| Side notes... |
[07 Aug 2002|11:01pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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crackling fires and melted wires |
] |
Victoria's secret: She tries on all underwear before it hits the shelves.
Now, if you have just pictured a fifty year old size sixteen woman with a scorching case of herpes squeezed into a pair of size four crotchless, you'll wash that underwear before you wear it out.
Back under the rock I shall go.
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| Superlatives... |
[02 Jul 2002|07:31pm] |
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mood |
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unfiltered menthol |
] |
Buddhism: We really don't care which religion you are in this lifetime, it's probably not your fault as it is. We're going to leave you the hell alone because eventually, you will be one of us. You may be a patch of moss at the time, but this changes nothing. A Buddhist is still a Buddhist, afterall.
Christianity: We think we're right, and all of the time. We might be inclined to leave the rest of you fine folks alone if we weren't so sure of ourselves. If you disagree with us, you're going to hell. We'll meet you there someday (much to our chagrin), and soon... human nature prevents almost all of us from escaping the sins that are undeniably hell-worthy. Like the lemmings - sorry, sheep - that we are, we follow along with unflinching loyalty. As stupid as we may appear, it's all a part of The Plan; there is method to our collective madness. We are the pinnacle of human ignorance, and we'd probably be proud of it if there was any way of knowing about it.
Islam: The Christians had a good idea, but Mohammed's idea was more to our liking at the time. Christianity wasn't nearly violent enough for us, and it still isn't. The rules may be harsh, but our rewards are indeed splendid. Who could possibly turn down a heaven that has rivers of wine? What woman wouldn't want to be virgin over and over again? Regardless of what you may be thinking, a man did not invent our religion by borrowing from others and changing what he didn't like. Who would ever fall for such an elaborate ruse? No, my infidel friends. All of our laws and ways come directly from Allah, who has given us the right to publicly execute all nonbelievers.
Judaism: It's not our fault. Microsoft never sent us the Judaism 0000 upgrade package (we thought it wasn't exactly cost-effective and we refused to pay), so we're just a hair obsolete now. We're fully aware of this fact and we just want to be left the hell alone.
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| Conformity... |
[24 Jun 2002|12:42am] |
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Yes. Ultimately, we are machines. We are constructed in advanced organic factories and are born into this world in a mess of biochemical sludge. We are programmed. We think that we aren't, but we are.
Directives:
A) Copulate.
B) Reproduce.
C) Care for one's own offspring, only.
D) Protect bloodlines.
One can, of course, rearrange the order of the directives as one sees fit, but this argument (directives and the order of) is fundamentally no different than the one pertaining to chickens and eggs. We are here, for a little while. We feed, we grow, and most of us will eventually fuck. It's (supposed to be) a lot of fun, isn't it? Luckily, even sans contraceptives, each and every instance of coitus is hardly a guarantee that another life will get its start. Ultimately we are not concerned with such things, they are concerns of the flesh. If we fuck often enough, it will result in children. Statistics happen. Provisions must be provided for the new life and the temporarily incapacitated mother. Just long enough for the rodent to do some fucking of his own, thus starting yet another sub-cycle of life.
Generally speaking, we are not programmed to care for those not related to us in some form.
Generally speaking, we will favor those that are known to be related to us more than the comparative stranger, unless we are interested in fucking them.
Generally speaking, we are programmed to ensure that our own bio-mechanical instruction sets are forwarded to the next generation, because we are programmed to think that ours should continue where others may not.
Generally speaking, we are not programmed to give a flying fuck about this planet or any other species on it. Our instruction sets, while very complex, are not complex enough to process the importance of something so large as a smaller-scale ecosystem, much less something on a planetary scale.
Our minds have evolved far enough to grasp the concepts, yet our core instruction sets have not. We have no inherent urges to protect our surroundings, just urges to survive and spread out in our own petri dish. Irony steps in, for while our highly evolved minds have allowed us to become the dominant species on this planet, our minds have led us to become too successful, too dominant.
This, ultimately, will be our downfall.
