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Topics - Doktor Howl

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Aneristic Illusions / CAIN!
« on: January 23, 2015, 03:16:34 am »
King Abdullah died an hour ago.

What are the chances that the house of Saud will survive his death?

Nigel I, Empress of Portland and Lots of Other Places Too, sat upon her unicorn “Miss Sassypance”, and surveyed her domain.  There was always SO much to do.  Just last week, she had been forced to have her Bother-Boys burn 4th Avenue down for treason (specifically “making a ruckus when the Empress has a headache”).  Now she had to meet with some ambassador from the Kingdom of Warwick, one of those tiresome little countries that had popped up after the fall of the United States during the Big Whoops.

All things taken as a whole, she’d just as soon quit the Empress business and spend 20 years high, but the puny humans had already proven that they couldn’t manage their own business.  The obligations of rule, yada yada yada.  Boring.

Right on time, the ambassador’s palanquin came along, borne by 4 giant victims of extreme body modification.  The Empress approved.  Humans are just SILLY in factory condition, they really don’t need ALL of those bits.  The ambassador stepped down from his palanquin and approached the Empress.

“I am Eater of Clowns”, he said, “ambassador for the Eastern Empire and…um…Why is that thing strapped to your horse’s head?”

“It isn’t a horse, you miserable primate.  It is a unicorn.”

“No it bloody isn’t.  It’s a horse with a gigantic strap on affixed to its head.”

“IS.  UNICORN.”  The Empress was not amused.

“No, look.  It’s even got a name inscribed on it.  ‘The Crippler’.  That is totally a dildo strapped to a horse.”

“I don’t LIKE you.  Miss Sassypance, FUCK HIM UP.”

Ambassador EoC tried to run, but it was of course hopeless.  The gigantic quarter horse ran him down like a dog and then sorta danced on him.  Then it used its “horn”, as it had been trained to do.  The ambassador’s palanquin bearers all winced.  Then turned away.  Then got really sick.

When all the screaming was over, the Empress felt a little bad about the whole thing.  This would of course mean war with King Richter, and she had JUST promised her Bother-Boys a vacation in Branson, Missouri.  Oh, well.  The needs of the state come before the pleasures of Dollywood.

Time to get back on the job.  An Empress’s work is never done.

They asked me to do it in the spirit of Hunter S Thompson.  Tell me if there's anything I should add.

It is my duty as a man of the cloth - and a citizen acting in the interests of public safety - to read the bans, as it were, for Annie Christine Smith and Christopher Levi.  By means unknown, Christopher has convinced Annie to marry him.  This may have to do with poor eyesight on her part.  Perhaps if you squint at him in the right light, and maybe have something the size of a lemon pushing down on the part of your brain that tells you how to put your underwear on correctly, he may appear to approach her league.  Maybe.

In any case, the combination of her brains and his brute strength and lack of regard for basic morality does not bode well for the rest of us.  They will shove us down manholes and toss dynamite in after us.  They will run us down like dogs and shoot us for no good reason.  They will turn us in to the Ferguson, Missouri police department, and our children will drink filthy water for the rest of their short, miserable lives.  Horrible.

In any case, they have wedding plans to make, and they are really not available for the usual Facebook bullshit.  If they are harassed about this, Levi will track you down and shit on your bed.  He knows exactly where all of you live; He is connected to the internet.  He is a vile beast of a man who knows not the WORD “forgiveness”, let alone the meaning…And if he thinks you’re moving in on his girl, well, that’s where we get our Charles Starkweathers.

The wedding will be secular.  They had at first opted for a traditional Catholic wedding, just for the ceremony of the thing, but when they showed their self-written vows to the priest, it did not go over well.  He made a high-pitched keening noise, like a dog that had been stabbed with a semi-sharpened cricket bat.  He hauled his cassock up and shat on the floor.  We had to throw fat young altar boys at him for over an hour to keep him from calling the cops.

Their wedding gift registry is at Filthy Dan’s Porn Emporium.  Or you can just stuff unmarked bills in the bag.  Now.  Like right fucking now.  Don’t push it.



