Intermittens: Better Late than Never Edition

[Cuddlefish]

Soooo... Yeah, two(?) summers ago, we had a meat-up, during which I required everyone to write a piece for a meat-up edition of Intermittens. Well, not only I am a douche for enforcing creative participation, but to top it off, I got lazy, and didn't do anything with the submissions, then misplaced them, lost to the winds of time yada yada yada.

Well, I found them. And, sure, this is hardly a proper Intermittens, but it's here in it's raw form ready for handling by the greasy, probing fingers of the public.

Enjoy. Or don't. Whichever you prefer.

My morning shirt

It was still before noon when bourbon was proposed.
This was not planned. Eve stepping out in a fine dress started it, and so EoC and I responded with collared shirtery. The additional layers of cotton twill proved too much for the humid environs, for a good, chilly New England spring had been replaced. The capracious weather leaving us feeling like the jolly green giants was squatting his humid taint over the land, sweltering us in his tropical choad. Like proper distinguished members of a southern society, we were doing nothing. Good food, lacadasical atttidue, and intellectual posturing amidst vulgarity and blasphemy were the main atractions thusfar.

Then mint jullips were suggested. We hadn't planned for bourbon, and the connecticut blue laws were going to make acquisition of this Sunday treat problematic. Border runs were proposed.

Casino buses passed. Their cabins full of geriatric gambing addicts. Customers due for a hotshot from the local dealers. The air conditioned cabins of these land crawlers were pipped with extra oxygen, sobbering and livening the moods of the passengers, long drunk of free drinks at the quarter slots. Released from the confines, they would fancy themselves sober, and be well into another state before the booze wouldcreep back in and the accidents begin. Another condition to thin the herd of it'sextraneous members. A sublte, malicous end to pissing away one's dotage and social security at a lass vegas hair folicle transplant.

Soon, soon, activity woud stir, and we'd get supplies to continue our northern southern gothic farce. A post regency play of taking ourselves too seriouly.

EoC mentioned how one may perform the spectacle of the "Bee Beard". Letting bees swarm to a caged queen across an expanse of bare flesh. I proposed a bee loincloth, but expressed horror at the critical failure. EoC and Eve agreed it would be something, and may be a hell of a fetish for the vibration.
I assured them you'd definitely get a buzz off of it, and was ordered off the porch.

It was following a lack of sleep and a long morning of bacon and driving that Blight and myself walked purposefully into a Connecticut liquor store. Our pace was made by no ordinary determination to buy beer but actually a particular difficulty in moving through humidity so thick it tasted like ice cream flavored with the sins of the nearby casinos. We did this shit for the gleeful demons who demanded malted beverage to slake a thirst primal, perverse, and acute. There was no direction to the type of beer so much as there was a repetitive qualifier: lots.

Blight and I made our way across an adequate selection discussing the intricacies of purchasing a drinkable choice without dropping enough cash to red flag ourselves as deeply pocketed criminals on every agency watch list in the state. The cooler stacked up cases of vile waste and overpriced swill alike but for a small spot on the top shelf catching our eyes as we exited carrying our weight in cardboard, glass, and booze. There were words that I could not comprehend, like a nightmare that feels real but defies description. Budweiser was one. A hated word. And something else.

The grocery team was across the parking lot so we rendezvoused in the blank bland aisles with Richter, Leln, and Torte. I stood there and I thought. They tossed quantities of food in a cart never meant to be so burdened. There was something wrong there that I could not shake. Blight was gone as well, his mind left behind in that cooler. We walked back.

Clamato. That was it. Budweiser and Clamato. With salt and lime. It was one of those comforting moments where we realize no, we are not mad, it is the world that is mad and this thought was mixed with the singular purpose of needing to buy this four pack of pure fucking absurdity. Oh, and another 30 rack because fuck it. The cashier saw us again and asked if we forgot something and I said "Yes, this." He confusedly scanned the can to find that they only rang up one at a time. Nobody ever bought an entire four pack of this. They weren't even prepared for such an eventuality.

Subjecting ourselves to a mixture of piss beer, tomato juice and clam juice was one of those things that was done with such gusto that before I knew it Cram and Richter were outside shaking their cans with vigor and unconcern. The tab clicked the concoction open and we sipped and we did not speak and we passed the can to the next and, unsurprisingly, it came rather quickly back.

