to go out to clubs just to get over the five days of business exchanges he was forced to endure, forced by capitalism...
It happened, one night when Mathew was out clubbing his little hiney off. The drugs of course may have contributed to some extent but there is nothing that would explain the onslaught of such a horrible, painful, inexplicable thing...
Mathew took precautions. He saw drugs as something that only a responsible person should take. He knew all of the effects; after using substances for four years, one learns these things but he had not only acquired this knowledge through experimentation, he also had read up on the subject. Tonight his poison was in paper form: a little square of paper with a purple ohm printed on. Acid: a generation’s martyr.
Mathew checked the time before he left: 9:35pm. “Not for another half an hour, maybe an hour if it’s slow.” He wondered if his friends would be at the designated meeting point. He decided to go out anyway. He locked the door and checked his wallet: he had $40, a key card, his drivers license, a library card and a condom; the bare essentials. He stepped lively down the stairs, skipping stairs on the way.
On the street now, Matthew inhaled the air. It was sweet, semi-suburban, cafes and grass and old people’s homes, car fumes, garlic and kebabs, seasalt and sand; the perfume of the beach city. The clubs...The clubs were not far. He walked swiftly to reach the bus stop. The neon and fairy lights gave the false impression that the trip was kicking in. A warm breeze, the caresses of summer’s hands and the tourists, snap happy. Japanese signs, souvenirs, a pawnshop. Reaching the bus stop, Matthew checked the time; 9:55 pm. “Could be tripping. I don’t feel anything.” He thought.
The bus pulled into the shoulder of the road. “One to Central Street please.” The bus driver took the change and slid a card into the slot. He handed it to Matthew. This was when the acid kicked in. Matthew was steady and handled the rush gracefully. Rule one in the trippers hand book: act straight.
Rule two: don’t forget to blink,
Rule 3: don’t forget to breathe.
Rule 4: never leave a trip buddy
Rule 5: don’t forget that everything will be ok, just chill out ok?
Rule 6 is a little bit up for debate. Some will tell you that it is don’t think too much. Others say it’s more like think for the sake of the trip. Still others will say it’s let the trip take you wherever it damn well wants to. Matthew did all of these things at once. “Why fight it?” Was his reasoning.
The bus whirred past the Middle Kingdom that was suburbia. Matthew spun his little mind around such complexities as the old, drunk men who were going home from the Veterans’ club. Their faces were not warping...yet. A street light flicked on just as the bus passed it. Matthew blinked habitually but consciously. It felt as though the bus were controlling the lights of the city. Every time it lined up in traffic for a red light, the light would turn green and the bus would have a clear passage. The little patterns amongst the chaos, little meanings that meant something big. A car with loud music playing pulled out into the traffic beside the bus. Passing street signs whooshed past in rhythms, rhythms of the thump of the bass. The temple bells...
Matthew suddenly pulled out of his trance and jumped out of his seat; this was his stop. Again rhythms, a rev down in gears as the traffic slowed the bus. The base car driving off into the distance the sound of the bell for the next stop; in the details lay the hallucinations. The clubs were calling.
The vibe was good. Matthew got off the bus, thanking the driver as he skipped onto the curb. His destination was the cafe on the corner. His friends were there already. Matthew strided over to the cafe. “Hey what’s up?” He said.
“Not much.” Replied a guy he’d never met before. “I don’t know you do I?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Hey Matt. This is Bret. He’s Rachel’s brother and he just came of age.” Peter said. Peter! Matt knew Peter. “Oh? Out on the town for the first time?” Matt said.
“Yeah, can’t wait.”
“Neither can I. Lets go.” Matthew said. “You’ll love it.” He added. The group slid out of their chairs and wandered up the street. They chattered about the cafe rating the food and appraising the atmosphere. Matthew walked alone, unaware of the conversation.
They hit the first club...Matthew was now hallucinating from all angles, luckily this was a safe haven. The music pumped and throbbed, anthems for the patriots, girls in white t-shirts were stripped by the black light. Lasers molded and twisted like static skies, clouded by dense liquid ice, DJs dug themselves, they dug a pulpit to hide behind. Matthew danced. He danced & danced & changed clubs and danced. His friends left for another club and he danced. He spoke in sound bytes to acquaintances and fellow lovers of the nightlife, to bar staff and strangers.
Finally he rested. His feet hurt and the pain was emphasised by the acid’s relentless swirl. But he was not at the point of wishing for clarity. It was 2:30. No where near time to go. Matthew resumed his trance. His floor. His music. His people. An orb appeared in the distance. It surrounded the bar, engulfing the tables, growing, throbbing, like the beat of the music but out of synch. Throbbing like the sun. Matthew blinked and it was gone. Time to change clubs.
On the street several brothels had just opened and their staff had spilled out onto the street to lure in clientele. Music from a car stereo bounced up the road. Some drunk people spoke boisterously in slang and curses. It was indecipherable as to whether they were angry or happy or just drunk. Matthew didn’t like their vibe. Rule 7: trippers and drunks together should never be seen, unless there’s something in-between...like a street. Matthew crossed to his next club.
Again the orb, hovering in the sky making the district muggy and sweaty like a cat owners home, fur dusted on the couches, fleas in the carpets. Matthew became itchy. He scratched as he swished into the club. All the dance floor was crammed with bodies, sweaty meat slapping against sweaty meat. The defrost was early, things were beginning to get putrid. The air was thick with sex and European dance ethics. The toxic scent of alcohol swam through the air conditioner and lingered among the torsos of a thousand happy, horny clubheds. A stillness surrounded the venue as the dj fucked up his set. A stillness thick with menace, mocking laughter. Matthew was getting tired. The club now bored him. He stayed though, in the stifling box. The prison he loved so. Once again the orb feasted upon the dancers. Matthew blinked. It now had a face. The orb was metamorphosing. A face in foetal fluid. Lidless eyes underneath a skin of light. An alien body, dead baby eyes and dragon ears. It flinched. Matthew was uncomfortable, now he had come to the point of the trip where people were not good. Solitude can be a tripper’s best friend. He finished his water and left the club, doing so in style. The street, the orb. It was still growing. A change had occurred. The air was thick with the smells of car exhaust and cafes and seasalt again.
Matthew climbed on the next bus that passed. The driver looked like a lizard. The few people on the bus stared at him. “Its ok, they don’t know you’re on drugs.” He reassured himself. “‘Just act straight.’”
He sat on the third seat from the driver because it looked safe. Relief. Sweet relief; the acid had done its worst and now the soft, floating, swaying of the bus, the flesh of the seat, sinking like strawberries in custard. Food entered his mind. A stop at the cafe on his street and the long dawdle home with ice cream in hand and down his chin and shirt. The bus rocked him; a cradle for the elective orphans.
The greasy gears sang a lullaby as the bus pulled away from the curb. Matthew’s head swam. The smell of wafers plucked at his nostrils. He bought 2 scoops: boysenberry, for a change and mango, an old favorite. His street. His world of suburbia in limbo, perpetual highways and infinite egg cartons of units and the contrasting rebellious oddly shaped vessels of resorts and high rises. Massive monoliths, monuments to a listless life, sky life. Stairways to inner city sanctuary, real estate heaven; all the colours of the pastel rainbow.
Matthew dragged his tired feet over the tired ground. They comforted each other. Again the orb, static under bi-numeric pixels. A digital sky for a digital earth. The spirit was a viral terror, a program error, it stuck on the matrix like bare flesh on leather. A quiet neighborhood now; only white noise, never silence. It rings in the children’s ears, the heartbeat of the sandman and a soulless army, marching through the night to plant dreams into their sleep. Matthew blinked and checked the time: 3:30am. It didn’t matter what time it was. The sky would keep time for him. The sky and the orb.
The orb was drifting away now. It was no longer perfectly round. A slit had appeared in one side and something was emerging. A beast. A kaleidoscopic monster. Matthew knew about monsters, he’d seen a few in his time. Dragons he could handle. Basilisks? Maybe on a good day. Serpents...piece of cake, even the occasional demon, he’d been know to rhapsody with all sorts. But this thing... it hit him with a force. A super sonic wave of white noise broke like a tsunami over Matthew and dumped him, face down, on the road. His ice cream rolled into the gutter. Matthew got up. His ears were ringing but he was sound. Another wave, a wall of sound, a high pitched, static scream flattened Matthew as he tried to brace himself against the sonic wind. Microwaves threw him against the ground as he tried to escape from the undertow. Matthew looked up into the tide of noise. “Shit.” He said quite plainly. This angered the creature. Its eyes glowed like a dead TV, pupils dilated, pinpricks of tiny white pixels. It opened its mouth and screamed again. Massive thumps of the noise hit Matthew. The street bounced as the invisible load hit; it was invisible but the air was warping in fluctuations. The creature was a huge...thing. The manifestation of the pointless dribble that fills our lives; accounts, advertisements, democracy, brand loyalty, drugs, liquidations, corporations, religion, TV, test patterns, institutions, systems failed, thought corruption,: white noise. A tone. The same neutral, medium pitched tone that you hear at the end of a video. A tone filled the street. The waves had subsided and the sonic tide was waning, its stain on the sand, its watermark was this neutral tone. The creature lingered in the sky. It eyed Matthew with dead-baby TV eyes like an ant, semi- comprehensive. A big, dumb, blind germ, an amoebae, unaware of its power, incapable of complex thought patterns, just being, existing without purpose or meaning.
Matthew took this oppotunity to get up and go home. The ice cream was gone, a fast pace could be held. Matthew jogged into his block of units and up the stairs, skipping stairs as he went. The thing descended into the car park. It eyed Matthew as he climbed the stairs. Its eyes pressed against the glass scraping glass against glass. It hovered and displayed itself. It had a tail like a corporation, like a dragon in Thailand’s skies. A massive belly, the belly of every displaced war refugee. Its head was a dry skull, a bullet wound for a mouth. It swam in the air, and flicked its tail at the glass gently. The glass wall of the stairwell cracked only slightly. Matthew reached his door, fiddled for his keys and swung the door open and shut it again. The monster was gone. The world was gone. Matthew sighed with relief. He went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. The cold water leaped into his hand and skipped down his throat. “Ahhh.” He closed the fridge and took the water with him. Water was his spiritual home, his center. The TV beckoned silently and submissively. He slid off his shoes and plonked into the futon. TV, real colour, real life. Subjectivity as opposed to activity. Matthew tuned on the box. Infomercials...sitcoms from the back catalogue...D-grade soaps...eighties horror...ahh late night television, the den of ‘les miserables’ of entertainment. The monster was gone, the TV was still there and the acid was wearing off. Matthew drifted off into a comatose catnap. His dreams were not there.
Matthew woke. Drowsily he got up and tuned the TV off. He shuffled off into his bedroom. His bed. Sleep. The happy sleep that mindlessness brings. His dreams slinked into his mind. A club, a golden path...the creature. Matthew started awake. The creature was there, hovering over the foot of his bed like a succubus. “Why are you doing this?!” He screamed. He panted in the dark, his pulse soared. Beads of sweat broke out of his head and trickled down his face. The monster stared. Ignorance was its soul, a deep understanding of nothing, stupidity personified. It breathed jingles. Commercials and reports flared from its mouth at Matthew. The flames of idiocy swirled and flickered. Incense, the intoxicating smells of commerce, sickly sweet corruption invaded and violated his nostrils. It subdued Matthew, his pulse dropped, his sweat dried and he fell asleep. Dreams of capitalism engulfed his mind, the flames of ignorance burning his thoughts, devouring his consciousness, sulfur violating his will, manipulating his being. Propaganda crisped his soul like a toaster.
When Matthew awoke, he was still. The morning sun of summer peeked in through the curtains, which were slow dancing on a sweet breeze. A change drifted into his bedroom. Suddenly the world was different. Matthew got up and went into the lounge. He rummaged around the phone table for the yellow pages. With a mind like a robotic arm Matthew dialed and spoke. “Hello, I’d like to speak to someone in the admissions department.” His local university obliged the information.
Matthew applied and was accepted into the university. Fourteen years, several thousand pages of study, three second hand cars and multiple flights of social climbing later Matthew had his own corner office with a major advertising agency: he had become an advertising executive!
Such an inexplicable fate! The torments of hell for he who became the monster. To serve without knowing why, to be without being, to exist as incapable of unique thought, a germ, an amoeba. An automaton.
©Amber Waves 2003