Mind you, I'm not trying to make them better.  I'm trying to get them to push their head farther into the poop pile.  Because I hate them.  In any case:

1.  If you think about it, isn't an "incantation" just a phone number or IP address to another world that's just as real as this one?

2.  They call it "confirmation bias".  We call it a successful casting.

3.  Did you know that Jesus said ANYONE could do what he did?  Yep.  Luke 17:6 "And the Lord said, If ye had faith as a grain of mustard seed, ye might say unto this sycamine tree, Be thou plucked up by the root, and be thou planted in the sea; and it should obey you."  And what is faith but concentrated will?  Ergo, magick works.

4.  There's really only a handful of Gods.  They use different names for different occasions.  This is why there is no problem with mixing pantheons.

5.  You will notice that people work really hard and never get ahead.  In fact, the harder they work, the poorer they stay.  The ones who get ahead are quite obviously using supernatural assistance.

Feel free to add to this.

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / LMNO
« on: December 18, 2014, 05:46:28 pm »
I just invented a land mine shaped like a pulpit.

I expect prophets to go through the roof.

I have often referred to Nigel's trip here in 2010 as an angelic visitation, mostly because she wasn't covered in powdered coyote shit like everyone else, but also because she made the city behave for a day.  Funny part about this is that - while a wise man knows "angel" doesn't equate to "safe" or "good" - you expect an angel to come from heaven.

Then you go to Portland, and it's like finding out that the Playboy Mansion is just a double wide trailer with a children's wading pool out back.  Or that Norway is just an ice sheet with a few miserable Lapps wandering around, and all the cool shit you hear about  it is nothing more than a mean joke played on gullible Americans by mean Danes.  Or the Taj Mahal is made out of plastic and Buckingham Palace was bought by Donald Trump.

Worse, you learn that it's contagious.  It hasn't stopped raining in Tucson since I got back.  My office toilet doesn't work, and when you force whatever titanic movement down the pipe, the "breather" out on the public sidewalk erupts with toilet paper and the remains of the 3rd-last shit flushed.  People have suddenly forgotten how to drive home, due to low visibility from the aforementioned rain.  Monday's rush hour is still circling downtown, unable to leave the legal district and slowly running out of money for the food trucks.  By this time next week, they'll all be dead, and their families will never learn their fate.

Even now, black clouds swirl above the refinery, waiting for me to go outside.  Waiting to silence my talk of Portland and its Skinsaw Queen.  But I can stay in this office for a long, long time.  Oh, yes.  I have a gallon of e-juice, 12 pounds of coffee, overweight coworkers, and A1 Sauce.

You may think this is funny or even a good thing, this displacement of Tucson by Portland, this venereal disease of the soul which I have brought home like a particularly bad case of the crabs.  Yeah, laugh it up, assholes...But consider:  If Portland has displaced Tucson, then where did Tucson go?  Yeah, that's right.  Learn to suck vacuum, you Goddamn barking monkeys.  Learn to NOT LOOK when the cops are throwing up.  Learn to ignore the detective crying into his bourbon.  Learn to fear the ANGRY FIST OF GOD that is grinding you into the pavement while you helplessly shit yourselves.

Learn to love being Sheriff Joe's next-door neighbor.

Okay until the coffee runs out,

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Drinking With a Dead Guy
« on: December 17, 2014, 02:02:54 pm »
Drinking with a dead guy...Not as uncommon as you'd think, in certain cities.  In Tucson, for example, everyone is already dead, so by definition you're drinking with the dead even if you're drinking alone.  But Tucson's dead are decently dead.  They are corporeally present.  Zombies, if you will, except that we aren't interested in your brains.  Because lowlanders are dumb.  You believe dumb things.

In Portland, however, I had been invited out for drinks at The Tugboat Brewery, on Alkeny Street, by Mr Language (Nigel's ex-BF).  At the last moment, I invited NLDM along, because it was probably my only chance to see him when I wouldn't have to drive afterward. 

