Show Posts

This section allows you to view all posts made by this member. Note that you can only see posts made in areas you currently have access to.

Topics - The Good Reverend Roger

Pages: 1 2 [3] 4 5 6 ... 113
Apple Talk / Hubble Telescope offline. No plans to repair.
« on: September 14, 2016, 04:47:04 am »

Apple Talk / High Altitude Hell, #10: Ron and Me
« on: August 20, 2016, 03:51:16 am »
It was a long and productive day.  I had spent most of it giving our junior electrician some on-the-job remedial training.  Three problems, two of which took less time to repair than to explain, and one absolute bastard of a problem in the solar telescope.  The solar telescope is, more or less, a mammoth computer using only technology available in 1958.  You can see my problem, here; it was so low tech, it took five minutes to walk from one component in the circuit to another, and also involved repeatedly going up and down a three hundred foot ladder.  By the end of the day, I was a winded, sweaty hot mess.

But then the day ended and everyone went home.  Well, mostly everyone.  I’m here overnight, doing some thermography with Ron (one of the senior scientists of the old school, with thinning hair and a truly glorious Einstein mustache).  Which means I am on the mountain at night.  More to the point, I was here for the opening.

The opening is one of the truly magnificent things about this place.  An hour after sunset, the domes begin to wake up, like a pack of hung over R2D2s.  There are twenty-two domes, and only two of them have people in them tonight…All of them are at least partially automated.  So all at once – because on-sky time is priceless and irreplaceable – the shutters on the domes slowly open, and begin to track whatever targets they have been assigned to observe.

Ron and I take every chance we can to stay up here to stand at the base of the four meter dome, watching machines that don’t really need us go about their business.  We always do this together, because we both understand that watching this alone carries a very real risk of driving you mad.

Then the rounds of IR photography, walking around the inside of the opened four meter dome…Which under a full moon resembles nothing less than a cathedral, with a roof one hundred and twelve feet over your head, the full moon shining down through the shutter, and the very distant city lights barely visible through the louvers that are spaced around the floor level of the control room floor.  The two Berkeley astronomers are in the belly of the structure, testing the DESI prototype, so the thermal image of the telescope itself looks like a flare on an oil rig, with a blindingly white and blue spot in the middle – the targeting camera – cooled to -55 centigrade with liquid nitrogen.

You can see how this invariably becomes a religion for people who work here.

But I will flee the mountain before dawn, before it all shuts down for the day.  Watching the shutters close and the domes stop their slow rotation is the saddest thing in the world.  It is as if you are alone in the world save for these great machines…And now they too are dying on you, leaving you at the mercy of the endless primate hordes.

So then it will be a 90 minute drive, down into the sickeningly thick atmosphere, into the heat, on a deserted road that will eventually go up through Twin Peaks Pass, and then to bed.  Until the next time.

Apple Talk / High Altitude Hell, part 9: I got nothing.
« on: August 11, 2016, 10:05:20 pm »
So, next week is the Kitt Peak Time Trials, the annual bicycle race UP the mountain.  12 miles at an 8-10 degree grade.  It is worth noting that we do not close the road to vehicular traffic for this, and also that we all drive like Steve McQueen (though it many cases it isn't intentional, it just happens that way).  There will be a couple of hundred bicyclists involved, and I cannot be bothered to give a shit about any of them.  This is pure stupidity, and I do not feel that should be rewarded.  Did I mention it's been non-stop thunderstorms for the last 2 weeks?  I admit that I am not opposed to sitting on the 4 meter dome wall and watching idiots in spandex pants get blasted by whatever God is in charge this week.

But that's not what this rant is about.  This rant is about the decline in the quality of the coffee in the mess hall.  They have gone from making it in delicious 5 gallon batches of crunchy goodness to running a hot water line into the back of a machine that contains a gallon of concentrated coffee sludge which then drops unevenly mixed coffee into your cup.  It might be see-through church coffee, or it might be the coffee equivalent of eating an entire bar of unsweetened baker's chocolate. 

This has not improved my mood.