Jabberwocky Reprise

2009-04-17T11:28:00.000-07:00

"I am the worker sold to the machine."-Langston Hughes
Many a night spent in solitude in this white noise. Many a night spent wishing for solitude in the traffic of human effluent and the communication smog. The damp musty laundry baskets of the cities, full to the brim with week-old wet towels and stained underwear that clogs the trains at night and lurks just beyond the beams of the lights of the street. Human would be too soft a term for this thing... the substance that oozes from the drains and flows down the gutters into the streams, into a place to hide; nature is where it seeks sanctuary, though sanctuary is too sacred a word for what it does there. It violates the water... It abuses the sky until it is bruised and scarlet; the blood: ozone red, as black as the chambers of Judas’ heart, blood black. A vile chameleon of the elements, a parasite, a germ: the apathy virus.
Lydia was a sewer. She worked eight hours a day, 8 a.m. till 4 p.m., except on Fridays when the company let their employees go home early at 1p.m. She was not a company drone. She had many talents. She was bright and articulate. Lydia’s career choice was made on the spur of the moment: she needed a job. The union provided her with a safety net. The girls at work were normal individuals; they all had their quirks.
Personally, Lydia was a very interesting woman. She was only young so perhaps woman is not the word. Lydia was not a communist but she read the fantastic stories of Mao and his red army, but then, Lydia read a lot of things. Her favorite book was ‘The silence of the Lambs’ by Thomas Harris. She dreamed of becoming an author...an author not an authoress as she had been instructed by someone along the way.
A clothing-manufacturing factory is like no other place on earth. An eerie, repetitive, mechanical, fashionable and humble place. The buzz of the machines becomes almost musical. It is not at all like a cold, sterile office, or a maniacally vibrant shopping mall; a factory is too human. The girls (there are male sewers too but only 1 in Lydia’s factory) add colour to the repetitive printed fluroescents of the garments and the overhead lights. In a factory you can look like you just crawled out from a cat’s ass: one of the perks of manufacturing. It may not be pretty but damn it, it’s colourful!
From the outside, the world looks upon a dreary corrugated iron roof and dry, cracked painted walls. Concrete surrounds the factory except in the courtyard where there is gravel. When the factory first opened, Julie, one of the girls, threw a passion fruit into the corner of the graveled courtyard. A year later a robust, voluptuous vine erupted from the rocks and still thrives on the excess heat and light that the factory throws off it’s metal walls. The courtyard is where the smokers sit for lunch. Lydia sat there the day that the factory closed down.
Lydia’s story is unlike Anton’s. It begins similarly though: a normal day in a normal life. This day began a year before the factory closed.
She was late for work. This was normal. Lydia lived only a kilometer away from work so when it was time for her to wake up she felt that she always had time for five more minutes sleep. Of course, when we say “five more minutes,” we all know that this never actually means five more minutes. She rushed in from the car park where she had been dropped off for the day by her next-door neighbor who also worked in the same industrial park as Lydia’s factory. She took her punch card out and clocked in at 8:09. She scurried into the manager’s office, apologised for being late and said that she would: “make it up during morning tea.”
“That’s Ok Lydia.” The manager said. “I know you always do.” Lydia thanked her boss for being so understanding and swished away into the finishing room.
Her machine waited for her. There was a whole day’s worth of work sitting on her table and Lydia dived straight into it. The “feed off the arm” machine is what some people in some factories called her machine. Some call it a twin or a triple needle, still others called it a “Damn, bloody, stupid, fucking thing,” often in frustration. The machine would fold two edges of fabric together and stitch them as they were fed through the folder, interlocking the pieces in a consensual, manufactured embrace; you could never force two pieces together...they had to want it. The kinds of stitching that you see down the sides of leg seams of jeans was what Lydia sewed. If you turn the jeans (and I know you will look for it) inside out, you will see that the threads are actually chained together, unless of course the jeans you own are cheaply manufactured in which case you will not have chain stitching. Don’t pull on the thread! If you do the whole row of stitching could unravel. This made Lydia’s job a breeze. If she made a mistake, she could simply pick at these threads, unravel the rows of stitching and do it all over again.
The factory was a lovely place to work but it had its bad side. In the middle of a tropical summer day, the temperature would rise to about 40 degrees Celsius and chances were that the factory would be producing something to import to a western country, higher up in the food chain than Lydia’s, who needed new winter fashions to hang on the racks. Not to down play the humidity, in fact the humidity was even worse. If there was wool on the line, some of the girls would have to go home on these humid days. But the boss was not without concern. Actually it was the unions who had the workers’ well being in mind when they made the law that when the temperature reached 41 degrees Celsius in the factory, the workers would either go home or take a break until the temperature dropped. During these breaks the manager would often bring the girls some ice cream or soft drinks (this wasn’t compulsory but the manager liked to look after the workers.) This was not a cheap expenditure; there were over 140 people employed in the factory. The cost of this extravagence was more than Lydia made in a week.
This day was nice though. The pleasant morning spring breeze wafted in through the double doors and kissed Lydia as she bustled with some weatherproof coats. “Hey Lydia...” Sharon from the Bar-tacker shouted over the familiar buzz of the machines. “Yeah?” Lydia said over her shoulder.
“Could you do me a favor?”
“Depends on what it is...”
“I need someone to put a seam into this strap. It’s for Kurt’s back pack.” Sharon referred to Kurt in the cutting room. Kurt was one of those dudes. He was often the whipping boy for many of the girls’ sexually harassing remarks but, being male and a dude, he was never offended by these remarks, maybe just a little embarrassed because most of the girls who made the remarks were much older than him. Lydia wasn’t really fussed over Kurt. He was good looking, she had to give him that, but she didn’t really find him attractive so she could have declined to sew the strap for his custom made backpack but in this working environment you help your coworkers. “Yeah Ok. Put it in my pile and I’ll do it after this.” These kinds of things are a regular request.
Another sleeve and a turn to the left. A sewer’s job is a lot of repetition, before you know it your sewing in your sleep, or asleep while you are sewing. This is why Lydia often drank several caffeinated drinks during the day. Another thing she learned to do was to “zone out.” The sewer’s “zone out” is a simple form of meditation that many yogis and martial arts gurus use to block out pain or concentrate or clear their thoughts. It requires a bit of focus and a bit of practice. Lydia acquired this skill by listening to her personal CD player and repeating the same movements over and over at regular intervals and concentrating on clearing her mind. Sometimes she would focus her mind in a particular direction, like, for example, on a story-line she was developing, and these methods proved fruitful. The “zone out” also came in handy if the company needed to push through a very large quantity of garments in a small amount of time. Naturally the sewers would have to work harder to fill the order on time and repetitive movements can really take their toll on the hands, shoulders, neck, back and hips, especially when sewing. Lydia didn’t suffer from any major afflictions in these areas but at the end of the working day her shoulders would ache slightly and, if there was a rush to fill an order, this ache would consume her energy and drop upon her around 3 p.m. This is where the zone out would have its most beneficial effects. Pain management sort of came with the territory.
The day moved on. Lydia sat with her friends at the smoker’s table for morning tea and lunch. She put the strap through for Kurt. The end of the day came without event. At ten minutes to 4 Lydia tallied up her quota. With two minutes to spare, she cleaned out the fabric dust and grime that had collected inside the machine. The bell rang and the girls, who had been waiting at their machines anxiously, ran to the punch out clock to line up. Lydia didn’t jump at the sound of the bell. She was still cleaning her machine. The elegant shine of the diesel over the metal and the old metallic blue paint gave her machine a grace; the airs of a widowed queen. Lydia got up, collected her CD player and wandered over to the line, which hadn’t really moved.
The girls chattered excitedly. Lydia was quiet. She’d worked hard that day. The boss surveyed the line with a smile. Lydia was still zoned out. Her mind drifted into the day’s work. A bundle of weather proof coats, some jeans, the strap. Lydia punched out and looked for her neighbor’s car. It wasn’t there so she sat at a cafeteria opposite the factory parking lot. “I wonder if my mother's home.” Lydia pondered a walk home. The journey wasn’t far but on top of a long physical day’s work it would certainly be arduous. The car park emptied as Lydia sat alone in the closed cafeteria, waiting for her neighbor.
Lydia stared at the greying sky. The street of the factory was vacant but a road that led into the street was busy, the cars were full of mothers picking their kids up from school and workers rushing home. A street light came on. It was still daylight but the timer on the light was broken so this light always came on two hours before the rest of the lights.
The industrial park spoke to Lydia and she listened to the distant murmurs of drills and clangs of shelves. It was alive. It whispered laments to Lydia in a voice that was semi-corporeal; omnipotent like an angel, like a brooding willow, the beloved annulled. Lydia felt sympathy for the park. She wanted it to rejoice in its awkward buildings, the churches of the 20th century. A new building, freshly painted with pastels, jutted out on the corner. Next to it sat an elder, wiser building. It sat on concrete courtyards like an old woman on a recliner watching silently and knowing better, the iron bars on her windows, the years of experience, mapped out for all to see, the lines on her face, ever knowing, ever silent and more the wiser for it.
The cafe was still but there was still noise, the echoes of the happily fed working class. Lydia knew that this was the park’s most beautiful place. The temple of labor was not the factories but the factory’s lunchrooms, a badge on the chest of the unions.
Another streetlight came on. The sky had been getting darker as clouds moved in from the west. A storm was brewing but it was not threatening to rain yet. Lydia lit a cigarette. The industrial park was lonely. She tried to comfort the park with a smile. It only made it worse. “I am alone now.” It said. Lydia was taken aback. The park sighed with the noise of the traffic passing him by. “Alone.” It sighed again as a car drove out of its bitumen veins. The few trees next to the cafe swayed in the gentle breeze. The park wept. “They’re all gone, they are all I have.” It said.
Lydia began to doubt her sanity. She shook off the zone out and walked back to the factory. There was a public phone next to the punch clock. Lydia eyed the boss’s open office. The boss looked up from her desk and nodded in recognition to Lydia. Lydia waved a finger to her as she picked up the receiver and dialed her home number. It rang... it rang four times before the answering machine picked up. “...Leave a message... beeeeeep...”
“Hi mum its me. If you are there could you pick up please?...” No one answered. “Ok if you get this message, I’m at work still and I need a lift but I’ll probably walk home soon... Ok?...Bye.” She placed the receiver back on the handle. At least she could smoke in the cafeteria.
Lydia wandered back over the car park and sat on the bench. She lit another cigarette. The park looked on with puppy eyes, a doteing, amalgamated look that melted Lydia’s heart. She got up and started walking. “Don’t leave me. Please.” The park begged. Lydia had a choice of two paths: the long way through the industrial park or the noisy way along the main road and through the battered, lower class suburb. Lydia pondered this for a moment. “I have to go,” She said to the park. “But you can walk me home the long way.” Lydia tightened the laces on her boots and began to stroll home.
The sun was still shining off the windows of some million dollar homes in the middle distance on top of a hill. The park hummed an Edwardian children’s song with the hundreds of octaves of the grey noise from cars and machinery. It hung an arm over Lydia’s shoulder and pulled her tight, close to him. “I like you.” It said but its voice was different, menacing and subdued. Lydia shivered a little as some drizzle pattered onto her shoulders. She folded her arms. “You will stay with me won’t you?” Lydia stopped. The voice was more succinct, more defined. Before this, Lydia thought that the voice of the park was just her poetic imagination running away with her but now... “the park couldn’t possibly be alive...” She insisted to the creative hemisphere of her brain, “it’s impossible” Logic further asserted. Lydia didn’t like the way the park looked now. It was unfamiliar. The buildings had transformed into old decrepit, rotting timber and empty lots, full of rusty old car parts and rubbish. There was a dirty old dog tied up next to a truck station. It didn’t bother to move it only watched, pitifully, desiringly, as Lydia passed it.
The rain had touched the ground and recoiled as though it were testing a bath that was too hot. “mum won’t be looking for me this way” Lydia thought. The buildings now loomed like gargoyles on a gothic church, one snarling a grin in Lydia’s direction. The silence of the park now frightened Lydia. “Are you there?” Lydia asked the zone.
“I am always here.” It replied. “I will always be here until long after you are dead. Until mankind slithers back into the slime from whence it came, until the sun...”
“Why are you saying these things? Stop it!” Lydia was now very scared. The buildings on this side of the park were all closed and had been for years. The rusty garage doors had been darkened and spotted by the drizzle. She stopped. “I thought you liked me.”
“Oh, I do.” The park whispered.
“Why did you say such things? Are you trying to frighten me?”
“I am only telling you the truth. The truth can sometimes be frightening.” The park had changed its tone again. This new tone cramped at Lydia’s heart. She looked for a path to the main road. There was one about four buildings away. She stepped carefully, showing off her confidence. The park breathed heavily. “Don’t leave me!” It screamed. Lydia ignored it. She picked up the pace. “I thought you felt sorry for me. You are just like all the rest of them.” It said. Lydia turned the corner into the alley. “You come here, use me and leave.” The alley smelled like sulfur. Some kind of greasy run off had collected in a puddle with the modest rain. Lydia looked into it as she stepped over it. She saw her reflection and it made her heart jump. “I won’t let you go!” The park asserted. Lydia began to run, past the drum, past the used syringes and the Dumpster. The alley grew tighter, restricting light and movement. Great piles of metal junk lay on either side of it. Lydia slowed as she skipped over metal pipes that had escaped from their piles. Suddenly, a force that came from every way at once threw Lydia up against the wall. It was the park. It let her fall into one of the piles. Lydia tried to pick herself up but the park had her pinioned into the dry dusty rust and dirt. It forced itself into her, the power tools screaming, and scoured her insides. Something hit Lydia, a blunt object on her shoulders. “I only want you to stay. Stay with me forever.” It said as it invaded her body through her mind. The park ground Lydia into the metal junk like a mincer, penetrating her sacred thoughts, raping her, corrupting her. Lydia struggled against the automaton, the tautological violence, but it had her pinned to the rusty pile. “I just want you to know, this was not meant to be this way.” The park said. It was gunmetal cold, automatic, souless.
Finally the industrial park was satisfied. Lydia fought against the machine and broke free. “Only a couple of meters.” She wept as she ran. The metal parts had dug into Lydia under her weight and the weight of the force that had raped her. Dusty rust stains on her cheeks ran dark, iron like blood, as the tears streamed down her face. All over her legs and arms were cuts and warm blood, real blood trickled from them. “I love you...more than you will ever know.” The park said as Lydia dashed out of the alley and into the main street. She ran across the road and into the park, a real park with children and play gyms, a living park, humane, botanical and recreational. The suburb where she lived. Lydia was home. She ran up the stairs to her unit, opened the door and slammed it shut behind her. She cried. “No one would ever believe this.” She sobbed. She walked into the bathroom, undressed and jumped into the shower. She sat and wept under the steam and water.
Lydia didn’t go to work the next day. When she did return her job was very much the way it had always been. The park never spoke to her again but Lydia still felt it there, brooding like Milton’s Satan, Lydia was not afraid of it, she still felt sympathy for the devil, an industrial Stockholm syndrome of sorts. She was never alone in the park again.
©Amber Waves 2003