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| Ride the white pony... |
[19 Jun 2002|05:24pm] |
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mood |
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cobalt.thorium.g |
] |
Oh the weather outside is frightful
But the fallout is so delightful
Since they've nowhere else to go
Let them glow
Let them glow
Let them glow
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| Closed systems... |
[30 May 2002|08:26pm] |
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You are all here again. Well, most of you. All in the same place, where I can watch and observe from afar, the way things should be. Why have you come back? Will the rest of them follow suit as well? If this world shrinks any further, we'll be but a step away from our very own Schwarzchild Radius, and then we'll all be supremely fucked. We'll all be trapped in the same place, with nowhere else to go. There won't be anywhere left to go to. Stagnation will reign supreme, although only I will be privy to this fact, the fact that moving forward will only seem to be as such to the mover. An illusion which will give rise to delusion and be incorporated with the rest. The mover in fact does not move at all, the mover only moves the hamster wheel and wastes valuable, irreplaceable energies that could be applied towards escape.
Fitting, though. In the end, if they are really right, we're all batteries.
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| An entirely different animal... |
[17 May 2002|09:06pm] |
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mood |
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evolution happens |
] |
Everyone wants to be the Meddlesome Mouse, but nobody respects him.
Everyone expects the Unexpected Hamster, and everyone suspects him.
Everyone simply rejects the Archaic Gerbil on general principle.
They are all in the same cage.
Tonight, I'm going to feed them some tainted pellets and sleep like a baby.
I'm going to shut my eyes and they simply won't be there when I open them next.
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| By the time I'm sixty... |
[15 May 2002|04:30am] |
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No-one knows where Old Man Peterson came from, really. All we know is that he lives on the corner of Grove and Westwood with a veritable zoo that's composed of our domesticated animal kingdom. Well, we can assume as much, every week at 2:13 on Thursday morning he rolls down his driveway in an old, beat-up towncar, and the same grey behemoth has been seen parked in front of the Super Wal*mart parked but a few miles down the road. He buys nearly a hundred dollars of animal food products by the looks of the shopping cart that he wheels out, and then he retreats into his house for another week. He never leaves the house aside from these regular excursions, ever. We've never even seen him out on his porch or in his yard, which has gone completely wild. Oh, I mentioned animals. Well, we know that there is at least thirty cats on the premises, they come and go as they please, but they never leave the yard. We're still trying to figure out how he could have trained them like that. We've also heard other noises coming from the house from time to time, being neither human nor feline. The cats never stray from the yard, just as he never strays from his house, save for taking care of his many animals.
I don't know if he has any family or friends, nobody ever comes to visit him, and it's rumored that he doesn't even have a phone at all. We thought about inviting him to Christmas dinner one year, since we imagine that he must be terribly lonely, cooped up in there all the time. We thought about it, but a couple of incidents made us think twice.
Firstly, we saw a door-to-door solicitor open the gate on his fence one day, and proceed to make his way through the tall grass towards the house itself. Five or six cats came hopping out of the grass and lined up on the front porch, where they sat there and watched him. About halfway across the yard, he stopped and stood there for a moment. He reached down and scratched at his left leg, and then he just fell over, disappearing into the grass. After about thirty minutes, one of Peterson's next-door neighbors called the police, but they never came. It's as if they never had placed a call.
The second strange incident that ultimately forced us to reconsider our invitation was when some children were playing baseball in the yard opposite from the front of his house. One of the boys sent the ball clear across the street and over his fence. Little Timmy trotted across the street, opened the gate, and started searching for the lost ball. At the same time, at least ten cats sprang out of the grass and sat on the porch. Again, they just sat there and watched his every move. It's as if they knew that something was going to happen, and that they wanted to have front-row seats when whatever happened decided to happen. Well, Timmy was out there in the front yard, just sort of wandering around and searching for the ball as the cats and the children across the street looked on. Fifteen minutes passed, and still there was no ball to be had. Not surprising, given the three-foot-high grass that almost reaches the top of a faded and worn white picket fence which outlines the property itself.
Thirty minutes into the search, little Timmy was knocked about six feet into the air by an explosion of some sort. It appears as though he found a landmine instead of the ball that he was looking for. The cats hadn't moved from their spot on the porch. In fact, they didn't even so much as blink when the mine was set off, but the children across the street were all screaming bloody murder. Then someone called 911, as a very brave neighbor dared to step into the tall grass and drag Timmy out of Peterson's yard before he died from blood loss and trauma. The hospital managed to save Timmy's life, but we can only assume that his right leg (below the knee) and left foot must have been devoured by the cats sometime later. The neighbor was brave enough to bring Timmy out, but he wasn't about to linger around long enough to search for missing body parts which may have been blasted beyond recognition in the first place - we can't blame him for it, really. Again, the authorities were notified... but it all panned out just like the incident involving the salesman; nothing ever happened. Not a squad car drove by to investigate, and the police department doesn't even have a record of the incident, they insist that a call was never placed to begin with.