You can do a lot of things to my quality of life, and I will probably ignore them.  Spy on me with drones?  That's your misfortune.  Wiretap me?  Okay, but you might want to check to make sure I'm not prank-calling the receptionist at whatever agency it is in which you work.  Tell me that my e-cig counts as a real cigarette for the purposes of where I can use it?  I'll just ignore you.  But fucking with a man's coffee is wrong.  It's low.

So while you're painfully riding your titanium racing bike up the horrible mountain road, if you see a bearded freak standing behind a giant boulder with a seven-foot pry bar, don't blame me.    It's the kitchen's fault.  I'm just trying to be all I can be.  I'm just trying to state my case.  I'm just trying to address the immoral and unethical things that have been done to me in the name of economy.

Or Kill Me.

Techmology and Scientism / Futurism up for discussion.
« on: July 28, 2016, 05:18:52 pm »
This is in response to the weird shit that we've just witnessed.  Anyone who wants to contribute is more than welcome to do so.

Futurism has boiled itself down into two basic groups (leaving aside the wild-eyed dreamers, “transhumanists”, and flat-out charlatans.)

First, you have your urbanists.  This includes urban designers, economists (who never sleep at all), ecologists, process/systems engineers, neurology types, medical doctors, that sort of thing.  They worry about stuff like how many liters of water have to be moved out of a city to keep it from drowning in its own shit.  Hurricane Sandy completely overwhelmed the pumps for all 5 boroughs, but they had the shit flowing in the right direction 13 hours later, because some bright folks had sat down ahead of time and said “what if?” 

Urbanists study cities the same way a good oncologist studies you as a patient.  Look for what’s there, but also look for what is inferred to exist by what isn’t there.   Urbanists require a huge amount of multi-discipline training to be effective…Looking back to the shit question, you need knowledge of fluid dynamics, mechanical knowledge of pipes and pumps, and also what storm surges you might expect in a given area.  They tend to obsess over data, to the exclusion of what’s actually going on.

Strategic forecasters, on the other hand, are the guys who obsess about the newest and best ways to put a hurting on someone.  They come up with things like Swarm/AC drones and stoop targeting, stratelites, and other goodies.  This requires slightly less training, but also requires having a mind full of angry wasps and broken hypodermic needles. 

Swarm/AC.  You have one medium drone that does all kinds of processing, using things like DESI and bog-standard facial recognition software.  It selects, for example, the ring leaders in a protest, mostly by the way they walk (or stand still) in the crowd.  It then sends this info to police, etc.  Or maybe it doesn’t.  Maybe it sends it to stoop.

Stoop.  Picture a cloud of drones shaped like 10 penny nails, with a little rotor on the blunt end and a disposable fuel & computer packet on the sharp end.  It receives the signal from Swarm/AT, and aims at the ringleader.  The packet and rotors drop off, and the tiny explosive in the flat end drives the drone down into the head of the victim.  Where it also explodes.

It’s worth mentioning that strategic forecasters are absolute solutionists.

It may seem like you can pick out the white hats from the black hats by which form of futurism they embrace, but this isn’t the case.  ISIS mostly uses an informal kind of urbanism to get their funnier ideas.  They know that cities are our “safe spaces”, so most of what they do is aimed at city dwellers.  Including the beheading thing, which Cain could describe better than I can, in terms of psychological impact.

It’s also worth mentioning that these people do not work for free.  They in fact have a huge price tag, because the educational requirements are immense. 


Normally, I don't like to post a link with no argument, but in this case the article says it all. 

Apple Talk / Your Moment of Hate
« on: July 12, 2016, 08:24:03 pm »
I was born rotten, of this I am assured by relatives.  Nasty little bugger, and now amount of talking or spanking would drum civilization through my thick skull.  In short, a typical child in the time and place where I grew up.  There was no conflict, I was what I was.

The little bastard grew up into a monster by age 17 or so, and stayed gleefully in that condition for another 17 years.  And that's when I fucked up.  At age 34, I suddenly developed an urge to be liked.  Never mind that I lacked the skills to be liked, or the social filters that would allow me to fake those skills, I had just decided that I wanted to be approved of.  The only thing that monsters do that popular humans do is tell tales.  Just something to while away the hours between patrols or whatever else had to be done.