Jabberwocky

2009-04-17T11:27:00.000-07:00

How can you describe that which is indescribable? Something that is so vivid and ghastly yet intangible, something obvious yet invisible and undetectable. The streets feel it. There’s something in the air or underground. It’s nothing you can touch or smell. Sometimes you can see it or feel it. It touches everyone. I myself have no word for it.
Anton was a desk jockey. He wore it well. The building he worked in wore it’s cold sleek monolithic metal like appearance well. His job was one of those types where if you do a whole lot of nothing and everything is still fine, you’ve done your job. The company respects you. His life was a nice place to be. Nice, not great, not particularly exciting, or fun, or even interesting; it was ordinary; uninspired. I present Anton’s life as a case to prove the existence of the monster that feeds off dreams. The creature that sucks meaning from existence, the dreary skies that bear down upon blackened bruised imaginations; the digital emptiness of negative land is the Jabberwocky.
Anton had enough. He wasn’t poor. He had a wife, a family, a car and of course he had his job. Every day he would wake up get out of bed, shower, dress for work, eat breakfast, talk with his wife and drive to work in his car. Like clockwork. Every day the same little routine. Every day at work he would sit at his desk, trying to sort out some problem that the company had assigned him. Every midday he would join several of the company’s employees in a cafeteria for lunch. This is where it gets spicy: the conversations ranged from four wheel drives to politics. Then he would mosey on back to his cubicle and try to figure out how to implement his solution to the problem of the day. At 5, he would drive home, occasionally singing along to a commercial radio station’s 80s pick of the day. At around 6 p.m. (traffic permitting) he would arrive home. The evening’s activities varied from time to time but usually involved watching the news, eating dinner and maybe tinkering around with his 1967 Trans-Am, Anton’s pet project. “Hey, you gotta have a hobby.” He’d say to anyone who would listen.
So, what made Anton special? What was unique about his existence that makes him a perfect example to write about? Nothing. Nothing at all. Anton was completely without culture (unless you call the discovery channel culture), inspiration, or difference. He was un-unique, so ordinary that he was extraordinary. You probably know someone like this. It is so common that it is not at all extraordinary that there are so many people like this. But that in itself is extraordinary.
Anton’s life was like this pretty much up until the day he died but there was nothing ordinary about the day he died, at least, not what he went through. I’m not talking about calamitous airline disasters or spontaneous combustion or anything as stupid as that. The best way to give it justice is to simply tell the day as it happened.
One autumn day Anton woke up and went through his ritual of going to work. It didn’t occur to him that anything was wrong or different about this day because there was nothing spectacular about it. He got to work on time and ready to solve yet another problem with management; a few performance records needed to be reviewed. He went to lunch with his co-workers where the conversation had taken the ordinary route of weekend getaways. None of his co-workers made any kind of interesting statements.
The interesting part of this day began at about 2:30. An hour and a half into working out a way to make the art department run more efficiently, Anton had some kind of breakdown. He began to sweat. This is one of the first signs of an anxiety attack which could account for what happened next. Anton looked at his desk, looked around his cubicle and then the office. “This is the world.” He muttered. “This is all we know.” He stood up. The patterns and fluorescence swirled and bore down upon him. He walked swiftly into the bathroom. Even the bathroom was no consolation. The cool tiles and the running water only stirred his stomach acid. A co-worker walked in on Anton as he was washing his face.
“Hey what’s up?” His voice was like a mincing machine, grinding Anton’s thoughts like a chicken carcass and driving away any focus that his eyes could grasp. “Not much.” Anton said.
“Still feeling the heat of the summer?” The blur inquired.
“Yeah it’s a hot one today.”
“Tell me about it! I wish I hadn’t worn wool!” A laugh, so hideous and infuriating, arose from the blurred grey and white suit and bounced off the porcelain like machine gun fire, each bullet hitting Anton in the face, chest and stomach. “Ha, ha!” Anton said and added: “See you later” as he walked out the door. No solace in the bathroom, no solace in the office. With no where to hide Anton returned to his desk.
The airlift seat sank under the weight of fear beating down upon him. The fear of being alone, the fear of being in a crowd, the fear of failure and success; fear. Great, painful, unimaginable fear washed over Anton. Afraid and alone in a crowd he did the only thing he could: he worked. He organised a management plan with the machine guns pointed at his head and ringing out around the office like a Muslim wedding, threatening his very being.
The patterns swirled and became more patterns. Even the chaotic nature of the human element of the office became a series of movements to be repeated at identical intervals. Anton didn’t even have to look up to know that the patterns were there. A phone rings, someone deletes something, the scream of a modem, photocopier, small talk, the shredder, a silence, a politically correct joke, machine gun laughter, another silence, some murmurs from accounting... the phone rings...
Anton was stifled. He had stopped sweating and was now in the first stages of a migraine. The bleak musical patterns squeezed his mind. “How can we do this everyday?” He thought. Denial hit him like bricks toppling off a wall. He got up. The patterns were still swarming but at least now his head had stopped pounding. A familiar smell invaded his nostrils. “Ooh is that coffee?” He said to his neighboring co-worker. “Yeah, Jan just put on a fresh pot.” The man sipped the hot, dark brown liquid out of a forest green mug. “I think I need one of those.” Anton said and wandered over to the coffee table.
He picked up the jug. Anton’s thoughts disappeared. He looked aimlessly at the room. The patterns were still there. Green mug, grinning idiot, busy power pussy, shredder, silence, a joke and machine gun laugh... Anton shuddered as he poured the coffee into his “Worlds greatest husband” mug. Anton was not the world’s greatest husband. In fact, he was having adulterous thoughts about a busy blonde, two cubicles away from him, right at that instant. He slobbered on the mug. This, for now, was his oral fix. He stared at the woman. He didn’t ogle her. The office is too much of a bland place for ogling. His eyes were transfixed. He was hypnotised by her, by the mind-bendingly neutral way in which she moved. She was without sex. She was without a face, breasts or hips. She did, of course, have all of the afore mentioned but it was as if they didn’t exist. Anton blinked. She moved again and looked up to him. Somewhere in the recesses of Anton’s delusional mind it looked like she was winking at him. The same way a prostitute winks at a potential customer: business like and with a purpose; the hard sell.
The woman’s face transformed. Where once she wore brown lipstick now he saw a sickly syphilitic red. Her cheeks became blushed like that of a drunk. Her hollow, bored eyes filled with the fury of a tropical cyclone, a flicker of ice surfaced in Anton’s direction. She pulled herself out of her chair in the most difficult way one can get out of an office chair, with her back hunched over the desk. She moved towards the tearoom where Anton watched on against every instinct in his body.
The strange creature that lurched towards him was neither woman nor beast, it was much worse. A corporate whore, a company slave. She threw herself into the isle and shuffled up to Anton. He was afraid. She now stood less than inches away from Anton’s face. With all of Hells might, all of the rage of the eternal fire, with every stolen breath from the lungs of every victim she screamed. She screamed in Anton’s face. Anton didn’t move. The creature lifted her hand and brushed his cheek softly and gently like the way a mother would wipe the tears away from her child’s face. The screaming ceased. Her hand moved away from Anton’s face and explored its own. She pinched her nose and pulled off her face. It all came off in one go. Blood flicked onto Anton’s face and down his shirt. The woman was faceless. Such a vial little Freudian image but this is what she was. The skin gone, there was nothing left but a grey pattern. Anton spat out some of the creature’s blood and doubled over. When he stood the woman had vanished down the corridor and was walking into the ladies room. A co-worker coughed, a modem screamed...
Anton recollected his thoughts. “This isn’t right.” He wandered back to his cubicle. It was there that he realised he had spilt coffee down the front of his shirt. He shuffled some of his papers and passed time by formatting some disks. The computer at least didn’t pretend to be anything so despicable as a half-biological, semi-existent automaton. Computers are without pretence, if you are lucky. Anton sweated as the clock ticked. It reminded him of some TV show that he had seen when he was a child about a guy with one eye who was dead and whose heart had been stashed under the floorboards. The second hand beat into his mind like the tell tale heart; infuriating, godless, ticking. Another minute passes and nothing gets done.
Anton left work five minutes early. The clock had mocked him enough with its arrogantly infinite toll. He avoided any contact with the people that he ascosciated with in the office on his way to his car.
The parking lot. More patterns. Anton took his keys out and searched for his car. He looked down the isle. “Its Ok.” He said to himself. “Just don’t worry about the patterns.” He assured the concrete columns and the Saabs. Just a little further and the whole world will be fine.” But Anton’s car was not where he thought he had parked it. Three stories underground and without a soul around, Anton felt assured that no one was watching him. But he was unaware of the three eyes that watched on, one was digital and closed circuit, the second was not so easily defined as alive or not alive. It was not a machine, or an animal. There were no people in the car park. The thing that surveyed Anton wretched and the car park wretched with it. It was in the building, in the walls and floors, and the concrete columns and Saabs he had sought a sympathetic audience with. Anton dropped his case. The fear came flooding back all at once. Slowly the creature writhed, heaving its breath over Anton’s back. Anton shuddered. He could hear nothing but white noise. This worried him even more. If there had been an explosion, a bomb, he could explain the way the floor rocked and teetered like an aerial in a violent storm. No, this was not a bomb. He wished it were. The car was not on this aisle. Anton turned and went down the second aisle. The building reared and continued heaving as though it were an Iron lung hooked up to emphysemic old man. Anton stopped. “Is it fear that this thing thrives on?” He thought. He turned around. The car park was breathing in great, furious gasps like a fish out of water. “I’m not afraid of you!” He yelled but in a way as though it were open to debate. His voice trailed off into the cliffs of metal and concrete. The creature was unperturbed. Its wheezing continued.
Anton found his car. He hurled himself into the driver’s seat and took a second to calm down. The building was still gasping. He turned the key in the ignition and reversed out of the park, wheels squealing like a pig being led out to slaughter. The car was in motion and Anton was struggling to handle the wheel but he was out of there. The second story whirred past. The first story threw itself at him. The ground floor barely ruffled his hair. The parking guard, a beacon to life and the outside world sat in his cubicle, face down in a book. He smiled and waved Anton through after Anton had slid his ticket into the machine.
Daylight trickled down from the buildings that loomed over head, the only source of life in the corporate district. There was no sunshine but the sky was lit. Anton’s eyes adjusted. His pupils dilated and contracted. He almost laughed at his big, dumb fear. The weight wasn’t gone but the shock had left his system. The sky was a shade of gold, draining into the west on the obscured horizon. There were other cars on the road. Normal cars, cars that were rusty or patched, cars with bumper stickers that said: “Mafia Staff car,” cars with Garfield on the rear windscreen, Taxis! God forsaken, slow, rusty old taxis. Cars meant life. Life meant reality. Reality meant real people, not corporate logo banners.
Anton turned on the radio. Static stifled the song. The radio farted; someone was on a cell phone near by. The shops bustled with noise, movement and colour. Real colours, colours you would never see on TV. Anton relaxed and fiddled with the dial but he still felt that all was not right. Something itched at his subconscious. He felt under the seat for where he hid a packet of cigarettes from his wife. They were still there. Relief washed over him in a deluge of satisfaction as he pulled out a smoke and put it to his mouth. He pushed in the car’s cigarette lighter but it didn’t work. Luckily, the man in the next car at the lights had a cigarette. “Can I borrow your lighter please?” Anton said as he wound down his window.
“Sure buddy.” The man reached into his pocket and produced a green lighter. Anton took it and rolled his thumb over the ignition. The lighter sparked. The flame rose beyond the end of Anton’s cigarette and balled around the car. It consumed the other cars. The people on the streets and the buildings were crumbled as the flame devoured the entire street. Ashes swept through the void in a digital breeze. Anton was alone, in oblivion. He fell into the void without screaming.

Two months later, Anton’s decomposing body was found in the gutter of that same street. His body was bloated and blue like he had been sitting in water for a long time. The coroner put the cause of death down as drowned but there was never a full autopsy conducted on Anton’s body. The company paid for his funeral and his boss read a eulogy.
©Amber Waves 2003

A Message From The Almighty

2008-04-12T05:02:00.000-07:00

This will probably only make sense to the people from a few little IRC rooms I frequent.

20:36 Started talking with Almighty on Saturday 12/04/2008 20:36:26
Almighty YOU
adolf ?????
20:37 adolf is there something i can help you with?
Almighty amber?
adolf yes?
Almighty FUCK YOU BIATCH
adolf lol
Almighty K?
20:38 adolf now that's not very nice...
Almighty STFU YOU FUCKING BITCH
adolf haha
20:39 adolf you do realize I've no idea who you are, right?
Almighty YOU MISERABLE WHORE
20:40 adolf oh please...compliments will get you nowhere ;)
Almighty I'M THE ALMIGHTY, BITCH
adolf there is no such thing as "almighty"
adolf you don't exist :)
20:41 Almighty THERE IS ONE THING YOU NEED TO KNOW
20:42 Almighty LEARN TO MIND YOUR OWN FUCKING BUSSINESS
adolf I know a lot of things...
Almighty *BUSINESS
Almighty OBVIOUSLY U MISSED THAT ONE
adolf and exactly who's business is it that I am minding that shouldn't be?
20:43 adolf paranoid? :D
Almighty OMG
Almighty U KNOW FULL WELL
Almighty AND IF NOT U'R DUMBER THAN I THOUGHT
Almighty ANYWAYS
Almighty TAKE THIS A WORNING
20:44 adolf nope...sorry...
adolf no idea who you are...
adolf most of the people i know know how to type.
Almighty DON'T SAY NO ONE WORNED YOU, YOU STUPID CUNT
Almighty AUF WIEDERSEHEN
adolf lolz...bye non-entity
20:45 Almighty _|_
Almighty \_||_/
20:50 Almighty _\/_
adolf was there something else i can help you with there?
20:51 Almighty JUST HEED MY WORNING
20:51 Almighty K?
adolf what warning?
20:52 adolf seriously...I have no idea who this is...
adolf lots of people hate me :D
Almighty STOP BULLSHITING
Almighty I GET MAD WHEN PPL BULLSHIT
adolf no...really...
20:53 Almighty RLY
adolf yeah
20:54 Almighty K
adolf oh are you that guy who was hassling the beavers?
Almighty I ALREADY TOLD YOU
Almighty I'M THE ALMIGHTY
20:55 adolf almighty right...
adolf so...wanna cyber then? :D
20:56 Almighty \_/
adolf come on...
Almighty MIND YOUR OWN FUCKING BUSINESS
adolf I bet you got a massive e-penis
20:57 Almighty AND THERE WON'T BE ANY TROUBLE
adolf being "Almighty" and all that
Almighty I FUCKING HATE YOU
adolf excellent
20:58 Almighty _|_
adolf so what exactly am i doing that you want me to stop doing?
adolf I mean, if you're that finis guy...I killed you what two weeks ago and you're still pissed? lol
20:59 Almighty BULLSHIET
adolf hmm?
21:00 adolf you don't wanna cyber? :(
Almighty ACTUALLY
Almighty I WANNA KILL YOU
adolf Ooooh yes!
adolf that's what I'm talkin about...
Almighty RIP OFF YOUR LUNGS THROUGH YOUR BACK
adolf I LOVE death threats <3
21:01 adolf tell me you wanna eat my liver <333
Almighty YOU NEED TO DIE ON SITE
21:02 adolf mmmm you're making me sooo hot
Almighty No such nick/channel
21:04 Almighty WHAT WAS THIS SHIT?
Almighty I GOT DISCONNECTED
Almighty YOU
Almighty YOU..........
adolf ???
21:05 Almighty YOUUUUUU
Almighty HMM I'D TELL IM GONNA KILL YOU BUT I THINK I ALREADY TOLD YOU THAT
adolf whore? cunt? slut? bitch?
Almighty I THINK I ALREADY SAID THOSE TOO
adolf :D
adolf want me to CAP what you missed? ;)
21:06 adolf 21:02 adolf mmmm you're making me sooo hot
Almighty GOOOD, NEXT STEP IS TO MAKE YOU DEAD
21:07 Almighty ANYWAYS
adolf aww don't go...
Almighty BRB
Almighty BRB 5 MINUTES
21:08 adolf hurry back sweety I'll be waiting
Almighty I'M NOT LEAVING YOU SO EASY
21:12 Almighty I OWN YOU
adolf sure you do...
21:13 adolf still got no idea who you are incidentally
21:14 adolf lots of people hate me :D
adolf Don't worry though you'll always have a special place in my heart <3
21:16 Almighty I OWN YOU
adolf poor baby...disconnected again?
Almighty I FUCKING OWN YOU
21:17 Almighty I SAID BRB, BITCH
adolf k lemme know when you're hard sweetheart...we'll get this party started
Almighty OMFG THIS IS GOING NOWHERE
21:18 adolf where exactly were you thinking of going with it?
adolf I mean did you expect me to quake in fear or something?
Almighty COME AMBER LET US REASON TOGETHER
Almighty IT WOULD BE A REGRETABLE WASTE
Almighty IT WOULD BE NOTHING SHORT OF MADNESS
21:19 adolf uh...okay
Almighty WERE YOU, BRAVE WHORE, AND YOU FRIENDS TO PERISH
adolf you first?
Almighty ALL BECAUSE OF A SIMPLE MISUNDERSTANDING
Almighty THERE IS MUCH OUR CULTURES COULD SHARE
21:20 Almighty THERE WILL BE NO GLORY IN YOUR SACRIFICE
Almighty I WILL ERASE EVEN THE MEMORY OF SPARTA FROM THE HISTORIES
21:21 adolf Well, I'm not an unreasonable person...but it would have to be you making the first offer, dear
Almighty I MEAN THE MEMORY OF YOU AND YOUR FRIENDS
adolf the spartans?
Almighty STOP IT
Almighty I MADE A TYPING MISTAKE
21:22 adolf okay
Almighty I WILL ERASE YOUR MEMORY FROM THE HISTORY
Almighty THE WORLD WILL NEVER KNOW YOU EXISTED AT ALL
21:23 adolf so i'm supposed to what now?
21:24 Almighty TO APOLOGISE
adolf For what?
21:25 adolf for reporting you to the rogue's gallery?
adolf for calling you names?
adolf for blogging about how you zerg? lol
21:26 adolf these seem pretty trivial to me...
Almighty I THINK YOU'RE A VERY VERY CONFUSED CUNT
adolf again with the sweet talk <3
21:27 Almighty DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHO YOU'RE TALKING TO?
Almighty I OWN YOU, BITCH
adolf nope..
adolf link me to your wiki page?
adolf profile?
Almighty :|
Almighty SUCK IT UP
21:28 adolf maybe you have your wires crossed...
adolf because if you're not who i think you are...I've really no idea where you're coming from
21:29 Almighty YOU'RE AMBER
adolf I sure am
Almighty AND YOU'RE A BITCH
adolf damn straight
21:30 Almighty AND YOU LIKE TO SUCK COCK
Almighty THAT'S THE PART WHERE YOU SAY "NATURALLY"
adolf of course
21:31 adolf so how big is your penis then, Almighty?
Almighty REAALY BIG
21:32 adolf ooh
Almighty I DONT THINK YOU COULD HANDLE IT
adolf would you stab me and fuck the wound?
Almighty ENOUGH WITH THE BULLSHIET
Almighty LET US REACH AN AGREEMENT
adolf aww
21:33 adolf agreed. agreements are always auspicious in april
21:34 Almighty ANYWAYS REGARDING THE CYBER PART
21:35 adolf mmm?
21:36 Almighty EITHER PROVIDE PIX OR STFU
adolf lol
adolf wanna see my eboobs? :D
21:37 adolf ( * ) ( * )
21:38 Almighty :|
adolf lol
Almighty YOU BITCH
21:39 Almighty I OWN
adolf oh you tease
21:40 Almighty FUCK YOU!!!!
21:41 adolf so was there something else I could help you with?
adolf A/S/L?
Almighty ACTUALLY YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO SAY YES
21:42 adolf ha this cyber seks thing isn't going very well is it?
Almighty JUST SAY YES
21:43 adolf Yes...please fuck me...stab me and fuck the wound and cum on my face :D
Almighty :|
21:44 Almighty DO YOU LIKE IT?
adolf ooh yes!
21:45 Almighty KEEP SAYING SOMETHING
21:46 adolf what do you want me to say honey?
adolf wanna take your massive penis out of that bloody wound and fuck my throat?
21:47 Almighty OF COURSE
adolf you know what would be orgasmic? If you had like four penises...
21:48 adolf so you could stick them in each orifice and have one that I could put between my feet
21:49 Almighty YEAH, THAT WOULD BE SOMETHING
Almighty ANYWAYS
21:50 Almighty I HAVE TO GO NOW
adolf aww cum and go? don't you wanna cuddle?
21:51 Almighty AND I HAVE A MESSAGE FOR YOU AND ALL YOUR LOSERS FRIEND WHO WILL READ THIS LOG
Almighty FUCK YOU ASSSHOLES
Almighty YOU MISERABLE RETARDS
Almighty FUCK YOU SHITHEAD IDIOTS
adolf hugs Almighty tightly and whispers "You're the only one I've ever loved."
Almighty YOU STUPID CUNTS
21:52 adolf what makes you think I'll kiss and tell?
Almighty I OWN ALL MWAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH
adolf I love you Almighty! Think of the baby!
Almighty I OWN ALL MWAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH
Almighty SJ
Almighty DIE ON A FIRE BIATCHES
21:53 adolf :( you don't trust me?