After that day, we more or less ruled out an invitation to Christmas dinner, inviting little Timmy and that brave soul who rescued him instead. It's amazing how resilient children are, he doesn't appear to be traumatized by the incident at all. In fact, he really seems to like zipping about in that motorized wheelchair of his. For a few months afterwards, the children in the neighborhood all insisted that he tell the story over and over again, and they still treat him like some sort of local hero. Personally, I don't understand what all the fuss is about, the kid is just plain lucky to be alive after something like that. Old Man Peterson still lives there, and nothing has changed, He still leaves his house at the same time every Thursday morning. You can literally set a watch by his routine.
These days, we all just leave him alone and pretend that he isn't there, I figure that he wants it that way. He obviously doesn't do anything to bother anyone else, so we all just leave him alone. Either out of respect or out of fear.
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| Act two, scene three... |
[09 May 2002|09:27pm] |
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Breaking and twisting and turning and slashing and making us love kittens. This is truly life at its best, it's what it does best. We wade waist-deep though ethereal sludge on a daily basis and then we wonder why we take pot shots at others, especially those we care for most. Simple answer: it's fun! Wheeee! Ok, simple answers are not necessarily good ones... I know I won't be let off the hook so easily. The fact of the matter is that I don't think I have an answer that will satisfy your curiosity or put an end your silly questioning, although I know that you're still going to torture me... go right ahead, it kinda tickles. Isn't it better to fester and twitch in a vat of ooze so long as you know that it's the real thing? Isn't it preferable to being like one of those actors in television ads, always smiling the fake smile and lying through tartar-controlled porcelain teeth?
Ah, but you're not listening, the cattle prod in the sole of my right foot will testify against your claims of "otherwise." I do mean to tell you about the book of truth that I've lost somewhere in my house, the big book of shiny and well-written answers, but certainly not while under duress. You can't torture me all day, eventually you must pee. While you are away, I will wrench one arm free, then the other, and then I will no longer be unable to scratch my ass (which pains me far more than the torture itself). More importantly, I will be ready to club you over the head with kindness upon your return and then skip merrily into the night, back to my place, to find this book that I'm not actually speaking of. I will find it and I will read it again and again and again until my teeth wiggle. Once I am satisfied that I have re-absorbed the knowledge that I presently lack, I will lend it to you for your very own enlightenment.
But first, you must urinate.
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| Self-inflicted... |
[03 May 2002|03:15pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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do you want fries with that? |
] |
Cosmetic surgery has to be one of my favorite socially-acceptable feats of stupidity. It's one of the biggest signs that this world is slowly tearing itself apart at the seams like a breast implant that has been squeezed one time too many. The world is leaking silicone as we speak, and I have come to enjoy this macabre themepark that we all live in. People have become so insecure and (in certain cases) so incredibly lazy that they have to pay someone to slice them up in order to feel better about themselves.
That's delightfully morbid.
Everyone wants to be crafted from the latest high-impact plastics and other neat composite materials, just like Michael Jackson and Cher. Everyone has a Rubbermaid stamp on their brand-new asses, and their bodies are now covered by a warranty (ha, you wish!). Everyone has enough silicone in them to kill a small elephant, they all look and smell nice, but they will still give birth to ugly children someday. Everyone is still unhappy and dissatisfied with their disposable lifestyles, and nothing has changed - save for being one with the Borg.
Just think, you won't need that impressive sports car any longer. Pay a little money, and someone will grant you the penis that you've always wanted. Unfortunately, you may have to sell your vehicle to help cover the operation costs. Oh, you weren't born with a penis in the first place? That's no problem, either. We can alter your appearance and make you look truly hideous. I've watched a medical documentary that covered a male-to-female operation before, the way they construct a penis from other sections of the body (and make it capable of sustaining an erection) is really quite ingenious. But who wants to look like a disfigured man? There are better things to do with time and money. If one can't deal with their perceived shortcomings, perhaps that money for the operation(s) should have been invested in therapy and a galaxy of feel-good designer drugs.
You could go that route, but then you'd be just like your children.
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| We are, we are... |
[03 May 2002|01:41pm] |
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We have Intel Inside.
We come internet ready.