So it's been 13 years of awkwardness.  I can imagine that Charley's Kitchen had to be cringe-worthy.  I could feel it at the time, I just couldn't do anything to change it.  And that's not even counting Jenne (EB&G Jenn, not my wife), Charley, Alty, and others that one day decided that I could not be tolerated, for reasons that were never made clear...Or, for that matter, people who seem to like you enough, but not enough to actually respond to you.

But then you get to see a sliver of your own, personal future, and you ask yourself "Why the fuck did I want these knob ends to like me again?"  Why do I give a shit what humans think of me?  Why do I try to be something I'm not when other people are around?"  Or even, "Why was a face-to-face condescending sneer allowed to go unanswered in the appropriate, time-honored manner?"

I'm fucking tired of humans.  Outside of my immediate family, two friends whom I know have my back, and Cain (because he seems to have a keen understanding of what makes me tick, and seems interested), the rest of the species can just stagger off into its glorious, over-heated future without me.  Because let's face facts: You never really liked me anyway, and - from your point of view - there's probably good reason for that.  But, you know, fuck you anyway.

That's it.  Insert clever tag line.

Apple Talk / A Very PD 4th of July
« on: July 04, 2016, 06:22:59 am »
I had screamed myself hoarse, but LMNO wouldn't stop igniting the damn giraffes.  His wife likes them better that way, and there's nothing he won't do for her.  But that doesn't mean he had to GRIN like that while he did it.  EoC was critiquing his style, like he was bowling or some shit, and Richter was bellowing the national anthem in the style of Roseanne Barr at the superbowl.

This is exactly why I've started abusing drugs again, you know.

queen Gogira side-stepped a flaming giraffe, her camera clicking rapid fire.  In black and white, of course.  we've talked about this.  Everything is worse in black and white, and there's nothing she likes better than making shit worse.

Paesor and Signora Paesor were haw-hawing about our quaint American customs when a giraffe veered at them and detonated.  Take that, you Caribbean swine!  Jesus isn't taking your shit today.

Then, as if it were previously arranged, the giraffes started exploding.  Richter reached into the window of his car and turned the stereo up.  It was the 1812 Overture, naturally.  Tadada da da DA da da *BOOM*, one less giraffa camelopardalis uglying up the joint.

Cain had spent the entire time hanging a pinata.  A special pinata.  A neighborhood kid nailed it on his 3rd or 4th swing, and Nigel Farage's dismembered body fell out.  won't THAT kid have tales to tell his grandchildren?   From the attic, presumably.

More as events develop.  Feel free to add your own observations.

Most of you know LMNO.  He’s that Big Gay Cowboy that rides the plains, serenading his wife by playing the drum solo to I want Candy.  It’s always Saturday Night™, and if you can’t dance for shit, he isn’t concerned.  The Lady don’t mind.  And before the end of each episode, he deals with the banditos and great white sharks, his sequin shirt glittering as he smiles and deals death though his pearl-handled revolvers.

But that’s in Montana.  Things are reasonable sane there…Unlike, say, West Texas.  For in West Texas, among other things, dwells the anti-LMNO.  He’s the mean cattle rancher from the Prude Ranch, out to shut down those lousy sodbusters.  The anti-LMNO is that greatest of sinners:  A man who can dance, but won’t.  He is Stop That.  He is Get Back to Work.  He is We Need You in For a Full Day This Saturday or don’t bother coming in on Monday.

He worries about Gay folks doing their thing, and whom is in which bathroom.  He does not approve of Saturday Night™.  It’s frivolous, and causes people to stop thinking about important things:  Patriotism.  God.  Mom & Apple Pie.  If he knew Bearforce1 existed, he’d have them all killed.  He is unsure if Conway Twitty is dangerous to our youth, and doesn’t believe in taking chances.

So what DOES the anti-LMNO do?  Why, he externalizes his core competencies.  By which I mean, he raises cattle and sends them off to be slaughtered.  This is, after all, why ranches exist.  It is their purpose, their function.  Everything else is a distraction and should be avoided, though if the hands are feeling very bored, he might allow one of them to play the harmonica at night.  As long as that person doesn’t know how to actually play it well.  Or at all.

They are Team Weak Coffee, and if they wanted music, they’d buy an iPod.