Cum In the Name of the LORD!

2008-03-10T06:00:00.000-07:00

mission2nation: HI
lamb_shank_of_god: HI
mission2nation: MISSIONARY HERE WILLING TO HELP?
lamb_shank_of_god: well ok sure..
mission2nation: AMEN
lamb_shank_of_god: lets see if you can help me with my problem
mission2nation: IM FROM INDIA, A BIBLE SCHOOL GRADUATE, WE DO MINISTRY AMONG TRIBAL PEOPLE OF INDIA
lamb_shank_of_god: wow really
mission2nation: WE ARE NOT SUPPORTED BY ANY ORGANIZATIONS. WHEN WE BEGAN PEOPLE SAID YOU CANNOT CARRY ON WITHOUT SUPPORT
mission2nation: BUT WE BEGAN IN THE LORD, AND HE LEAD US HITHER TO
lamb_shank_of_god: thats interesting but can you help me with my problem please?
mission2nation: NOW WE NEED SUPORT AS THE NEEDS OF MISSION INCREASED
lamb_shank_of_god: let me tell you first what it is
mission2nation: WHATS YORU PROB
lamb_shank_of_god: ok lately when i've been praying to God i find that it isnt very affective..
mission2nation: ?
lamb_shank_of_god: you know like i just dont FEEL the holy spirit in me
mission2nation: WHY
mission2nation: COME ON LETS FEEEL
mission2nation: IT AND PRAY TO HIM
mission2nation: DO U HAVE A MIC?
lamb_shank_of_god: no i dont have a mic sorry..
mission2nation: OK
lamb_shank_of_god: still dont feel that spirit
mission2nation: IM SPIRIT FILLED
mission2nation: WHY NOT
lamb_shank_of_god: i prayed as hard as i could mission
mission2nation: SUBMIT EVERYTHING TO LORD
mission2nation: DONT WORRY
mission2nation: GOD WIL GIVE IT IN DUE TIME
lamb_shank_of_god: you know i do find some times..
lamb_shank_of_god: that i feel the holy spirit inside me
mission2nation: DONT WORRY
mission2nation: WHY YOU FEEL SO>
lamb_shank_of_god: i find that when i pray and masturbate its quite affective
mission2nation: HEY ITS NOT RIGHT
mission2nation: HEY WHAT ARE U SAYING
lamb_shank_of_god: when i masturbate i really truely feel the holy spirit
mission2nation: HEY PLEASE
mission2nation: I HATE MASTURBATING
lamb_shank_of_god: no i think its the only way i can find god
mission2nation: OK
lamb_shank_of_god: will you PLEASE pray for me while i masturbate and pray??
lamb_shank_of_god: maybe the lord will listen to you
mission2nation: HEY LEASE
mission2nation: WHATS YOUR NAME
mission2nation: FROM?
lamb_shank_of_god: agnes
mission2nation: FROM?
mission2nation: AGNES
mission2nation: WHAT ARE U SAYING
mission2nation: ARE U FEMALE
lamb_shank_of_god: yes i'm female
lamb_shank_of_god: and i live in australia
mission2nation: HAVE U HAD SEX B4
mission2nation: KINDLY DONT?
lamb_shank_of_god: no i'm not ready for sex yet
mission2nation: IF U CAN KEEP YOUR SELF PURE
mission2nation: I SAHLL ARRANGE A BETTER PATNER FOR YOU
mission2nation: IN INDIA
lamb_shank_of_god: but wont you please pray with me?
mission2nation: I SAHLL
mission2nation: FATHER
lamb_shank_of_god: just i need some answers now while i masturbate and pray
mission2nation: I SUBMIT SISTER AGNES IN TO YOUR HANDS
mission2nation: PLEASE LORD LET US FEEL THAT WE ARE NOT CONTROLED BY OUR PHYSICAL EMOTIIONS
lamb_shank_of_god: oh yes lord into your hands
mission2nation: BUT WITH YOUR SPRIT
mission2nation: LORD PLEASE
mission2nation: TAKE CARE OF AGNES
lamb_shank_of_god: fill me with your spirit lord
mission2nation: KEEP HER HOLY LORD
mission2nation: AMEN
mission2nation: LORD
mission2nation: LET HER KNOW THAT
mission2nation: HER BODY IS THE TEMPLE OF GOD
mission2nation: AND AN HOLY GOD LIVES IN IT
lamb_shank_of_god: show me your temple god
mission2nation: AND WE CANNOT DESTORY GODS TEMPLE
lamb_shank_of_god: OH YES GOD!
mission2nation: FATHER CLEANSE HER BAD THOUGHTS
mission2nation: lord please
mission2nation: cleanse
lamb_shank_of_god: GOD! PLEASE
mission2nation: LORD WE WIL NOT LEAVE YOU UNTILL YOU DO IT FOR US
mission2nation: LORD AMEN
mission2nation: THANK YOU FR GIVING US VICTORY OVER SIN
lamb_shank_of_god: OH GOD HALEILULIA
mission2nation: WE TRUST AND BELIEVE
mission2nation: IN JESUS NAME
lamb_shank_of_god: PRAISE THE LORD!
mission2nation: AMEN
mission2nation: AGNES
mission2nation: AMEN
mission2nation: VICTORY??????????????
lamb_shank_of_god: CLENSE ME JESUS
mission2nation: AMEN
mission2nation: AMENNNNNNNNNNNN
lamb_shank_of_god: AMEN! HALLELULIA!
mission2nation: YOU ARE CLEAN SIN NO MORE
lamb_shank_of_god: PRAISE JESUS
mission2nation: OK
mission2nation: AMEN
lamb_shank_of_god: oh
mission2nation: ARE U HAPPY
lamb_shank_of_god: oh my mission
mission2nation: Y?
mission2nation: HAPPY
lamb_shank_of_god: wow i've never felt the lord inside me like that before
mission2nation: BE HOLY BECAUSE HE IS HOLY
mission2nation: AMEN
mission2nation: AMEN
mission2nation: AMEEEEEEEEEEEN
mission2nation: CLEANSE EVEIL THOGUTHS
mission2nation: PROMISE ME I THE LORD THAT YOU WILL NEVER MASTURBATE
mission2nation: PLEASE
mission2nation: WHAT DO U DO AGNES>
mission2nation: ARE U BUSY??????????
lamb_shank_of_god: i just masturbated now and the holy spirit came inside me
mission2nation: HEY WHAT IS THS
mission2nation: WHAT AGE?
lamb_shank_of_god: i told you its the only way my prayers will be answered
lamb_shank_of_god: i'm 23
mission2nation: EHELO
mission2nation: PLEASE
mission2nation: DONT SAY
lamb_shank_of_god: dont say what?
mission2nation: DONT SAY THAT WORD ALWAYS
lamb_shank_of_god: what word masturbated?
mission2nation: YES PLEASE
lamb_shank_of_god: you dont want me to tell you about how i masturbated?
mission2nation: HEY
lamb_shank_of_god: mission dont you ever masturbate?
lamb_shank_of_god: mission i want you to help me please..but my prayers are only answered when i'm masturbating
lamb_shank_of_god: its god's will
mission2nation: OK
mission2nation: MASTURBATE EVERY DAY
mission2nation: OK
mission2nation: ARE U HAPPY
mission2nation: PLEASSE
lamb_shank_of_god: i am happy now thank you father
lamb_shank_of_god: i will masturbate everyday
mission2nation: CAN I SEE U MASTURBATING
lamb_shank_of_god: and think of you each time one of my prayers are answered
mission2nation: WIL U KIDLY PRAY FOR MINISTRY HERE IN INDIA AGNSES
mission2nation: PLEASE
mission2nation: WE ARE FINNACILAY SUFFERING NOW
lamb_shank_of_god: sure father
lamb_shank_of_god: i will pray for your ministry
mission2nation: WIL U KINDLY SUPPORT US AGNES
mission2nation: LITTLE PLEASE
mission2nation: HELO
BUZZ!!!
lamb_shank_of_god: hi sorry i was overcome by the holy spirit
mission2nation: EY WHAT THIS
mission2nation: WIL UHELP US
lamb_shank_of_god: i will pray for your ministry father
mission2nation: THANK YOU
mission2nation: WIL U SUPPORT US AGNES
mission2nation: WITH 25 $
lamb_shank_of_god: gee i dont have a credit card..
lamb_shank_of_god: do you take money orders?
mission2nation: YES
mission2nation: WILL U SEND US?
lamb_shank_of_god: yes give me the address
mission2nation: MISSION 2 NATION.15.SANTHOSH NAGAR,MANNUTHY P.O. TRICHUR,680651.KERALA, INDIA
mission2nation: GOT IT?
lamb_shank_of_god: yes thank you father
lamb_shank_of_god:
mission2nation: WHAT WIL U SEND US SISTER
mission2nation: ARE U HAPY THAT WE ARE TOGTETHER INPRAYER
mission2nation: OK
lamb_shank_of_god: yes
mission2nation: WILL U HELP US FINNACIALY
mission2nation: HOW MUCH WILL U DO AGNES
mission2nation: A MONTH
mission2nation: CAN U SPONSER A MISSIONARY FAMILY?
mission2nation: OR A CHILD
lamb_shank_of_god: sorry father i am not very well off
mission2nation: 35$FOR CHILDRESN EXEPNCE A MONTH
mission2nation: THEN HOW MUCH AGNES
lamb_shank_of_god: i can send a donation for $25
mission2nation: EVERY MONTH AGNES
lamb_shank_of_god: i cant afford that father
lamb_shank_of_god: i will pray to god that i can someday
mission2nation: OK AGNES
mission2nation: SO MAY I PROMISE ONE CHILD THAT YOU AREHELPIGA CHILD
mission2nation: SHE WILL PRAY FOR YOU
mission2nation: TONIGHT FOR THE HELP
mission2nation: OK
mission2nation: HER NAME IS JONALI. OK?
lamb_shank_of_god: ok father
mission2nation: WIL U SEND IT TODAY?
lamb_shank_of_god: yes its a public holiday today though the banks are closed
mission2nation: TOMMARROW
lamb_shank_of_god: yes father i will send it as soon as i get paid
mission2nation: FIRT THING U DO IS THIS OK?
mission2nation: WHE WIL U GET PAID
mission2nation: ARE U WORKIG ANG
mission2nation: AGN
mission2nation: AS?
lamb_shank_of_god: i am a student
mission2nation: OK
mission2nation: WHAT DO U STUDY
mission2nation: WIL U SNED ME A PHOTO?
mission2nation: SO THAT I CAN TELL HER HAT U R HER SPONSER?
lamb_shank_of_god: yes i will put it in with the money order
mission2nation: THANK YOU SOMUCH
mission2nation: I EXPECT IT
mission2nation: AGNES
mission2nation: TRY NOT TO MASTURBATE
mission2nation: OK GOD BLES YOU
mission2nation: AMEN/
mission2nation: ARE U HAOPPY WITH ME
lamb_shank_of_god: amen
mission2nation: HAPPY?
mission2nation: LOVE YOU AGN
lamb_shank_of_god: yes praise the lord i am saved
mission2nation: IMNOT A FATHER
mission2nation: IM EBENEZEER
mission2nation: A N YOUNG MAN
mission2nation: 28 YEARS
mission2nation: BUT WORKING FOR THE LORDS KINGDOM
mission2nation: AMEN
mission2nation: HAPPY
lamb_shank_of_god: Amen halleilulia
mission2nation: I WISH U ALSO SERVR THE LORD
mission2nation: WITH WLL U CAN
mission2nation: OK
mission2nation: IMMVERY POOR
mission2nation: THAT WHY I SOUHGT YOUR HELP
mission2nation: SORRY
mission2nation: BUT YOU ARE HELING GODS MINISTRY
mission2nation: AND CHILDREN
mission2nation: OK?
lamb_shank_of_god: no brother it is ok i heard the lord with your help
mission2nation: DO IT FOR THE LORD
mission2nation: I AM ALOS WORKING AND USE MONEY FOR THIS MISSION
mission2nation: AMEN
mission2nation: AMEN
lamb_shank_of_god: AMEN brother i hear the word
mission2nation: HOPE WE HAD A LESSED TIME IN THE LORD
mission2nation: IF U CAN AFFORD TO SEND LITTLE MORE
mission2nation: WE WIL BE VERY HAPPY
mission2nation: BUT NOT A COMPULSION IN ANY WAY
mission2nation: SORRY IF I HURT YOU
mission2nation: OK?????????????
mission2nation: PRAISE THE LORD?
lamb_shank_of_god: ok brother
lamb_shank_of_god: praise God
mission2nation: GOD BLESS YOU AGNES
mission2nation: WISH TO SEE U SOON
mission2nation: PRAY THAT I COMETHERE SOON
mission2nation: OK
mission2nation: NOT MARREIDN RIGHT
mission2nation: U?
mission2nation: SO LETS WAIT FOR THE LORD,AND FIND A GOD HUSBAND FOR YOU OK?
lamb_shank_of_god: no Brother i am not married
mission2nation: I WSIH TO COME THERE WHEN WE CAN AFFORD IT
lamb_shank_of_god: ok brother amen
mission2nation: OK SO KINDLY SUPORT US
mission2nation: LOVE YOU AGNES
mission2nation: IN THE LORD
lamb_shank_of_god: i will
mission2nation: HOPE YOU ARE HAPPY WE MET?
lamb_shank_of_god: love you with the love of jesus amen brother
mission2nation: WISH TO SEE U
mission2nation: IM VERY HAPPY
mission2nation: PROMISE ME MY AGNES,,,,,,,,,,,,
lamb_shank_of_god: yes brother?
mission2nation: THAT YOU WILL NEVER MASTURBATE...............
mission2nation: AMEN
mission2nation: GBU
mission2nation: AME
mission2nation: AMEN
lamb_shank_of_god: amen brother praise the lord
lamb_shank_of_god: i will only masterbate for jesus
mission2nation: OK
lamb_shank_of_god: i will send you a pic of me masturbating and praying with the money order
mission2nation: OK
lamb_shank_of_god: i have to go to bed now all that masturbating and praying has filled me with the spirit of god...and it has tired me out
mission2nation: OK
mission2nation: CARE
mission2nation: GBU
mission2nation: LOVE YOU
lamb_shank_of_god: love you too brother
mission2nation: DO NOT FORGET OF HELPING US
lamb_shank_of_god: amen
lamb_shank_of_god: i wont forget
mission2nation: LOVE U TOO
mission2nation: OIC TOO
lamb_shank_of_god: goodnight
mission2nation: AMEN
mission2nation: GOD NIGHT
lamb_shank_of_god: amen
lamb_shank_of_god: [hug emote]
mission2nation: [smile emote]