After the nightmare of finding a place 4 blocks from my hotel (see previous rant), I found the joint off the main drag.  The main drag is all strip clubs.  To find a regular bar, you have to go down the shady back streets.  Portland.  I shook the wet off and ordered a drink from a 30-something bartender wearing a top hat.  That should have looked hipster and awful, but it didn't.  He was in a bit of a foul mood, because the owners were piping the music in, and jazz was involved.  Fortunately, the dozen or so people playing Magic: The Gathering in the center of the room drowned out the RWHN-esque crap coming out of the speakers.

I settled in with my first beer and looked out the window at a ghost.

You have to understand, I'd only ever met Mr Language once before, back in August of 2010, when he and Nigel came to Tucson.  He'd been stand-offish and had his hackles up.  He seemed to view me as competition for Nigel, and spent the entire day being too cool to have fun, while Nigel, Freaky, and I laughed our asses off being the dorks we were at the time. 

But not this time.

He walked into the bar, looking like a Mr Language-shaped hole someone had cut in the universe.  When I looked directly at him, he was still doing the cool thing, without much success.  He was wearing a sweater-vest over a shirt, and he had a scarf around his neck sans jacket.  His teeth looked like chalk, and you could wrap your hand around his torso. 

Strangely enough, he was REALLY REALLY happy to see me.  Sort of weird happy, like a leper excited about his brand new hat.  We made small talk, and before long it occurred to me that the reason he was being so engaging was that he somehow now saw me as a means or a conduit by which to get Nigel back.  In fact, he spoke of this as being an inevitability.  Now, I didn't get a psycho vibe off of him.  I don't expect him to be peeking through windows or anything; he isn't actually a bad guy.  No, what I got was this idea that his current GF is sitting in an ejector seat, and when the inevitable day that Nigel realizes she can't live without him, the poor girl will be fired through the roof under 33 gravities of accelleration.

NLDM showed up just as things were becoming uncomfortable, and the talk turned to kids, work, and drugs.  You know, normal & polite adult conversation.  Mr Language brought Nigel up a half a dozen times, including sort of angling for NLDM "remembering" him, presumably fostering another "in". 

By now, even though Mr Language's behavior was actually fine, I was sick with horror.  Not at him, mind you.  No.  I was looking at what happens to a guy who listens to the song of the bridges and survives, in a way.  Because the bridges are not the only dangerous thing in Portland, are they?

No, there's also Nigel.  The Lamia of the Pacific Northwest...and this poor bastard was just another Menippus.  He looked in her eyes and that was that.  I have looked in her eyes, but fortunately I was already dead (it isn't Cotard's Syndrome if you're actually dead, assholes), and all I saw was an invitation to, let's say, DRINK EVERYTHING IN THE BAR AND THEN GO SMACK A COP IN THE FACE.  I had no soul to steal, so I came away from meeting her (in her natural environment) with nothing more than a haunting feeling that I had committed felonies and maybe crimes against nature while I wasn't looking.

Mr Language, though, was not so fortunate.  He had been scooped out like a gourd.  He didn't seem to want his soul back, either.  He doesn't miss being alive.  He just wanted more of his drug.  What's really interesting is that Nigel is an 8 or a 9 in pictures, but in person her energy and her high voltage smile puts her in Lola Montez territory.  And where does she GET that energy?  Just look at poor old Mr Language.  She ate him.  NLDM is no fool, though.  This is not his first rodeo.  No.  He is much taller than her, and looked over her head at all times.

Again, she is the Lamia, and she attracts her prey by being very obviously dangerous.  This makes people our age think she will make them younger, and they go kinda nuts and do shit like asking if they can put her finger in her ear.  Younger men just go all to pieces.  Spinning off like a top, into traffic or off the side of a bridge, gibbering and hooting incomprehensibly until they are flattened by bad drivers or break every bone in their body when they hit the river, respectively.

I do not believe that Nigel is the cause of the weird shit in Portland, anymore than I believe that fish are the cause of water.  No, it is merely the environment in which she hunts.  She has an instinctive knowledge of the impossible and ever-changing layout of the streets, and posh restaurants leave the door locked while she's around.  Animals in Portland always look nervous, like an animal that knows there is a predator around, just not a predator that has them on the menu.  They know.  THEY KNOW.