It was at this time that another Discordian guest arrived. He was handed the can and drank deeply and he turned and sprayed that amount in a fine mist. Many described it as terrible. This is not untrue, it is terrible. It exists to be terrible. Being terrible is the only fucking thing this could ever be and as such it succeeded so gloriously that it might be one of the most impressive beers I've had the distinct honor of guzzling with a very intense self loathing.

I believe Cram said that he didn't dislike it at first, but with each successive sip he hated it more distinctly. It would explain why all but one can was abandoned entirely. My can. Because it had to be done. And Cram was wrong, here. With each successive sip I did not hate it more distinctly. Rather, with each successive sip I hated myself more distinctly. It is common to know regret following a long bit of excess revelry. It is not common to know it immediately and fully, and continue with that same act by your own free will. And for that, Budweiser & Clamato is a drinking experience like none other.

It's Not Attention Whoring, It's My Job


   I came to this fucking Discordian meatup weekend, and they made me write for them. What the fuck, right? (This is a segue.) Not 30 minutes ago I caused a bit of an epic car accident. Rather, I should say, my WMDs did. So, I'm really not supposed to talk about this with just anyone. Technically you're supposed to have clearance and some sort of plastic badge or American-whittled sticks, but shit, if I have to write about something then I'm telling the full truth of it. Exactly how it happened.
   Anyway, my WMDs. I know what you're thinking and I hate to have to tell you this, but it's actually far worse. These are Weapons of Mass Distraction. It's a well-known fact that they cause significantly more destruction than the other WMDs, but the name was already taken, and that's really neither here nor there (read: there's a lot of red tape). The point is, I have these really awesome things and I choose to use them as recklessly and irresponsibly as possible (without letting my mom find out. You know.).
   Frankly--I'm just going to say it--I don't think the accident was my fault. I was just leaning against the porch railing, letting my WMDs push together and hang out of my low cut dress. I leaned further forward, tossing my hair back and out of the way of my glistening face and chest. The WMDs heaved together like... two things that heave together, and as one of my dress straps slipped slowly off my shoulder, I dripped water down the front of my body to cool off a little. Definitely not to draw more attention or anything. I have an obligation to make the most of these babies while I have them, you understand. (Should they ever lose their luster, I am prepared to invest in some big shiny fake ones. Just so you know. I am totally prepared for that shit.) I was just being friendly, sharing them with the passing public. If they happened to lead to a minivan loaded with children swerving into an oncoming double-decker buss full of casino-to-casino-goers, well, I'm pretty sure Dimo or the drivers were to blame. At least the investigating police are too Distracted to put it all together. Just in case, it's probably time for my WMDs and me to move on.
   Shit, they didn't even get to see my nipple rings.

There's No Place Like Home

Such a simple word. It's a solid sounding word, a word that means "safe," that means "belonging," that means "wanted." It's a word everybody knows, but it means something different to everybody.

They're all wrong.

"Home" is just an illusion. Places aren't home, places don't care. Life turns, and a place you thought was home suddenly isn't any more. People change, or reveal themselves to have always been something you never thought they could be, and they're gone... or you wish they would be gone. Parents die, siblings drift away, friends can't be what you need them to be al the time, lovers betray...

There's no place like "home."

All we have is what's inside our own skulls, and most of us have no idea what that is most of the time. We define ourselves by what we do, where we live, who we love, but we don't know who we ARE. We live our lives pretending we know, or trying to make ourselves be something we're not in order to fit someone else's mold. We carve away parts that don't fit, or try to glue on new pieces, and we drive ourselves out of the only "home" we do have, ourselves.

Take some time to explore the place. You'll find places you never knew were there.

[Cuddlefish]