We have all uploaded and sold our souls via Ebay.
We are the Tribe Of The Transistor.
Join us.
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| The Irrational Root... |
[02 May 2002|01:53am] |
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Have you ever found yourself in bed and on the edge of unconsciousness, only to bolt upright out of fear of never waking up again? Is it possible that this fear may well have been rooted in the idea of just... coming to an end, there being no afterlife, but... nothing at all in its place? You're not even conscious of the nothingness, since you are in fact a non-entity. Or are you?
Hope.
People hope that they can somehow transcend death, come out on top of it. Even if they happen to find themselves in a pit of agony for all eternity. At least they are still around to experience something. Is it really that complicated? The desire to carry on in some form starts off as something that simple, but can progress into some very interesting things, indeed. Isn't it also possible that all of this can be derived from our own genetic hardwiring for self-preservation, and gradually mutated into something more profound by the human psyche itself? Regardless of the source, it seems as though carrying on in some form (or the belief of) seems to satisfy a basic human need.
From there, it seems as though what may have been genuine inspiration (whether real or imagined) could have easily been perverted into something more sinister, a means of imposing law and order under some duress; the invisible man will do something horrible unless the individual both complies with the established law *as well as* listens to those who are allegedly in the know, but seem to deviate from the established law (or restate their interpretations of it) with great frequency. Stack this on top of the willingness of the average man to blindly buy into an everlasting life policy in exchange for obedience, and you have a limitless supply of followers. So what if you confuse them with your nonsensical interpretations and backpedaling and inconsistencies? They will probably just file away what they cannot grasp as something along the lines of "the lord works in mysterious ways."
Hardwiring gives rise to superstitious beliefs gives rise to all kinds of fuckered-ness.
God was a dream of good government, and look at how far this has gone. At some point, children (read: humanity) eventually have to cast aside their security blankets and step forward into the really real world. Or they end up riding the short bus while the non-mal-adjusted point and laugh.
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| Misconstrued... |
[01 May 2002|08:28pm] |
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mood |
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three degrees Kelvin |
] |
I've explained it to you several times now, and you still don't seem to grasp the concept-at-large. All is Fine[TM] and Dandy[TM] for a little while, and everything is Good and True. However, these rather complex reactions are neither stable nor efficient in the long run. The products are even less stable than the reaction itself, having a half-life of approximately ninety minutes each. Yes, it's a radioactive sort of thing, here. Predictable decay rates and known emissions, it all eventually becomes a fuckered mass of highly toxic sludge.
The problem isn't with the reagents at all, it's more an issue of Contaminants seeping in when you least expect it, it is this that leads to the aforementioned instabilities. In principle it works Just Fine, but there is apparently something wrong with the procedure... or something goes wrong along the way. A Miscalculation, perhaps. All things have a predictable rate of decay, so that's not really the issue. Not even our friends the Proton and the Neutron will stick around forever, although they stay as they are for a very long time indeed. In all likelihood, not all of the Variables have been taken into account, there is more research yet to be done. Issues pertaining to Pure Samples should also be dealt with accordingly, for certain Impurities that have been discovered can be worked around and eventually eliminated. Start by re-calibrating the equipment, and work things out from there.
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| A word on security... |
[24 Apr 2002|10:09pm] |
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Can't you hear our enemies at the gates? What's that? You didn't know that we had gates? Oh, but we do. We will never be able to rest until they are all dead. All dead. Until then, it's coffee enemas and anal probes for everyone, because you never know where the Evil is going to strike from next time. We're not safe enough, one can never be too safe. We need two cars in every garage. We need two cameras in every car, on every street corner, and in every baby carriage across the nation. Death is coming. That's right. Close and lock the doors, unless you are riding in an SUV, we're all safe in those for now. Don't go anywhere, don't do anything, do not trust your neighbor. Above all else, do not change the channel until you are told that it's safe to do so.
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| One more time, with feeling... |
[22 Apr 2002|01:14am] |
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What comes, and what comes next? I am drawn towards you and all that comes of this is a rain of small needles that embed themselves in the back of my eye-sockets. If the past is the future is the present, I should roll my eyes and go watch C-Span for a time, until I forget about all of the lies and liars, until the political drivel causes my consciousness to cease function and I plunge into the realm of sleepy-time. Sometimes the past isn't the future isn't the present, but the Bad Evil is still running strong whether you wish it to or not. As I look at each in turn, you are still there and staring back at me and nothing changes. Nothing has changed, nor will it ever. What's old is new and back again, this is how things are, these are the rules of the game.