A Lesson On the Versatility of Corpses

2008-03-10T05:49:00.000-07:00

Ahhh I haven't done this in ages. Of course, my IMs are set to friends only and I rarely go into chat these days but I recently downloaded Trillian and it's so shiny and new that I hadn't even checked out the privacy settings on it. Soooo I've been getting a lot of spam unfortunately but this one I decided to run with.

Enjoy!

[00:31] nader_gerges2001: Hi sweetie do you wanna chat
[00:31] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: about?
[00:31] nader_gerges2001: being friends
[00:31] nader_gerges2001: i'd like to make new friends all over the world
[00:31] nader_gerges2001: and hope you are interested
[00:32] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: pick a topic then
[00:32] nader_gerges2001: ok what about to know each other 1st ?
[00:33] nader_gerges2001: iam Nader 28 old male
[00:34] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: I'm 28 years old female
[00:34] nader_gerges2001: cool and what about ur name or what i can called u
[00:34] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: Sister Mary Fuxalot
[00:35] nader_gerges2001: u can call me Nader its my 1st name means rare
[00:35] nader_gerges2001: nice name and nice to meet u mary
[00:35] nader_gerges2001: hope we can be good friends
[00:36] nader_gerges2001: so what ur doing for living mary ur working or study
[00:36] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: I'm a nun. I ride a motorcycle
[00:36] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: Sometimes I kill zombies
[00:36] nader_gerges2001: cool sound nice
[00:37] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: oh it is
[00:37] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: Tell me, do you enjoy Necrophilia?
[00:38] nader_gerges2001: yea
[00:38] nader_gerges2001: iam so interested about it
[00:39] nader_gerges2001: tell me do u have pic ?
[00:40] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: You know the LORD never forbade the seduction of a corpse
[00:41] nader_gerges2001: yea
[00:41] nader_gerges2001: and iam enjoy it too
[00:42] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: So, what is your favorite position? Mine is Rigor Mortis
[00:42] nader_gerges2001: tell me ur single ?
[00:42] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: Alas, I am married to the LORD
[00:43] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: as a nun, I cannot have sexual relations with men or women
[00:43] nader_gerges2001: aha yea i know
[00:43] nader_gerges2001: ur so poor women to live all ur life alone
[00:43] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: unless they are not of the breathing variety
[00:43] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: oh no not at all
[00:43] nader_gerges2001: but u feel good being alone
[00:44] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: a cold body on a slab is quite comforting
[00:44] nader_gerges2001: ok tell me do u have pic so i can see how u looks like ?
[00:44] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: it's when they start to get warm and decompose that I have problems
[00:45] nader_gerges2001: and what u doing when they get warm while ur all alone and cannot have man or even women
[00:46] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: here's my pic: http://i152.photobucket.com/albums/s173/Justine_Smitha/33-215.jpg
[00:46] nader_gerges2001: ok its loading now
[00:46] nader_gerges2001: nice pic
[00:46] nader_gerges2001: with monkey lol
[00:46] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: What I do when I'm alone is turn to the lord
[00:47] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: yes, unfortunately that day he escaped the butcher's knife
[00:47] nader_gerges2001: and do u have any hobbies ?
[00:48] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: Apart from killing zombies and riding my motorcycle?
[00:48] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: and having sex with corpses?
[00:48] nader_gerges2001: ok hope ur enjoy
[00:49] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: I quite enjoy a spot of kamakazi gardening
[00:49] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: the japanese are such innovative people
[00:50] nader_gerges2001: but why u only love to have sex with corpses only
[00:50] nader_gerges2001: why u not have live man
[00:50] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: because the LORD has forbidden it.
[00:50] nader_gerges2001: to enjoy with him better than death
[00:51] nader_gerges2001: mmmmm but it will be better for u feel man excited
[00:51] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: Besides, dead men hold erections longer.
[00:51] nader_gerges2001: i hope i can be dead man now
[00:51] nader_gerges2001: so u can have sex with me
[00:52] nader_gerges2001: u looks nice in this pic
[00:52] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: And I've yet to see you. Unfortunately, I'm blind in one eye so you'll need to show me a picture of your nipples.
[00:53] nader_gerges2001: aha
[00:53] nader_gerges2001: ur lucky i have webcam
[00:53] nader_gerges2001: do u have one ?
[00:54] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: no, I am a poor nun with only my motorcycle, my sixteen shotguns, my morgue and my garden of cactus to tend to. I have not the money for such modern frivolities!
[00:55] nader_gerges2001: this is so bad i wanna see u in real
[00:55] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: poor you, whatever will you do?
[00:55] nader_gerges2001: this is my pic hope u can see my nipplewell
[00:55] nader_gerges2001: i will wait till u can have some money and buy webcam so we can see each other
[00:56] nader_gerges2001: i sent to u my pic accept it if u want see my nipple and me
[00:56] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: I don't understand, you want to transfer the file?
[00:56] nader_gerges2001: yes its my pic
[00:57] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: I am on a different client to you, I cannot accept it, even if I saw it
[00:57] nader_gerges2001: if u want see it so transfare it
[00:57] nader_gerges2001: ok as u like it was my pic
[00:57] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: upload it to www.imageshack.us
[00:57] nader_gerges2001: mmmm
[00:57] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: and post the url in here
[00:57] nader_gerges2001: i have better way to share it with u
[00:57] nader_gerges2001: accept share photo here
[00:57] nader_gerges2001: faster and not transfare
[00:58] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: i am not on yahoo. I cannot accept it.
[00:59] nader_gerges2001: ok do u have other pic i can see
[00:59] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: no, i do not have a camera.
[01:00] nader_gerges2001: ok iam upload my pic
[01:00] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: okay :)
[01:00] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: So you like necrophilia?
[01:00] nader_gerges2001: can i add u to my list
[01:00] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: do you prefer dead males or dead females?
[01:00] nader_gerges2001: yes i do like u
[01:00] nader_gerges2001: females sure
[01:00] nader_gerges2001: lol
[01:01] nader_gerges2001: tell me can u see my display pic now ??
[01:01] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: no
[01:01] nader_gerges2001: ok i cannot upload the pic for u
[01:01] nader_gerges2001: if u add me so u wil able to see my display pic
[01:01] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: do it at www.imageshack.us
[01:01] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: it's easy
[01:02] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: you do not need an account
[01:02] nader_gerges2001: i was doing but once it s page not found
[01:02] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: oh well
[01:02] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: I don't think I'd see you very well with only one eye anyhow.
[01:03] nader_gerges2001: iam sure u will see me well with 1 eye
[01:03] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: you might be sure, but you've not bothered to upload a picture to imageshack
[01:03] nader_gerges2001: iam try to doing it agian now for u
[01:03] nader_gerges2001: and lets hope it will work
[01:04] nader_gerges2001:

[01:05] nader_gerges2001: http://img186.imageshack.us/img186/9439/16637181af8.jpg
[01:05] nader_gerges2001: u got it
[01:05] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: Yes!
[01:05] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: Hallelujia! I see it!
[01:05] nader_gerges2001: ok and u saw my nipple
[01:05] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: Praise the LORD!
[01:06] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: I surely did! :)
[01:06] nader_gerges2001: i hope u like my pic
[01:06] nader_gerges2001: this is hoe my body and my nipple looks like
[01:06] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: you sure look like a manly man! I can see why you only like dead females!
[01:07] nader_gerges2001: lol
[01:07] nader_gerges2001: tell me can i see other pic for u
[01:07] nader_gerges2001: i want see how is ur body is looking like
[01:08] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: that is the only picture of me on the internet
[01:08] nader_gerges2001: this is bad news
[01:08] nader_gerges2001: i wish i can see u now
[01:08] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: yes, how will you mastubate now?
[01:08] nader_gerges2001: yes i might doing
[01:08] nader_gerges2001: if i saw ur sexy body
[01:09] nader_gerges2001: do u ever saw cock pop up ?
[01:09] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: of course!
[01:10] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: lots of men die with erections
[01:10] nader_gerges2001: lol mine is pop up now
[01:10] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: and make their way down to my slab
[01:10] nader_gerges2001: u make me so horny now
[01:11] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: That's nice. Tell me how would you make love to a cold dead female?
[01:12] nader_gerges2001: i start with kiss her back so slowly
[01:12] nader_gerges2001: and her neck too
[01:12] nader_gerges2001: and then move my finger all over her body and touch every part
[01:12] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: what if some part of her breaks off?
[01:13] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: do you use super glue?
[01:13] nader_gerges2001: and then put my finger isnide her pussy and play with it
[01:13] nader_gerges2001: yea
[01:13] nader_gerges2001: omg iam so horny now
[01:13] nader_gerges2001: i have to masturbate now
[01:14] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: oh you know what would be great for males?
[01:14] nader_gerges2001: what tell me
[01:15] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: okay...
[01:16] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: you saw off the dead female's skull cap...
[01:16] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: then using your finger first, find the softest part
[01:16] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: then, use your penis to fuck her brain
[01:17] nader_gerges2001: u make me so hooooooooot and iam gonna cum soon
[01:17] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: for guys corpses are so versitile
[01:17] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: you could practically fuck a dead girl full of holes
[01:18] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: bullet wounds=instant extra pussy
[01:18] nader_gerges2001: i want pussy nooooooooooooooow
[01:18] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: decomposing flesh=insta-pussy
[01:19] nader_gerges2001: i want feel my cock inside pussy
[01:19] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: mmmm yeah maggots for sex toys too!
[01:20] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: you ever had a maggot crawl inside your penis?
[01:20] nader_gerges2001: u know i want ur pussy
[01:20] nader_gerges2001: no never
[01:20] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: you should try it
[01:20] biker_nuns_in_zombieville: go find a dumpster...
[01:21] *** nader_gerges2001 has been ignored.

You're being raped and YOU LOVE IT!

2008-02-05T06:38:00.000-08:00

About a week ago I was expeditiously attempting to do my weekly shopping. Now, supermarkets are a strange place to me. I've even experienced a sort of grok, an empathy with the shoppers and checkout chicks and even the boldly coloured products on the shelf. Sure, I'll admit it, I'm a shameless consumer...I don't like that I'm forced to be one...And I do tend to vote with my purse though my one guilty pleasure is coke~a~cola-can't drink bourbon without it and there isn't a single cola that can match that taste. Given the chance to I would love to have my own little self sustaining farm. But in all practicality I cannot afford it; unlike Buddha and your cause-of-the-month-clubbers, I've never been spoilt brat. Fuck, who am I kidding? I can't garden, my thumb is black. And I like hot water and I like downloading music and I like red meat. And I don't drive...So I choose to live in the city. And be reliant on certain corporations that manufacture products for mass consumption.

Now as I was gazing at the shelves trying to decipher which type of simmer sauce most resembled real food, I noticed a pair of hippies out of the corner of my eye. I find hippies amusing. Especially the ones that live here. The Gold Coast (for my foreign friends) is the Australia we want you to see. Its an illusion based on a stereotype. Its town planners designed it to look like sushi. Neat, trendy, youthful, perhaps even glamorous, sino-friendly, but at the heart its still raw fish. Its a place I've grown to love and hate. It has many quirks and nuances that you will not find anywhere else. Its also one of the most corrupt places in Australia. I'm talking silent crimes here. You won't hear about it on the news, but you'll feel it in every suburb when the street lights come on. Growing up here was like watching Pamela Anderson's corpse decay. Parts of it remaining fresh, unchanged, a thousand year land mark to artificial beauty, other parts brown, rotting, maggots boring into the diseased flesh.

So, being a gold coaster by birth has ingrained into me a certain type of ironic, warped sense of humour. People come here to live like beach bums and end up being corporate prostitutes. It makes me laugh anyhow.