Frontisporch

City life looses the culture of the front porch. There's a certain entitled sloth to it, being in one's own assumed home, holding court over what is visible, bemused and at one's slack amidst the hustle of the rest of life. An easy superiority. "Youhave to work, to move to travel, but on this day, I do not." It's an easy thing to get used to, gazing out upon those working, setting a scene that does not suffer pointless interruption lightly. Foul, and flaccid, yet ornery locals pissing into the wind about whatever comes before their eyes. The day wears on, the heat of it comes and passes. The beers or whiskey sink lower in jugs and cans, and the temper goes from an enlivened novel buzz to a low throb of the prolonged drunk. Tempers grow stale. Previously jocular baiting becomes more earnest offensiveness, slurs against race, orientation, genetalia, and maternal prowess creep in. Where before these were small town folk genuinely glad to see each other, they are now reminded WHY they put so many acres in between each other in the first place. Oathes are thrown more thickly and readily. The postman comes, and the group glowers at him, fiending for a fresh victim to vent their annoyance at. That son-of-a-bitch across the way fires up his lawnmower, and earns a chorus of complaints for the pitch of noise he is producing. Nevermind the fucker with the nail gun, interrupting the afternoon with the sternutatic woody pops as he arranges a new set of stairs for his own resindences landing. The asshole who's been at the moonshine is now feeling the fury of the methanol, newly converted formic acid tinting his world beligerent as his optic nerves are burned away.
This is America, this is humanity, this is rural life, but this is something that no delusions of society, purpose of grandeur can avoid. It is the finding, and loosing of slack when slack looses sight and purpose.

You damn Northerners.

I need this yesterday, get on it quick, where's my blank?
Let me tell you, we don't operate that way in the south. We get to shit when we get to it. IT'S HOT and we're busy sippin lemonade on the porch and swatting at the killer butterflies.
I'll probably work on something for you while I'm driving. Since we don't deliberately try to KILL everyone around us with our vehicles down here the way those Massholes do up there.
Why bother with all that shit when we can be driving, texting, eating a burger, applying makeup, loading a shotgun, opening a beer, reading a book tractor manual and watching tv on the wee screen on the visor. Sure we get in a lot of wrecks, but we're usually only going 25mph so at best your insurance company will have to pay out $5.99 to replace your bumper after your $1000 deductible.

You assbags with your GO GO GO KILL KILL KILL! Your people are fucking NASTY mean. "Ey, the fuck you lookin at!" you turds have it back asswards.
All your wildlife is friendly and sweet. I felt like friggin Princess Aurora up there waiting for an owl to grab a coat and waltz with me while your people will trip you, push you down, glare through you, don't hold a door, Hello? What the FUCK is hello?!? You don't say that!

See we're ultra friendly to each other down here because EVERYTHING ELSE is trying to kill you. "Howdy neighbor. Ope, got a snake in your pants lemme get my shovel".
We have to help each other out cause if all the strangers get picked off by the 'dillo's, coons and gators then all you're left with is relatives and well... I'm sure you've seen the results of that kind of mess. (see "inbreeding")

I'll get your photos or stories or what-have-you when I'm able. Right now I have a nest of spiders to dispose of, kids to scare off my lawn, scorpions to pull out of my hair and I don't like the way this nest of hornets has been staring at me. I think they want my moonshine, and if you've ever heard the phrase "mad as a hornet" you ain't seen shit till you get these fuckers liquored up on white lightning.

SLOW THE FUCK DOWN,
Squid

Aesthetic Masochism
Nephew Twiddleton

You ever wonder why people like unlikable stuff? It's an odd behavior- we take delight in shitty movies and turn them into cult classics just because they're so bad that you have to watch them, more than once, and inflict them on your friends.

It's the same with music- songs that are so terrible you have to listen to them, get them stuck in your head, hum them as you walk down the street. People like bad art. There's a museum not far from my house dedicated to bad art.

Where does this aesthetic masochism come from? Why is there a small part of who we are that likes to be offended? There's a humor behind the feeling, but that doesn't explain the appreciation one can get from how poor quality a work is.

Perhaps this dysaesthetic compulsion is beneficial. Not just as a point of comparison for good stuff, but also to help us not take the good stuff too seriously- it's a fail safe for pretentiousness. Perhaps its not beneficial since it raises the bar for mediocrity in entertainment. Perhaps I'm over thinking something that just is. Maybe sometimes you just need extra cheese in your diet.

Three villagers sat in the center square, and began a discussion of the sudden realization that they were surrounded by Fucked Up Shit.

   "This Shit here is all Fucked Up!" said Gift-For-The-Obvious. "Just look! What a mess!" he proclaimed with hands in the air, akimbo.

   "Somebody ought to clean this all up, right now! All this Fucked Up Shit is violating my personal rights, and getting in my way!" said False-Sense-Of-Entitlement.

   "I agree," said Supporting-The-Status-Quo, sternly, "we must find who's to Blame for all of this Fucked Up Shit! That will give us a solution!"