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| When the neighbors are invited... |
[18 Apr 2002|04:24pm] |
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mood |
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tea and crumpets |
] |
There's a song out there by the name of Cake And Sodomy.
Am I the only one out there who imagines a proper English tea party being disrupted by The Sodomizers - who crash through the iron gates and then proceed to penetrate away with their uncircumcised members? Perhaps it's the crew from A Clockwork Orange stopping by for a bit of the old in-out.
Cake And Sodomy also makes me think about assault and battery. Mostly the battery. Some poor schmuck being clobbered by a lunatic wielding a Die-Hard or some such nonsense. There's your assault, there's your battery.
Nothing outlasts The Sodomizer. He keeps going and going and going...
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| Today's lesson... |
[18 Apr 2002|10:37am] |
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3 .
1415926535 8979323846 2643383279 5028841971 6939937510
5820974944 5923078164 0628620899 8628034825 3421170679
8214808651 3282306647 0938446095 5058223172 5359408128
4811174502 8410270193 8521105559 6446229489 5493038196
4428810975 6659334461 2847564823 3786783165 2712019091
4564856692 3460348610 4543266482 1339360726 0249141273
7245870066 0631558817 4881520920 9628292540 9171536436
7892590360 0113305305 4882046652 1384146951 9415116094
3305727036 5759591953 0921861173 8193261179 3105118548
0744623799 6274956735 1885752724 8912279381 8301194912
9833673362 4406566430 8602139494 6395224737 1907021798
6094370277 0539217176 2931767523 8467481846 7669405132
0005681271 4526356082 7785771342 7577896091 7363717872
1468440901 2249534301 4654958537 1050792279 6892589235
4201995611 2129021960 8640344181 5981362977 4771309960
5187072113 4999999837 2978049951 0597317328 1609631859
5024459455 3469083026 4252230825 3344685035 2619311881
7101000313 7838752886 5875332083 8142061717 7669147303
5982534904 2875546873 1159562863 8823537875 9375195778
1857780532 1712268066 1300192787 6611195909 2164201989
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| Perspective... |
[17 Apr 2002|02:46pm] |
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The optimist believes that life is as good as it gets. The pessimist fears that this is true.
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| Representation... |
[11 Apr 2002|06:58pm] |
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I am a Gravitationally Uninhibited American.
I am also Openly Bald.
Am I not versatile?
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| Just you wait... |
[10 Apr 2002|07:36pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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reality television |
] |
One day, Bjork. One fine, sweet day. You can start counting now. The Evil Empire will eventually recover from chapter eleven bankruptcy, siphon money from the collection plates, and it will be back to business as usual. You think that you are riding high and mighty, that your Army Of Me will keep you safe and sound.
A good idea, very catchy. I think the US army bastardized this and derived Army Of One. Who would have thought that Uncle Sam listened to Bjork? No, fuck all. That's what they want you to think, that being all that you can be is the happenin' thing to do. It's all a lie, it's indentured servitude. I daresay that it's whoring yourself out to The Man. What am I talking about? People are wooly prostitutes and I should know better.
Damn, I've been distracted again.
I was talking about armies, and chapter eleven, and stealing from the church. Was I talking about Enron? Heavens no. I was talking about that scourge whom I've pursued for the past five minutes of my life. Bjork, the fourth Keebler Elf.
*clears throat and slips into the evil voice*
Muahaha! Your days are numbered now, vile creature of the north! Even now, your position is known. Even now, my elite Shock Troops are closing in upon the co-ordinates given to me by that really shady looking bartender! There is no escaping my influence... I will put you back in that fucking tree in time to watch the Jerry Springer show.
Wait, no... this nefarious villain bit just isn't working for me. Is my spooky looking armor on straight? Can we do another take? What? We're fucking live? Curses! I'm ruined, I'll be appearing on the USA channel for the rest of my sorrow-filled existence, possibly beyond. I'll be right inbetween Airwolf and Knight Rider. Fuck you, Ernest Borgnine. Fuck you, David Hasselhoff.
Prop boy! Fetch me a loaded shotgun!
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| Followers... |
[10 Apr 2002|06:54pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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black majik woman |
] |
Fuck off, I'm my own legion of darkness, there are currently no positions available.
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