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Dear Telarus
« on: December 16, 2014, 03:25:48 am »
Check your PMs, pls.

Having been to Portland twice inside of 30 days, I have to say that I am in fact grovelingly grateful to be back in Tucson.  Tucson may be in a desert.  It may have no air.  It may be full of dead people...But it's home, and it doesn't rain all the time.  Also, our dead people act like dead people, and not like some ghoulish hipster-esque version of Ricky Martin.

I saw Nigel the first time I was there, and not the second time.  You have to be careful with Nigel, mind you...If you look into her eyes, it might not be you that gets on the plane at the end of your stay.  It might LOOK like you, it might TALK like you, but something will be missing and you won't be able to put your finger on it.

The second time, Nigel was busy, and so I didn't spend the trip feeling like I had been stood on my head by angry Irishmen.  But I noticed that Portland isn't what it seems to be when Nigel's crazy-ass eyes are suggesting that yes, you should in fact have another drink.  Or another ten.  Who gives a fuck?  We'll all be dead in 50 years, party now.

And it's not just that.  Portland is on its best behavior when you're out with Nigel.  We went to a rooftop restaurant connected with the second-best hotel in town, and ate DELICIOUS food for cheap, while looking out over the city.  Without Nigel, at the actual BEST hotel in town, I ate food that you'd expect in any hotel (ie, crap), while sitting in one of those kitschy hotel bar/restaurant things while it rained outside; the only thing I wanted was to go jump off the Burnside bridge.  Instead, I ate 2nd rate crabcakes which I suspect had never even MET an actual crab.

It is worth noting that NOTHING works in Portland.  Their toilets seem to be plumbed for that sort of person that shits like a rabbit.  No toilet in Portland can handle MY business, even if all I've had to eat was a snack bar and 2 Slimfasts.  No, the fucking thing stops up and I get glares from the maintenance crew.  Well, fuck them, they knew the risks when they took the job.  Nigel seems to have no impact on the functionality of things, by the way...While I was out with her, I personally demolished two toilets in one evening, just doing my normal business.

GPSs and google maps also do not work.  Google had me making a right off of Ferguson onto Prescott.  Those streets are parallel.  At least from the viewpoint of the observer...Streets do funny things in Portland, so if you LOOK at it, you CHANGE it.  Likewise, my GPS tried to lure me out behind the hangars at PDX, and only my natural paranoia saved me from a fate worse than death.  The fucking street signs don't function properly, and they are just supposed to SIT there.  One intersection had BLANK street signs.  It got so bad that I started ignoring one way street signs, no turn signs, and other vehicles.  The good news is, I wasn't alone.  Nobody who LIVES in Portland knows where anything is, either.

On both trips, it pissed rain on me non-stop, except when Nigel and I went to dinner, but we were above the clouds (which are 12 feet off the ground in Portland).  When I got home, it took me days to shake the depression, which was only possible because of how bright and warm and dry everything is here.  Especially the second trip.  I hadn't been around Nigel, so I wasn't warmed up by her burning footprints...And althought drinking with Nolodemiel was fun, there was a dead guy at the table with us (more about that later), which made everything weird.

Portland is in fact a weird place, though.  It's official slogan is "the city that works", which is a blatant lie.  It's unofficial slogan is "keep Portland weird".  When Portlanders say that, they don't mean Tucson weird or even Providence weird.  They mean a safe weird, like coloring your hair magenta and wearing lots of leather.  Nothing wrong with that of course, but that's not the only weird they get.  The whole fucking city is haunted.  It is full of cannibal street urchins.  It is run by psychopaths who hire murderous policemen who will cheerfully shoot you in the back of the squad car and call it a righteous shoot.  The river bends space, and streets change direction without corners or curves, the moment they cross a bridge.  There are rats the size of Rottweilers, and the strip clubs and bodegas are full of zero men and their flint-eyed girlfriends.  The sun doesn't exist.  I've been above the clouds, and there is no fucking sun.  It's missing.  Earth just flies in a straight line, through a gigantic cloud of God's piss, which is why it NEVER STOPS RAINING, even when you're drinking with a ghost.