   And, thus, the debate had began. Where to place the blame? How shall it be assigned, divided, and dealt? Should it be awarded to a person? A place? A thing? Could we not just blame it on the rain like Milli Vanilli, and be done with it?  The difficulties of the task of Blame Management were slowly becoming apparent to Gift-For-The-Obvious, False-Sense-Of-Entitlement and Supporting-The-Status-Quo.

   Hours become like days in moments of intensity, and none of the villagers could tell how much time had passed since the beginning of their quarrel. A small eternity? A momentary infinity? And as the smudges of time began to paint a picture, the three villagers were each beginning to see a different image.

   False-Sense-of-Entitlement felt that Supporting-The-Status-Quo was to Blame for all the Fucked Up Shit. Supporting-The-Status-Quo blamed all the Fucked Up Shit on Gift-For-The-Obvious. Gift-For-The-Obvious was pretty sure they were both dead-wrong. There, they came to an impasse. 

   At that very moment, a traveler named Won't-Eat-The-Menu passed by the three villagers, and couldn't help but to over hear their debate.

   "Look here!" said Won't-Eat-The-Menu, "I think I can help you. Why not place all the blame on me? I'm leaving town shortly, so with me gone, you three can get on with your lives."

   Gift-For-The-Obvious, False-Sense-Of-Entitlement and Supporting-The-Status-Quo looked at each other with shifty eyes, sensing a way out of their mess. They began to whisper among themselves.

   "What a burden to bear! It will crush him!" whispered Gift-For-The-Obvious to his two companions.

   ""Surely, we should drop all of the Blame on this unsuspecting traveler, lest we carry it ourselves!" False-Sense-Of-Entitlement proclaimed.

   "Indeed!" agreed Supporting-The-Status-Quo, "So, it is done! We shall place the blame on this traveler, by his request." They turned to the young man, "Young traveler, we shall grant your request. You are officially to Blame for all this Fucked Up Shit! Thank you for your help, now, kindly, GET THE FUCK OUT!"

   Won't-Eat-The-Menu nodded, gathered his packs, and walked off carrying the ultimate burden, light as free air.

   The three villagers, pleased with their trickery snickered and sneered.

   "How utterly stupid!" laughed Gift-For-The-Obvious.

   "I can't believe that spag took all the Blame! What an asshat!" chortled False-Sense-Of-Entitlement.

   "I know, right? What a maroon!" agreed Supporting-The-Status-Quo.

   And the three villagers laughed at the travelers apparent stupidity, and it took a full two and a half hours for them to realize that, despite the issue of Blame being resolved, all the Fucked Up Shit remained.
     

We are Discordia and we face a crisis.  Somewhere we created a society, one of pranks and creativity and, most importantly, ideas.  We made this and we said "We are finished.  What is next?"
   Some would say GASM, goals, projects.  And that may well be correct.  What better use of impressive minds and motivated people?  I sit where the fruits of such endeavors are strewn about on coffee tables and on toilet bowls and in breakfast nooks.  They are flipped leisurely through by new readers and old writers and they are brilliance.  But they are not the end, so we did this and we asked "What is next?"
   Some of us are legends, born of greatness and hyperbole and deed.  We fly down forlorn highways and cackle like loons and drink, smoke, fuck, and simply generally do ourselves to early graves.  And we regret not at all.  We play the parts of southern gentlemen and we distract motorists with cleavage and we ask aloud but to ourselves "What is next?"
   And some claim that this is it.  I was among them.  That building and intentional community is fruitless and doomed to fail.  We are prideful and wrathful creatures and inhibited by attempts to focus our diverse talents on a specific desire.  Here there is no "What is next?" because by becoming this Discordian society we've arrived.
   But there is an answer.  I say this walking through a house where a player plays his guitar and a cook prepares a meal, where brewers and fighters, lovely creators, travelers all converged.  People, and not better because better implies an end but greater because they strove for it.  I see Discordians and I ask myself "What is next?" and they tell me "Everything."

What Trip taught me about being an American
Nephew Twiddleton

Over the course of this meet-up, Triple Zero became an American citizen by sitting on a porch and whittling wood. Who knew that the citizenship process had that loophole? As a newly made American, he knew more about America than I did. Hell, he chose to be American- with me it was an accident of birth.