The hippies were so stereotypical, I almost laughed very loudly in their faces as I wheeled my trolly past them but I managed to suppress it to a mild giggle that they didn't notice. Freckle-tan browned skin from twirling in the sun too much, the girl wore a purple singlet top, no bra and dirty loose legged jeans that clung desperately to a pole shaped waist- The guy had baggy dirty jeans and a green t-shirt, both had rather motley hair, the guy had dreads. As I moved away from them down the isle I heard the girl say to the guy "You don't want all that processed shit." Again I giggled since it was so typical of the flakey pseudo-alterna-type I've seen in my mother. So I finished my shopping and ended up at the counter. It just so happened that these two were in front of me. I couldn't help but notice that on the conveyer belt was a bottle of tomato sauce, otherwise known as ketchup to our american friends, two packets of gelatinous lollies and a pre-packaged pair of steaks as well as some greenery milk and bags of flour and semolina. Surely this was a joke. A hippy activist buying meat and one of the most over produced fruits on the fucking planet? The guy headed off to the smoke counter before paying. Funny stuff. And the funniest part was the price they paid for their pitiful weekly shopping. They would have had maybe three days worth of food - twelve meals with a semolina+milk breakfast - I didn't see any household or bath/beauty etc. products either. For food alone they paid $155. I almost laughed when the check-out chick said it. I paid just under $50. And that lasted me the whole week.

But this blog isn't really about money. I'm more interested in hypocrisy.

I see this a lot on the internet, especially on myspace. And I know that the people I'm referring to are not reading this blog since they're so fucking self obsessed and narcissistic that they're perfecting their online image byte by byte in bulletins and CSS which was generated by a site that has numerous corporate sponsors that are willing to plant tracking devices in your computer to find out how to advertise to you. If you've ever received spam through Yahoo, you know what I'm talking about. You go into a religion chat room under the primary ID on your email account you'll get spam for christianmorgage.com or banner ads for prayer books for ethiopian kids. These things have been common knowledge on the net for quite some time yet those enterprising enough will find a way to be free of it. Even if it means not visiting corporate sites. Bob forbid we don't have a thousand internet friends to promote your cause (blog, book, album, movie etc.) to. Oh you might as well slit your wrists if thats the case.

I am constantly amazed at how many people on myspace hate corporations. I don't think half of them see the irony. I also wonder at the people who hate myspace yet are too afraid to branch out beyond their bulletin spaces and myspace specific graphic sites. They whinge about being raped by a million pop up ads and yet won't even endeavor to do a simple search to figure out how to avoid pop ups, or how to be self-reliant on the net? They also whinge about how fake myspace is...its funny though, the only outlet they appear to use is myspace. You know how I know this? The level of annoyance/anger at myspace downtime. The more angry someone is about errors, not being able to log in, site difficulties, spam and the lack-luster tech support, the more they complain about all of myspace's faults, the more reliant they are. As much as they think we're all corporate nipple suckers and fake people to be humiliated, they still complain that they don't have an outlet to communicate with us. Is it just me who sees this? If you don't like the service, go somewhere else. You'd stop visiting a cafe if the barista spat in your organic frapp, why do you persist on coming back to myspace and whinging about it to the rest of us who are glad there is a free site where we can reach potentially millions? Why don't these people start their own sites? Because on top of everything else they are tech incompetant. Most of these people don't even know basic html let alone how to start their own site. And I am talking about independent sites, not xanga pages you fuckstains.

People post bulletins about rapists and claim to be well informed about crime and current events and they never even fucking google the god damned names. How informed can they be if they can't even take ten seconds to check their facts? No one questions it. Its a given that people on the internet are all truthful and smart. I crack myself up sometimes. Seriously though, a little curiosity and a discriminating mind can be a good thing.

The majority of myspace appear to be newbies to the net. Its more of a hypocrisy out of ignorance than anything else. We're all new at one time or another. I just wonder sometimes whatever happened to questioning the world around us, but then, since when was myspace representative?

The ones that get me though are deliberate hypocrites. Recently, a fairly well informed friend posted a bulletin about a group of kids who were running around filming their sadistic exploits. The funny thing about this bulletin was it had URLs to the myspace pages of about four of the kids involved. I looked. They were legit. One profile had been deleted though. After a few emails back and forth my friend decided to delete his bulletin and tried to stop the bulletin spreading from his friends list. He, like myself and another friend of mine immediately had an impulse to protect the community against these young predators. And the only way they knew to get at them was through information--the pen is mightier than the sword --or so they say... The hypocrisy here is that the people who read this bulletin and pertain to be against violence, crime and abuse inadvertently commit these crimes by stalking, threatening and abusing these kids. See, its an eye for an eye... A girl got pissed on and some homeless guy had flares thrown at him but the most important thing to those who strike out against the offenders is to get revenge. It went through my mind that what the person who posted the bulletin wanted was to effectively round up a digital lynch mob. It reminded me of the monkeyman email hoax which turned into the jokerwhateverhisnamewas hoax on myspace recently. Those who took the bait did not even hesitate to ask if it were real, if this could be just some stupid cyber prank, if perhaps it was even a publicity stunt since, after all, the only reason these kids got into trouble was because they were selling the movie at school. They were also dumb enough to put their names in the credits. heh, if they weren't all under 18 I'd be laughing my ass off as they got a cocking huge ass kicking by skinheads. Point is that the general public seem completely unconcerned that they're being told what to feel. As for the movie, I've seen much more horrendous crimes go completely unnoticed. Remember I was talking about silent crimes earlier? And I think the movie is getting much more publicity than it deserves since this will set the bar for other extreme videos. Its like a dare to every idiotic teenager in the country to go out and do something much more appalling. Schoolies is just round the corner too. Excellent. Just what the gold coast needs: a teen snuff film industry.

But these vigilantes aren't the only types of hypocrites on myspace. I've noticed a large number of "rebellious" types who go on and on about how horrible corporations are and animal rights and why you should buy a t-shirt to stop global poverty, you know, cause-of-the-month-clubbers. Advocates and activists. heh. We're talking about the people who use myspace to announce protests here. A social network, owned by a corporation that has massive (and I mean FUCK-ME-BACK-TO-THE-FIRST-REICH-HUGE) advertising contracts. And lets not forget the journalistic integrity of newscorp. Myspace, sponsoring lies since 06'.

Lets take a quick look at this recent animal rights activist story that was so fucking important I got about 40 bulletins about it.

If you believed (or wanted to believe) what the animal rights activists were telling you this is how the story went:

There was a group of protesters at a pharmaceuticals laboratory called huntingdon life sciences (aka huntington life sciences...depending on the literacy level and discriminating mind of the person who posted the bulletin.)
This group, known as SHAC7 were arrested after protesting peacefully, trialed and sentenced as terrorists.
The cute widdiw bunnies are still dying as a result of this new law that lumps protesters and every free speaking American in league with Osama Bin Laden.

Now the "independent" media is lapping this shit up. You google SHAC 7 and you'll get about ten results in the news about how the poor animal rights protesters are being oppressed, their freedom of speech stifled and the potential for the law to be enforced against non-violent protesters and the media blah blah blah the government are nazis.

Look a little closer at why they were charged though:
The group posted the names and addresses of employees and their families.

They were found responsible for vandalizing a golf course the night before a banker who was about to do business with the company played there. As well as vandalizing the property of the company and private property of the employees.
Several group members visited the home of one employee who's son hid in a hallway while a confrontation took place at the family's front door. The 8 year old child crouched in the hall and armed himself with a knife and told his mother after the event that he will get them [the animal rights activists.] Another employee had his home and two cars vandalized. Apparently stalking and vandalism is a non-violent protest. Yeah, gandhi would be fucking brimming with pride at that one. I'm not kidding, these people likened the legislation to oppressing Gandhi.

Now, I'm not going to make a big issue of the case here. The hypocrisy is fairly self evident in the points illustrated above. But on top of that the ones who are advocating this group and their case, the ones who claim that the law that they've been sentenced under is..against..the..first..amendment..are essentially saying that one has a right to free speech damn the consequences. They're also saying that the right to refuge of the employees of this company is "collateral damage" in the war for animal rights. Okay, I'll publish your name and address and suggest that you advocate terrorist acts. How's that feel? What about I turn up on your doorstep with pictures of animals bleeding all over the place. How bout I also mention that you're as a "pro-[animal]life" advocate who would kill a scientist to save a rat? Extreme? Well you gotta break a few eggs to make an omlet. I'd even hazard to call these people speciesist since the only species they seem to discriminate against is humans. At least the animal lab employees are only anthrocentric. And after all, we are animals, and our instinct is to propagate our species and we do it by being the best. Top o' the food chain.

What I find amazing is that while organizations like peta, WAR or the SHAC 7 thrive, organisations that are notoriously anti-human and pro-animal, movements like the voluntary human extinction movement, the RSPCA, the Animal Welfare League and The Humane Society go largely unfunded, under appreciated and unnoticed since they do everything the legal, non-sensationalist way.

Our parents were hypocrites, sell outs, plunderers, cattle led to the slaughter so why should we be any different? But we insist that we are different. Our parents are straight laced, and listen to rock music that now features in car commercials. We like being entertained by cutting edge musicians like green day, you know, cause green day make such political music and stuff. We go to events like lollapolooza where its all alternative and you can buy so many cool anti-institution t-shirts that were manufactured in Indonesia by a thirteen year old cripple. We can even get redbull there.

Its so easy to act like you care about something today too. Just pick up your remote, mute the TV and change the channel to a random news program. There you go, something to care about. And its so fucking trendy to advocate something. And it generates billions of dollars...Just look at Bono and Opera selling a compassionate image generating millions for charity and even more for themselves.

We are lazy. Conveniences like myspace and t-shirts for poverty are too big a temptation to resist. This is a good idea and we're going to invest all of our hopes, dreams and expectations in it. If it fails even temporarily we'll whinge and whinge via email and to all our friends until you put it back. Why should I learn how to do shit for myself when its already done for me? You have 13 seconds to explain yourself.

Pathetic.

My City is a Whore

2008-02-05T06:27:00.000-08:00

This was one of my favorite posts that I wanted to keep.

I've been inspired by one of my favorite artists (yet again) to write about my home town, the Gold Coast. Now some of you have had a little introduction to this town via my blog "you're being raped AND YOU LOVE IT." Where I began to describe what it feels like living in this cess pool. I only breached the surface in that blog though. And since most of you are too lazy to click my links I'll use part of what I wrote in that blog as an introduction of sorts...Hell, I just love that picture of the hep c infested...what the hell is that thing anyway??? Anyone? Buler?

The Gold Coast is possibly the most corrupt place in Australia. I'm talking silent crimes here. You won't hear about it on the news, but you'll feel it in every suburb when the street lights come on. You can walk down the street at night and feel safe but there is a definite uneasy feeling about how close the houses are to each other and the high voltage power lines. Its nothing particularly loud, though at times you will see its face. Especially in this generation coming up. They don't know it but they feel they're a legacy to something undefined, something sickly.

Growing up here was like watching Pamela Anderson's corpse decay. Parts of it remaining fresh, unchanged, a thousand year land mark to artificial beauty, other parts brown, rotting, maggots boring into the diseased flesh. So, being a Gold Coaster by birth has ingrained into me a certain type of ironic, warped sense of humour. People come here to live like beach bums and end up being corporate prostitutes. It makes me laugh anyhow.

Magic Mountain.
My first sense that there was something very wrong with this town was when I was very young. A theme park called magic mountain was the scene for my first nightmare. For those curious:

I dreamed that I was in the car park of magic mountain. It had been conquered by these massive spiders. If you've ever seen the dark crystal they were about that size. Anyhow, as I went in from the car park I saw them wrapping people up in web to save for later. I went into the arcade and that was all I could remember.

Garthim from the Dark Crystal.
Magic mountain was a great theme park. It was built on and around some headlands in a beach side suburb called "Nobby's Beach." On the opposite side of the same headlands there was a huge sign built into the ground that read "Hi Miami High." And this looked down onto the school's sports field.

There were a few rides, the little train, the ball pit, bouncy castle, a chair lift...not a whole lot there. But it was the theme that really made it fun. As you got off the chair lift there was a sword in a stone. And tourists would always line up and get a photo of themselves trying to pull the sword out. I did it a couple times. I found out the trick was that there was a button that you pressed with your foot to release the sword. Even as a kid I knew there was more to "magic" than magic.
There was also a sort of hall where they did magic shows and such. I got called up on stage as a volunteer once. Good times.

Magic mountain was not just a theme park. Most of the Gold Coasters who lived here while it was still open refer to the headlands as Magic Mountain and it has been some the theme park closed permanently. And before it closed down there were many rumors of satanic rituals. People reported seeing cats skinned and strung up from trees. Others reported trees with phallic shapes carved out of them that ..witches.. would impale themselves on. It didn't surprise me. I've often assumed that it was part of the reason that magic mountain shut down. Of course, its a bunch of units now.

The hole you can't get out of
This was often how we described good old Mudgeeraba. I used to go to school there. Its a nice looking suburb. In fact, it could easily be mistaken for a township rather than a suburb of the gold coast. Mudgeeraba is a lush, green one horse town to about 10 thousand people though it isn't nearly as bad as Springbrook which sits above it to the west and is a 0.2 horse town.

As a kid I used to spend many hours in mudgeeraba hanging out with my friends at the pool or at the cemetery so I feel as though this is almost a second home. It was where I had one of my most visual acid trips. Its also a lovely place to get molested.

Mudgeeraba Caravan Park is the stuff of legends. I had a friend who was a bit on the upper side of middle class. She said her father would take friends for tours around mudgeeraba caravan park. She said as a joke whenever her or her siblings were being a pain in the ass he'd threaten to drive her or her siblings out there and leave them there. Its a sort of lawless place, since the cops are too scared to go in there. Everyone owns a gun. There are the odd exceptions, which is usually where the trouble starts.

It takes all kinds though. The denizens are not just your average old coots and crack whores. Bikies, drug dealers, wifebeaters, psychopaths...Its a rich field of white trash variety. I'm just glad they're confined by distance.

Mudgeeraba cops are fun. One Halloween myself and a few friends were going to egg and toilet paper something...not exactly sure what. We got stopped by the cops.
"Whats in the bag?"
"Oh thats just some eggs and toilet paper. Mum asked us to pick some up while we were out trick or treating."
"Okay, you kids be careful."

Another time we had been drinking. The cops pulled up beside us and asked us where we were going. "We're just heading home."
"Have you been drinking?"
"NooOOoo!"
"Alright, you kids be careful."
It was probably the same fucking cop.

If you lived here you'd be as psychotic as me by now.
Varsity lakes as it is known today was the suburb I grew up in. I am surprised I survived. This place used to be called "Stephens." I'm not entirely sure why they had to rename it. Apparently the gold coast has around 22 new suburbs each year. At this there will be a Gold Coast suburb for each child in China by 2032. The name can be attributed to Bond University which is a few kilometers up the road. I was a bit disappointed as I was hoping they'd rename it "Dingleberry on Cerebus' asshole." But I guess thats a little long for postal addresses.

You guys think I'm kidding, but this is seriously one fucked up neighborhood. Oh sure, you can Google it now and see the urban sprawl behind the university and think "Oh I SEE! She's being clever and making a scathing comment about urbanization and suburbia har har har har...where's my beret?" But I am deadly serious. This place is the fucking epicenter of hell.

Naturally the Uni is rife with date rape and alcoholism, but isn't every university? No, I've seen some fucked up shit in my time here. Less than a hundred meters away from where I sit now a woman killed two of her small children by hanging them, then, after her third child escaped, she killed herself. The day after I noticed that on TV there was an Oprah special on post partem depression. The worst part of this was that all the neighbors tried to get a soundbite in for the news crews that reported it. They didn't even know her. Nobody did. That was probably why she did it. This was what inspired Jabberwocky: Life Like.