To be continued

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Cop Rant
« on: December 07, 2014, 07:39:43 pm »
With regard to the protestors' chant of "I can't breathe"...

...I told you guys that there wasn't enough air.  I told you guys that Tucson would come for you all, one fine day.  In fact, I've been hollering about that for 12 years.  Now it's like this gigantic fucking cyst has burst, and you can't swing a dead cat without "interfering in police business" or being choked to death for selling individual cigarettes.

What's really grotesque about this, what makes this entire country a fucking carnival sideshow, is the fact that about half of Americans are still trying to find excuses for this.  #notallcops, yada yada.

And you know what?  There ARE good cops.  But to pretend that there aren't any bad ones is to say that there isn't any DIFFERENCE between the good ones and the bad ones, and to say THAT is to say that you're perfectly okay with a police state.

I am not anti-cop.  I am anti-out of control cops.  I am anti-punishment culture.  I am anti-beating people to death just because you can.

I understand the mechanism behind the "it's not the cops" mentality.  White people have been able to LOOK AWAY from this shit their entire lives.  They didn't HAVE to see it, because it almost never happened to THEM.  But now they HAVE to look at it - which is why they're "sick of hearing about it" - and they don't WANT to process it, because it leads to all manner of conclusions that contradict the way they think the universe works.  Racism is still a thing.  The police aren't there to protect you.  You are only free until your freedom becomes inconvenient.

So they go into denial, either saying the victims were "thugs" (Fox News-speak for "Black"), or that "there's only a few bad apples."

But how many bad apples does there have to be before you have to admit there's a problem?  How many cops keep the "code of silence" with respect to bad cops (Remember the "good Germans"?  Neither do I.)?  How LONG do you have to turn blue in the face because YOU CAN'T BREATHE, because there's NO AIR, because you TRADED THAT AIR AWAY FOR COMPLACENCY?

This is the America you demanded.  Welcome to Tucson.

Okay (for now),

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Most Wanted, #8 of ?
« on: December 07, 2014, 03:42:39 pm »

Name:  Baron Von Hoopla  Age:  Mid 30s.  Gender:  Bald.  Race:  Canadian.

Hoopla is a Canadian terrorist who kills his victims with interpretive dance.  His first victims were the Hamilton, Ontario Amateur Theater League, whom he slew by "interpreting" Pablo Picasso's Guernica.  Those hardy enough to survive the screaming heads were finished off by the terrifying horse. 

He then moved on to Myspace, the entire membership of which was slain by a video Hoopla's treatment of Shakespeare's Gone in 60 Seconds.  Following that, he killed the entire Canadian senate (though this wasn't noticed for almost a year) with his interpretation demonstrating the essential philosophical differences between "classic" Star Trek and "TNG".

Word has reached law enforcement officials that Hoopla has somehow obtained a set of unlicensed bongos.  They are therefore backing off and putting a bounty on his head.

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Most Wanted, #7 of ?
« on: December 02, 2014, 01:49:57 am »

NAME:  P3NT  Age:  430  Gender:  Scottish  Race:  Suspected hominid

Much as Japanese soldiers who weren't aware of the surrender held out on Pacific islands until the 1970s, P3NT has been holding out for King Gustav (of 30 years war fame) for roughly 400 years.  He refuses to believe negotiators telling him the war is over, and occasionally comes out of the mountains to burn Magdeburg down. Again.

As various law enforcement agencies and military organizations have learned, he is an absolute demon in a firefight, which is particularly impressive considering he uses a .75 caliber matchlock...Although on one occasion he killed 12 British Royal Marines when he fired a muzzle-loading cannon loaded with cannister shot from the hip.  The surviving Royal Marines are impotent with hatred, and their women go into a rutting frenze on sight of him.

Recent ideas of luring him out with "tatties and neeps" are not being met with optimism.

Friends, you - yes YOU - stand accused of having TOO MUCH FUN.  What's really funny about that is that the accusation stands even if you aren't having any fun at all.  Even if you are broke and worried about where your next meal is coming from...Even if you couldn't get laid in a MORGUE...Even if you HAVE NEVER BEEN TO A PARTY IN YOUR LIFE, you are having TOO MUCH FUN.