Since he's been able to study Americans in an objective way, he was able to teach one something important- that I have rights. He didn't elaborate on those rights at first, since, all he said was, "I'm an American. I have rights!" as he whittled out a very nice pair of chopsticks. I wanted to know more about these rights.

During another conversation over a cigarette with me and others, we were talking about pro-life protesters, and the grotesque signs of dead babies they like to hold up. Trip reasoned that if it is an American's right to assemble for a protest and hold up signs with distasteful pictures on them, why not go to a protest and also hold up distasteful signs? The example he used was the Westboro Baptist Church and showing up to one of their protests with a sign with goatse on it. The idea of it being that, if you look like you're one of the protesters, you end up making them all look bad by pushing them to an extreme.

Sounds like a good plan to me. Granted the only thing I can think of right now is a sign that says "This protest is dildoes" which in itself would be kinda fun. Hell, it's my First Amendment right.

[Cuddlefish]

Trip's "Incorrect Numbers"



Trip's "Incorrect Numbers: Incorrect Version"

[Cuddlefish]

Having an issue attributing an author to the quotes for some reason. Trying to fix that now, but if all else fails, I'll just list the authors in the order they appear.

[LMNO]

These are pretty cool, man. I'm sorry I missed the meat up.

[Cuddlefish]

Okay, so, lessee here... Quote attribution is being a cunt, so here you go:

1: Richter
2: Eater of Clowns
3: Eve
4: Luna
5:Richter
6: Squid
7: Twid
8: Dimo
9: Eater of Clowns
10: Twid

[Eater of Clowns]

I know I gave you shit for pushing us to write some stuff within a few days, but I'm glad you did it.

And I know I gave you more shit for not putting it all up after aforementioned pushing, but I'm really glad you did it.

I never actually saw anyone else's, I don't think, and I'd completely forgotten my non-Budweiser/Clamato one.  It's a blast going through them again.  Man, what a great weekend.  Thanks, Dimo.

[Cuddlefish]

I know I gave you shit for pushing us to write some stuff within a few days, but I'm glad you did it.

And I know I gave you more shit for not putting it all up after aforementioned pushing, but I'm really glad you did it.

I never actually saw anyone else's, I don't think, and I'd completely forgotten my non-Budweiser/Clamato one.  It's a blast going through them again.  Man, what a great weekend.  Thanks, Dimo.

Dude, your exposition on clamato is truly one of the greatest things I've ever read.

[Eater of Clowns]

I know I gave you shit for pushing us to write some stuff within a few days, but I'm glad you did it.

And I know I gave you more shit for not putting it all up after aforementioned pushing, but I'm really glad you did it.

I never actually saw anyone else's, I don't think, and I'd completely forgotten my non-Budweiser/Clamato one.  It's a blast going through them again.  Man, what a great weekend.  Thanks, Dimo.

Dude, your exposition on clamato is truly one of the greatest things I've ever read.

I'll be honest, it might be one of my own favorite things I've written.  I need to relive that weekend from a different perspective.  There was so much going on, so many damn people and interesting things happening at any one moment that I never caught any more than a fraction of it.  While I was out with Eve and Leln and the Squids being driven insane by the casino, you guys were back playing Not Under My Roof.  While we were out at the winery, I have no idea what the rest of the maniacs were doing (with the exception of Diddlertown, who was doing his damnedest to give himself heat stroke).

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

Yay!

[Placid Dingo]

I want this IM to happen. If nobody else steps up to Edit it into a good copy, I'll do it but editing etc isn't my strong point.

I'm really just offering to try to push someone else into saying 'I'll put it together'.

[Q. G. Pennyworth]

What format are intermittens supposed to be in? I could possibly sneak this in when I'm supposed to be doing brain crushing works.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

What format are intermittens supposed to be in? I could possibly sneak this in when I'm supposed to be doing brain crushing works.

A magaziney-looking .pdf is what most people have done so far, but I don't think there's really a prescribed format or anything.

[Richter]

If we had any kind of required formating we would deserve whatever happened to us.  A slap happy iconoclast deciding that titles, cover, or punctuation were optional would be rightly decried though.

[Eater of Clowns]

Horror story style.

In May of 2011 18 Discordians descended on a haunted house in Connecticut...

only 18 survived.

INTERMITTENS - THE MEATUP