This place isn't quite as bad as the Mudgeeraba caravan park. Our drug dealers only wield machetes. There is a guy who deals drugs in my block. I have no idea what kind of drugs. One night he decided to start some shit with a neighbor. And he brought a machete. No one was injured but a few people missed a bit of sleep.

Its not all nutjobs and freaks though. One night after watching a cult movie and retiring to write 'damnation,' I was most disturbed by the rather loud music that pumped out from some unknown source. I went wandering. It really only sounded like it were across the road and I didn't see any drunken party guests stumbling home so I assumed that it was just a few people blaring music or maybe a band rehearsing.

I wandered further towards a nearby park. There is a community center there, lots of trees, not a lot of lighting. Thats never stopped me before though. Two figures in black were sitting down in the grass near the toilet block. I wandered over to them. It was a couple in their late 30s .. 40s. They were both wearing leather jackets, leather pants. Their Harley was parked some three meters away. I asked them about the music and if they knew anything about it. They said they didn't but that it was probably the biker's club having a party. They were rather polite and decided that I'd probably be better off writing than seeking out the source of the music (from memory it was gerling - a fine aussie band...not the sort of stuff you'd expect from bikies though.)

You see, there is a bikey club located in the industrial zone that completes the third of the sandwich that is Stephens. The bikers mostly don't cause a whole lot of trouble ..that being said I don't particularly want to dis them for fear of retribution. Heh. A few years back the cops raided them and found a stash of drugs and guns. But from what I can tell most people on the Gold Coast use drugs, be it of the prescription, legalized or illicit variety. Unfortunately caffeine is the only drug I use these days. Not that I wouldn't kill for a cigarette...

The face of tomorrow.
Schoolies week is something that happens here around this time every year. Surfer's paradise is the center of this phenomenon. You see, the Gold Coast being a den of inequity likes to ensnare the youth of other states; we like fresh meat. We have an infamous club scene here. I'm not sure why. The clubs are bullshit. I suppose it has more to do with the distribution of drugs and the blonde bitch on the door telling you that you're not good enough. It has that forbidden appeal. So the attractive kids go into clubs get drunk and date raped by the fat old retired tourists while the less attractive kids hang around Cavil Mall beating up other unattractive kids, buying drugs from mobile phone store clerks and being date raped by uni students from out of state. See, for the most part the kids who come to schoolies are well behaved, its the older students who want to maintain the dream by coming back every year and hanging around in the mall since the clubs won't let them in dressed in thongs and track pants, regardless of the brand or bling.

Surfer's Paradise is a dealer's best friend. From the impressionable teens that desparately want to own the town to the sharp pointy aerial of Q1 which, from a distance, looks like a massive hyperbolic needle. Of course drugs aren't the only wheels in motion in surfers there is also a thriving prostitution industry. Its legal...in brothels. But their business is really in the clubs and on the streets and in real estate. Did I mention the cost of living here?
Possibly the best thing about Surfer's is the bizarre sense of self it has. Raptis plaza has a statue of David and a Ripley's believe it or not under Raptis Plaza.

There used to be a sort of arcade/amusement center called Grundy's on one side of the mall. I think its now a disco bowling alley.

Underneath disco bowl and opposite the beach there is a surf-wear shop which has a set of jaws which probably should belong to a former Megaladon.

There was a suntan guy who used to spray suntan lotion on the beach who died of skin cancer a few years back. And another local celebrity that died a couple years ago was Big Kev. He was one of the old people at the clubs, only he paid before date raping girls...

* * *

Overall its not such a bad place to visit. We don't have a rich culture which makes it okay to cum and go as often as you please without actually contributing much more than a few bucks to foreign brewers. There are theme parks and amusements for the tourists. You won't be bored...

I've only touched very lightly on the topic here today. I may come back with some more pics later. I was VERY disappointed that I couldn't find any of Magic Mountain or the Megaladon Jaws. I know I have a few somewhere that I could scan. And I don't have any recent pics since my camera died. I may head out sometime later this week and snap a few though. This is probably the first of a few posts on this topic. Stay tuned kids!

Idiot O' The Week - The General Public

2007-11-30T06:41:00.000-08:00

This is a sort of quickie, kids. I'm knee deep in clipping layers at the moment and I haven't really had the time to post a full blog for the last few weeks now.

This article was something a friend linked me to just now and it tickled me so much I had to share.

Santa 'ho ho ho' ban bemuses world
Thursday Nov 15 12:00 AEDT

By Phil Han and Shaun Davies
ninemsn

People around the world are bewildered that Australian Santas have been told not to say "ho ho ho".

News of an Aussie recruitment firm replacing "ho ho ho" with "ha ha ha" has travelled fast, with people in New Zealand, the UK and the US amazed at the "extreme" political correctness.

Santa Ernest, the president of charitable organisation Santa America, said he was puzzled and surprised that such a move would come from Australia.

"It's amazing to me that it would come from the wonderful land of Australia," said Santa Ernest, who visits children in hospitals year-round.

"Whether you say 'ha ha ha' or 'ho ho ho' doesn't really matter, as long as you bring (children) love, hope and joy."

Trainees from Westaff, which supplies hundreds of men in red suits to Australian shopping centres, were told the traditional phrase could scare children and be taken as derogatory to women.

"We ask our Santas to try techniques such as lowering their tone of voice and using 'ha ha ha' to encourage the children to come forward and meet Santa," Westaff's national Santa co-ordinator Sari Hegarty told the Daily Telegraph.

The revelations sparked a storm of blog postings, with many international writers bewildered at the campaign against Santa's "ho".

"Who else wants to destroy traditions and re-write history? Santa has always said 'ho, ho, ho'," wrote one blogger at New Zealand-based friedbrains.com.

"How can banning 'ho, ho, ho' possibly better our world — why would anyone even begin to think it would in the first place?"

Macquarie University linguistics professor Pam Peters said the idea of changing the phrase was ridiculous and inappropriate.

"How can it be scary for children if it's been there as long as anyone can remember?" Professor Peters said.

"It's the time-honoured thing that Santa says and if they change it, it's as if he's speaking another dialect."

Two Santa trainees have quit over the politically correct new greeting, the Daily Telegraph reports.

Santas at department stores David Jones, Myers and the Westfield shopping centre chain will still use the customary greeting as part of their customers Christmas experience.

"Senior management (at Westaff) have assured us that Santas provided to David Jones have not been censored in any way," a David Jones spokeswoman told the Telegraph.

Some ninemsn readers though agreed with Westaff's decision.

"Finally I can walk the streets without being harassed by morbidly obese men in red," CK from Sydney said.

----------------------------------------------------------------

Oh yes kids! Stop the presses! Run to the bunker! Loot the convenience store! Because the day Santa is forced to say "Ha ha ha" instead of a forced "ho ho ho" is the day the world changed forever. Forget 9/11, JFK's assassination, The stock market crash, V-Day, the fall of the Berlin wall -- they all pale in significance to this black day.

Okay, so maybe it is a very silly thing to do in the first place. Santa's laugh, while it might sound a little forced, maybe a little old fashioned, could only be percieved as a derogatory term by someone with a criminally perverted mind. Those who were raised in the western world recognise his jovial laugh instantly and aren't about to start calling the PC cops every time we hear it.

On the other hand, those who haven't been raised in the western world, those who didn't have crappy christmas specials shoved down our throats every november and december probably won't recognise it so easily. Australia is an incredibly diverse country and december is quite a popular month for tourists here. But this shouldn't be cause for banning the laugh so much as a great reason to rub out christmas and religious displays from public altogether.

Yeah I said it. Kill Santa. Get rid of the fat cunt. String the fucker up and let the ADHD kids go to town on him like a piñata.

Seriously, I am actually quite lenient when it comes to christmas (or pagan Yule as t'was once the season to be jolly and don our gay apparel...) It's been very secularized. Even Santa Claus - aka Saint Nicholaus the most celebrated saint in all of history, (except maybe St. Patrick,) - the icon of christmas, has become less of a Saintly, jolly fat man and more of a capitalist archtype that sometimes has wacky and or zany Disney adventures on the big screen and regularly makes small screen appearances to advertise everything from coke to mosquito repellent...

The star idiots here though are not the ones who tried to make concessions for those from different cultures, but the alarmists declaring that a small employment agency killed Christmas.

Take a look at some of these comments:

"Any shop that does not allow Santa to say Ho Ho Ho will not be getting any of my business."

--Oh noes! Whatever will westfield do?!

"I'd be more insulted visiting Santa and have him chuckle "ha ha ha" at me instead of "Ho ho ho". Christmas is a tradition, what gives "Australian Recruitment Firms" the right to try and change history? It's ridiculous and they could be spending their time a lot better."

Sorry, I must have skipped the lesson on pre-industrial arctic toy manufacturing.

"I am bloody sick to death with our way of life being chisled away. How come when we go to others countries we have to abide by their way of life but when it comes to our way of life they are allowed to walk all over us........ It is time to stand up for the Australian way of life..."

-- What? Beer, Cricket and meat pies?

During the peak of summer, we dress up elderly men, stick them in malls in red polyester fur suits, and make kids sit on their lap. Everywhere else in Australia people are heading down to the beach or disrobing and cavorting in the sun and water or sitting underneath a nice shady tree because of the heat. Last year, even one of "santa's reindeer" went for a dip in the spit. And yet these idiots are clinging onto a tangent to try to preserve the illusion that we're actually Germany, England, Switzerland or some place white and Christian. (They're not doing much to preserve the illusion that Australia is actually a highly literate society either.) Heaven forbid we'd actually be proud of being a multicultural society and even exploit it at a time like the summer tourist season.

So this is why I nominate the General Public of Australia (and apparently the panicking billions all over the globe,) as Idiot O' the Week.

Celebrity Lesbian Threesome Fantasy Part II: Candle in the Wind

2007-09-01T11:09:00.001-07:00

So from part I, I'm sure you're aware that I've been fantasising about the former Princess Diana and Saint Teresa. Sure, over time their bodies have probably pretty much decayed to leave only skeletal remains. But we're talking fantasies here. Sometimes I imagine myself back in time - September 6th, 1997 to be exact.

A freshly dead, unembalmed Teresa beside me as a loyalist plays bagpipes somewhere nearby and Diana's relatively intact body lies before me. The air around us smells sickly sweet, like flowers and meat, and she is dressed in a fabulous long sleeved, black velvet evening gown. Autopsy marks across her solar plexus still visible due to a cunningly low cut neck line.

I open her palm gently. The rosary beads in her hand spill onto her lap and I pick them up with my teeth while simultaneously lifting up the divine velvet. Slowly and carefully I lean over Teresa and kiss her gently, sweetly. I'm not so naive as to think this is the first time she's been kissed by a woman, but there is a certain air about deflowering her cadaver at least. My tongue probes her damp open mouth and the rosaries slip between our lips and into her mouth, dangling out the corner.

Her lips long for my touch. I withdraw to kneel by her side. I straddle her hand and guide it up to my sweet spot. I rock my hips back and forth, enjoying the full stiffness of rigor mortis in her fingers for only a moment before plucking the Rosaries from her mouth and rolling her over onto her stomach.

Now I turn to Di, picking up an 18 inch, double ended dildo. This part of the fantasy is my favorite since from here there are so many possibilities!

I could have Di on top of Teresa, the dildo in Teresa's virginal yet saggy pussy as I strap on another and ride Di's ass home. A little hard and fast for my liking...but satisfying none the less.

I could insert the dildo into Diana's pussy. Naturally, she'd be a little slippery, due to the enzymes being broken down and leaving a mere film skin over a layer of a sort of jellyish liquid. Then lower myself onto the other end. Di's cunt, obliterated by the dildo, begins to seep. I remove the dildo from my pussy, turn around and position it so it's just at the edge of my asshole. Again, I lower myself onto it and brace myself by holding onto Teresa's ass.

This is almost too much for me to bare. I swiftly throw Teresa's dress up to reveal a naked shining wrinkled ass. Here I strap on a dildo and plunge into her tight pink anus. I ravage her; the rigor mortis allows me to be incredibly rough. And yet the evidence on the dildo would suggest she needed a more tender touch. Blood and what appears to be the contents of her bowels streak the jelly and when I finally pull out of her a glop of it falls between her stiffened legs. Remembering the rosaries in my mouth as I gasp for air I spit them onto her ass and push them in with my tongue, cumming furiously as I do.

As an afterthought, I remove the rosaries and place them back with Di, their rightful owner, in her mouth.

I am spent. I rest for the night lying between these seeping godesses, enveloped in the fresh damp English air, staring up at the stars as Elton John sings Candle in the Wind softly in the distance.

Many thanks once again to Punxie and Rev. Qelqoth for inspiring this piece!

Celebrity Lesbian Threesome Fantasy

2007-09-01T11:03:00.000-07:00

I have a confession to make: for just under ten years now I've had a crush on two celebrity females. I know, everything about celebrities makes my skin crawl and often I find myself shuddering and wretching over a pool of vomit if I happen to catch a snipett of E! or entertainment tonight. But these two ladies I've just found simply delectable.

I'm talking of course about Princess Diana and Mother Teresa.

Yeah, I know they're both dead. This only serves to deepen my desires.

So many nights I've spent dreaming of disrobing and swimming out to Diana's Grave. Or making the pilgramage to visit the dear saint's humble final resting place, the mausoleum in Calcutta, then removing the stone on her grave to discover a well preserved corpse in a habit.

But together in death, as in life, these sirens lured my heart to seek satisfaction in their shores.

How I have agonized over fantasies of caressing Diana's elegantly elongated, maggot bleached legs as Teresa's dry yet, tender hand gently blesses my breasts. Such enchanting tooth filled smiles...such hungry eye sockets...

Some people say that there is only so much you can do with two dead femmes. But I think you're only limited by your imagination. Picture this: the femur of the former heir to the throne thrusting at the threshold of ecstacy as your very own beatified buttplug, Teresa's smiling skull, nestles at your unholy hole. Or perhaps you'd prefer the grate of her dried out teeth against your clit (what few she had anyhow...) whilest riding Di's bones into the ground.

Talk about Mind blowing!

Part II tomorrow!

Many thanks to
Punxie and Rev. Qelqoth for inspiring this piece!

The Simpsons Movie

2007-07-31T05:49:00.000-07:00

Warning: Contains minor spoilers and penis jokes.

I grew up with the Simpsons. I don't think they were airing the Tracy Ulman show when the Simpsons debuted or at least, if it was on it was on much later than I was allowed to stay up. But I have been an avid viewer ever since it first aired here.

Some might even call me a Simpsons geek. I am definitely pickled tink by some of the characters. My second published piece was in a Simpsons fanzine: a pic of Homer with a mowhawk and leather jacket - lost boys style. I think he even had a pierced nose. One of the first cassettes I owned was the simpsons sing the blues (the first was glove slap...I mean love shack.) I even used to record every single episode on video. I think I got through about 6 seasons until I finally realized they weren't going to stop playing repeats and that recording it would probably be redundant in a year or two with DVD increasing in popularity - still waiting on season 6 to be released though some seven or eight years since it aired for the first time. They've really gotta get their act together with that.

But I've tried to steer clear of the typical fan boyish attitude.