This is, after all, America; the land of GUILT and SELF-RIGHTEOUS ANGER.  The land of PUNISHMENT.  The nation that allows you to be free, just so long as you don't exercise any of that freedom.  How many times have you heard some po'bucker grouse about people "abusing the freedom of speech"?  Well, I'm here to tell you that if you CAN abuse it, it ISN'T a right.

But that's not all I'm here to tell you.  I'm also here to tell you that I AM having too much fun, and I'm PROUD of it; As Martin Luther said, "Here I stand giggling my arse off, I can do no other."  And I will not suffer yahoos with permanent cases of "Angry Town Hall Face" telling me that I am wrong to do so.  No, in fact when they DO tell me that I'm wrong, I have MORE fun at their expense.  This makes me guilty.  I'm okay with that.

"But what about the children?  Well, what about them?  Is my BAD EXAMPLE standing in the way of those children becoming more joyless punishment freaks for the world to deal with?  Good.  The thing that these people do not seem to be grasping is that I am a SUPERIOR MUTANT and I really don't share their values. 

Because, when you stop and think about it, what are their values?  Drudgery.  Work for its own sake.  Sending our kids off to be blown to bits, and calling it "supporting the troops".  Constant outrage at anyone who doesn't fit the cookie-cutter BULLSHIT standards that THEY somehow have the moral authority to impose on everyone else.  Well, fuck them...Because, as Senator Jim "anything for a laugh" Inhofe (R-Crazytown) once said, "I am outraged at the outrage!"  How DARE these puling, simpering PRIMATES tell ME what to do?  How DARE they criticize and condemn MY FREEDOM to say what I want, believe what I want, and/or use BIG, RED STRAPS in the privacy of my own front yard, with the consenting mutant of my choice?

So what do we do when the No Fun Patrol comes around?  Well, we've already been told that...But I will repeat it, for those of you who were too busy getting your monkey on to pay attention.  Orton Nenslo gave us "Shut Up", to shove in the faces of busybodies.  Robert Anton Wilson gave us "NO", when they tell us to behave.  Doktor Howl gave us "I WILL KILL A MOTHERFUCKER" when they insist.  And Doktor Legume gave us more extreme measures, when they simply won't listen.  And G Gordon Gordon gave us the proper methods by which to dispose of the results.

Now, I'm not saying that we emulate Doktor Legume (unless things get REALLY serious).  Not everyone has the stomach to "Fargo" the Pinks, and the paperwork can be a chore.  But for shit's sake, the LEAST you can do is tell them NO and SHUT UP and bray spittle and laughter in their pinched, miserable faces.  Because it doesn't matter if they're right wing born-agains or left wing tumblr Nazis, nobody actually ever gave them any authority over you.  Except maybe you.

And if you did, maybe you'd better stop.

Or Kill Me.


The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Most Wanted, #6 of ?
« on: December 01, 2014, 02:59:04 pm »

Name:  LMNO (aka Alphapance)  Age:  early 40s.  Gender:  Male.  Race:  Big Gay Cowboy

LMNO is wanted in the brutal murder of "Dimo", the lead singer of a punk band call the paraplegics.  LMNO himself is in a Lawrence Welk Tribute band, and apparently killed Dimo for - as he put it - "QUESTIONING THE SYSTEM".  Although the police are not releasing autopsy information or even a cause of death, it is known that Dimo was found tied across a gym horse, with lederhosen stuffed down his throat, and "WITNESS MY SHAME" written on his forehead in Sharpie.

Although LMNO was not seen at the scene of the crime, and there is no forensic evidence tying him to the crime, his recent publication of his new management-guru book "WE DON'T QUESTION THE SYSTEM" is one obvious tip off, as his written confession submitted to the New York Times, entitled "HOW I TAUGHT THAT PIGFUCKER A THING OR TWO".

The above picture was taken by a "wired" informant, just prior to his grisly death, when he seems to have questioned the system itself, rather than the fallible humans implimenting it.  The informant apparently was choked to death with two pounds of glitter, which had been shoved down his throat.

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