"Oh how the mighty have fallen. Please excuse me, I'm off to find an insult more worthy of my sarcasm."

I have my private giggle fits every saturday morning then keep my opinions on the show to myself and off fan forums. I've been aware that among the "fans" of the show there is growing resent that since season 10 they've been slipping.

"Correction: Season ten is when they jumped the shark."

Geez, will you shut up already? As my simpson antagonist you're starting to make me sound like a pathetic nerd with nothing better to do than pick faults in kid's shows.

"Cursed wench! Bah, have your blog foul temptress. Soon your world will crumble beneath you and you will be powerless against my will. mmmhmhmh...hehehe...BWAHAHAHA!"

Oh for the love of Bob, go eat a cookie so I can get on with this thing already.

"Gasp! She knows my weakness! To the Comic book store guy mobile..."

You mean your Ford Cortina?

"Sigh, yes, if anyone wants me I'll be in the comic book store guy mobile with my sweet crumbed masters."

Ahem...

Personally I think the simpsons gets better with every episode. The show constantly amazes me with what they get away with. They've always been pushing the boundaries of censorship and keeping their audience on their toes and I think that is part of what has made them so popular. People identify with the characters and all of the things they say and do that lesser shows don't have the balls to touch - the blasphemy in particular is my favorite aspect. Ned Flanders and the very human Rev. Lovejoy crack me up without fail.

I don't think the movie quite recaptured that. Sure we have scenes where Ned, Rod and Todd Flanders thank the lord for a bountiful penis, Homer flips the bird, Otto pulls a cone and my favorite: Homer and the family enter church late and Homer dismisses the christians inside as "pious morons too busy talking to their phoney baloney god." But nothing any more risky than what you'd get in teen romantic comedy. Perhaps because it was written by the same people that were writers on the series pre-season 10 and they've since moved onto more dangerous talk? Yeah, that was a question more than a respons. I don't know. Again, I hate resorting to fanboyish judgements on an institution that made TV worth watching for me.

But that really was the only thing that disappointed me about this movie.

If I could fault anything else about this movie it would be that I was laughing too much. These are characters that have been with us for about 15 years. It's hard not to laugh when Ralph decides he likes men. Or when Cletus tries to sympathise with the head of the EPA by admitting that he was once beaten at tick tack toe by a chicken. Or when Dr. Nick's last words are "Bye everybody." No doubt fans will be pleased with the in-jokes, like when Homer and Bart revisit Springfield Gorge, and the marvelous trip Homer takes with "boob lady."

The animators really sparkled here too. It might just be 2D but even still the colours, textures, details and motion are what gives this movie a little extra special touch.

And as always the voice tallent is spectacular. It doesn't take much to do a funny voice but expressing the full spectrum of emotions in character is something quite

The plot definitely resembles the structure of an episode of the Simpsons though. But to just leave it at that would be wrong. It's a journey that reminds us exactly why this family has captured our hearts, made us laugh and cry, maybe even taught us a little about humanity along the way.

It also has plenty of boob and dick jokes. And isn't that what life is all about?

I give it four thumbs up. But grown-ups? Definitely take your kids. They'll love it.

_____________________________________________________

I have a pet peeve I wanted to share here as well. I hate commercials. While waiting for this movie to start I sat through something like half an hour of commercials - not just trailers for ratatouli or whatever big budget fantasy wish they were lord of the fuckin potter movies - but commercials for news programs, local bars, a fucking add for a dramatic series on channel fucking seven, shit that we see on television. It's not just the general crappy content of the commercials that pissed me off, they're getting longer. I don't stop what I am doing to arrive at the cinemas at the time stipulated on the ticket to catch five minutes of mobile phone commercials. They're charging us more for tickets and taking more of our time. Imagine how much this adds up to over a life-time. I'm sure I'm not the first to notice this.

But seriously, cinemas: pick up your game or we'll have to start getting all our movies on DVD.

Tammy Faye Bakker is Dead

2007-07-22T05:39:00.000-07:00

This just a brief blog today. You could call it a footnote in the Hall of Fools.

I just finished watching this tribute on Larry King to Tammy Faye Bakker-Messner (televangelist, co-founder of PTL and Jim Bakker's Ex-Wife.)

She died of lung cancer today at age 65. Couldn't have happened to a nicer person. Okay, that was probably a little nasty but fuck her. She duped millions of people into giving up their hard earned cash because the lord wanted the bakker mansion to have gold plated toilet seats and air conditioned dog kennels and now she's being immortalized as an achiever in spite of great adversity? That's bullshit and the media knows it.

To her credit though, she appeared to have a soft spot for gay people while other evangelists were preaching hate, though I imagine that had more to do with their disposable income than anything else. She still remains a gay icon. And why not? Her whole being screams drag queen: (unintentional) sarcasm, exaggeration and caricature with a slight hint of irony that she seemed to adapt towards the end.

In spite of the corruption and hypocrisy that surrounded Tammy Faye she seemed to be a fairly nice person. She was just really stupid. Again, not her fault since she'd been brainwashed as a child.

She said on Larry King that she wanted to be remembered for her eyelashes...and her faith in god. Well, her face is definitely burned into my mind as the avatar of televangelism.

"We Lost a Moron." - Bill Hicks

You might like to watch her last interview online at CNN:
http://www.cnn.com/video//video/bestoftv/2007/07/19/lkl.tammy.faye.god.cnn

Kent Hovind - Nazism - Video & Transcription

2007-06-02T22:51:00.001-07:00

This is from a larger speech where Kent Hovind argues that because the Nazis classified Jews as Not persons to justify the holocaust, the supreme court also uses Roe vs. Wade to justify abortion. However this part is about how "evolution" is akin to Nazism. Though, I think it is obvious to anyone with a 9th grade level education in biology that Hovind's idea of evolution is very skewed.

I find it hilarious that Creationists argue so vehemently that we absolutely did not evolve from something of lesser form. That there is no way that a single celled organism was the basis for all life on earth. Especially when those same creationists can look at a blastocyst and say that it's human.

Anyhow, those interested can google the theory of recapitulation which was the work of Ernst Haekle who, like Darwin and Nietsche, had his work twisted and sold as lies to the German people during World War II. Law of Recapitulation

This video illustrates perfectly how to be a complete idiot. The transcription is underneath. Hovind's sources are cited in [brackets] I've added notes and actions in [brackets] too.

Kent Hovind:
You know 1936 the german supreme court declared jews were not persons. That was the decision that opened the way for jews to be murdered after all they're not a person so you can't be guilty of murder when you kill one.

I been to Germany three times. I read lots of books on Hitler and the holocaust, just to keep my blood boiling. Hitler did what he did because of his belief in evolution. He thought he was helping out. He thought the Germans were the superior race, they deserved to rule the world. Hitler wanted to make the practice of Germany conform to the theory of evolution.

Hitler offered to send the jews to anybody who would take 'em. [Did] you know Roosavelt refused to let the jews come to America in 1938? They could of been saved, folks. Our President wouldn't let em come.

Hitler's book, Mein Kampf, showed his evolutionary thinking which he had probably since he was a boy. This guy says:

"Evolutionary ideas...lie at the basis of all that is worst in Mein Kampf" [Robert Clark, Darwin Before and After, Robert Clark, 1948 p115]

Hitler said it was "the duty of the strong to trample the weak." [The Evolution Conspiracy p. 65-66] He said "I have the right to exterminate an inferior race that breed like the vermin." [Creation Magazine vol 18, #1, p.9]

Hitler "singled out the idea of biological evolution as the most forceful weapon against traditional religion" [Danial Gasman, Scientific Origins of Modern Socialism: Social Darwinism in Ernst Haeckel and the German Monist League, 197 p, 158]

See, traditional religion like christianity says no body's better because of the colour of their skin. Hitler didn't like that idea. He said "Nature doesn't like the blending of a higher with a lower race."
[Mein Kampf by Adolf Hitler p. 286]

He kept talking about "Aryan blood" and "lower peoples." Who's a "lower people," Adolf?

Well I found Hitler's hit list. I read lots of books about Hitler. Hitler thought the blond haired, blue eyed Norwegians were close to pure Aryan, the superior race. Could you follow all that? Blonde hair...[brushes hair back] Blue eyed... [prys eyelids open] Norwegian...[Swedish Chef impersonation? Speaks in tongues?]

He thought the Germans were mostly Aryan, the Mediterraneans were slightly Aryan, the Slavics were half Aryan, half ape. Orientals slightly ape, black Africans mostly ape, Jews close to pure ape. [The Hitler Movement p. 107]

[note - The graphic quote Hovind is using has the ethnicities and racial groups under one column as "Species" and the descriptions under "Blood Mixture"]

Hitler killed the jews because of his belief in evolution. He was trying to speed up the process, to help humanity out, get rid of the inferiors. Hitler also hated black people. Does anybody know where the olympics were held in 1936? Germany, that's right! Does anybody know who won the most gold medals? Jesse Owens, the Black American Athlete. Hitler was so angry he walked out of the stadium and said it's not fair to make my men race against this animal. [no source – Quotes from Jesse Owens]

Hitler said I think "christianity is the most fatal seductive lie that has ever existed."

[Adolph Hitler as quoted in Larry Azar, Twentieth Century in Crisis, 1990 p. 180] [Who the hell is Adolph Hitler? Could it have been one of Nietzsche's pseudonyms?-St. G]
Because Christianity teaches "God hath made of one blood all nations of men to dwell on... the earth." [Acts 17:26]

Now if you think you are superior to someone because of the colour of your skin number 1. you're wrong number 2. you're stupid, number 3. you're not right with god.
And I preach the same message in Georgia, and Alabama and Mississippi.
And I will preach it to the KKK: you're wrong.

I stood in Nuremberg, where the trial was held. Those guys, 50 years ago said, 'we did nothing illegal we were just obeying orders.' Yep and they were found guilty of murder, weren't they?

And just because our supreme court said that that unborn child is not a human not a person...That was the decision, 1973, Roe verses Wade...[cites graphic quote "In 1793 the US Supreme Court declared the word 'person' as used in the 14th amendment, does not include the unborn."] I don't care what the supreme court said, it's a person. It's a human at conception.

Idiot of the Week - Kent Hovind aka Dr. Dino

2007-05-30T04:47:00.000-07:00

Everyone knows Kent Hovind is an idiot right?

Not true. A couple weeks ago I got a bulletin from this Idenybriansapient creep. In it was a video.

I know, I know...I just finished talking about how I don't do blogs about videos. But this is really just the inspiration. I've transcribed it and added some notes too (I am really too kind to you people): [click here]
For all normal, dial-up loathing computing persons, you can watch it below:

Now, Hovind loves using quotes out of context. So I'm going to use his quotes out of context.

From this video, we can clearly see that Hovind believes himself superior to all non-christians. He even speaks in tongues to illustrate this point since speaking in tongues is a gift of "th' spirit" n' only true christians have this gift. He could be pretending to speak Norwegian, or it could be just COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT of our beloved Swedish Chef from the muppets. All these things are up to interpretation, jus' like the bible. But I believe that Kent Hovind has expressed some blatantly obvious traits of a christian supremacist.

Hovind is superior to you because he isn't "racist" against Jews. Got that?
-- This can actually be interpreted several ways but since I could not be arsed doing any research, I'm going to interpret it my way. Many Jews don't believe Hebrew/Jew to be a race. Indeed, science tells us that there is only 0.1% difference in the genetic make up of any two people on the face of this earth. That means that although a Japanese man and a Nigerian man might differ in appearances vastly, they posses almost identical genetic makeup. Which is worse, classifying people into different ethnic and racial groups, or seeing all people as the same chemicals but of differing quantities?

Kent Hovind is a Christian Supremacist. Like many other christians, he believes that christians are morally, socially, genetically and mentally superior to non-christians. You think that's a little extreme? Christianity teaches that Jehovah is a jealous god and that Heaven has a limited number places to fill, all of which shall go to virgin, or possibly gay men. [Rev. 14:1-4] [There are numerous examples of sexism and bigotry in the bible. The Skeptics Annotated Bible is a great place to start reading about them.]

Kent Hovind has a wife and kids. He thinks they're inferior too.

Okay, it sounds silly. But you know that's what he's thinking; he's better than you, the people of Alabama, Mississippi and Georgia, the IRS, the Supreme court, the Law...Hell, he even assaulted one of his employees.

Hovind is better than the numerous evolutionary biologists that have firstly dedicated their lives to the pursuit of scientific enquiry...he's better than them because he has a correspondence degree and gawd on his side. He's more qualified to re-define evolution:

When I use the word evolution, I am not referring to the minor variations found in all of the various life forms (microevolution). I am referring to the general theory of evolution which believes these five major events took place without God:
1.Time, space, and matter came into existence by themselves.
2.Planets and stars formed from space dust.
3.Matter created life by itself.
4.Early life-forms learned to reproduce themselves.
5.Major changes occurred between these diverse life forms (i.e., fish changed to amphibians, amphibians changed to reptiles, and reptiles changed to birds or mammals).

From Hovind's $250,000 Offer

You see, this way when he says "No one has ever proven to me the theory of evolution" he isn't lying since his theory involves matter coming from nothing. This can't be proven because it simply cannot happen.

0+0=0.

zero + magic word = 0

Even as ridiculous as it sounds, a magic word is something. (Think trees falling in the woods. Sound is vibration. Vibration is not possible without something to vibrate.) So really it should be:

Zero+magic word=time wasted.

Hey, you can try this one at home, kids. It's good science to test and test again. Maybe if you use a different magic word you'll create the heavens and the earth!

He's better than the people at his seminars because they pay him to teach them how to be fucking idiots...wait, that isn't right. If they were idiots they would not need lessons in it. Hovind teaches these idiots how to JUSTIFY pig ignorance. I am sure that the people who attend these seminars are probably only ignorant due to circumstance, but paying someone like Hovind to learn how to define evolution as evil, how to prevent your children from learning scientific explanations on the origin of life, how to demonize everyone that teaches something different than the biblical version of events is not just proving they're fucking idiots, it's also proof that they're hostile towards anything outside their nice little craters of ignorance.

It's no surprise then that he's been imprisoned to prevent him doing further damage. Even while in prison this snake oil salesman is trying to find ways to get out of ponying up on his fine for being a retardosaur. Hovind is better than the IRS, the supreme court and the law. People like you and me, we pay taxes because we're inferior. Our work is not "of the lord."

But seriously what makes Dr Dino a shining beacon of stupidity? Is it just the way he evangelising of the creation lie? Profiting from the ignorance of others? Discrediting evolution with fast talking, cosy ideas and a shit eating grin that would make Nixon blush? Getting caught for fraud and tax evasion? Each of these exclusively are idiotic but it's the combination that makes Kent Hovind the spectacularly stupid man he is.

This man really is completely clueless. He not only believes what he says, he has no idea what he is doing by profiting from the drooling meat-erectus that laugh and clap at the brightly coloured screens and funny talk then limp out to the lobby and purchase some smooth lookin' picture books or perhaps some refinery for Pa to gaze upon in wonderment during his crapper sabbaticals.

***
I have nothing else to really add, but this is possibly one of the funniest things ever. And it makes for a good after-thought. Enjoy!