Legend has it that the two LMNOs will one day meet.  What happens then is anyone’s guess.  They might mutually annihilate like matter and antimatter.  They might fight to the death.  The might have one of those horribly dangerous and destructive Charleston dance-offs.  Nobody knows. 

And if you think about it, none of the possibilities matter.  If you jump off of a cliff, is it worse to land on jagged rocks, or worse to land in molten lava?  It doesn’t matter, because dude, you just jumped off of a cliff.

Or Kill Me.

Apple Talk / High Altitude Hell #7: The Texas Thing, in Photos.
« on: June 19, 2016, 03:58:43 am »
So, 9 hours of driving through the desert, from Tucson to west Texas.  Shortly after we passed through the ruined and abandoned town of Victoria, we came across random desert Prada.

I have no fucking idea, so don't ask.

Driving down county 555, we found the anti-LMNO.

HET dome.  where the sex is.

Air bearing plenum, as I mentioned earlier.

Part of the mirror lab.  More later.


Airlock being prepped for Bethany and I.

I learned 3 things that you never say to Bethany in an airlock.  No matter how bored you get.

1.  You ever get one of those sweatballs running down the crack of your ass, but you can't do anything because you're in a Michelin Man pressure suit?  Because that's a thing.  As we speak.

2.  I can hear you farting over the intercom.

3.  Can you hear me farting?  Because that's like a lazy man's commo check.

(It's worth mentioning that even in a pressure suit, you fart non-stop when pumping down to, say, 4 Pascals of pressure)

Then she threatened to cut my suit with her wire cutters, which I felt was unreasonable escalation.

Then the HET lens, above the 91 FUCKING MIRRORS:

Calibration Telescope, pic 1

Cal scope, pic 2

HET catwalk

"The Mangler", 1940 telescope, still useful for calibrating the HET.

As for what's going on with all of this, that's next installment.  But it's like the Manhattan Project and the Apollo Program added together while you bugger congress in broad daylight.  It's fucking amazing.

(There will of course be more odd behavior, but God's Toilet has run dry of revelations.)

I work in the capitol of anachronisms.  We explore the stars with impossibly futuristic instruments that are controlled by 1990s Sparx workstations, programmed in Fourth, in 60 year old buildings on land that has belonged to The Nation at least a thousand years.  Time means nothing on the mountain.

Below, you scurry in your motorcars and your steam trains, you clog the highways with your hybrid driverless cars and high speed rail; you darken the skies with your blimps and your suborbital shuttles…All depending which side of the mountain from which I am observing.

LMNO relaxes with his beautiful wife, contentedly forgetting everything that happened at the office.  This Saturday night, they’re going dancing.  Life is pretty damn good, if you don’t let the bastards bog you down.

Up here, the DESI and STARSHADE projects move forward.  58 years of accumulated knowledge, all coming together.  We can smell the stars from here, we’re so close that we can spit to Rigel.  The fabric of the universe is our canvass.  We can do anything, anything at all, given funding and enough skilled personnel.

Payne is dead in 99.9995% of all universes, and just keeps popping back up in the other .0005.  Richter refined his art to a point the size of the Planck Constant.  Faust gets an upgrade from the server and staggers out into daylight to preach the word.  Trivial can’t exist in your reality, so calm the fuck down.  You can trust me on this, I’m not like the others.

Somewhere else, I’Itoy has woken up because those crazy foreigners are finally doing something interesting for once.  I am not the only one to realize this.  The Odham are skittish, and fuck if they’re going to talk to ME about it.  I can’t blame them, I am not one of them, and this is definitely family business.   

President Television learns to stop worrying; he is free.  P3NT realizes that there’s really no reason to continue being completely human anymore.  Queen Gogira is trying to tell you that there’s a perfectly good universe right next door, but you’re too busy staring in horror at this one.

Everything is changing, and I alone have survived to tell thee.

Apple Talk / High Altitude Hell, part 5
« on: June 13, 2016, 05:47:33 pm »
Lighting flashed nearby, startling me so badly that I almost fell off of the rock I was sitting on.  It was pouring rain but I had planned for that and was in a lean-to made with an old army poncho liner and some elastic tie-downs.  I shrugged, and woofed up the cactus I had eaten.

Now, it is important to understand that everything that follows was driven by that cactus.  Because when the lightning flashed again, the world went split-screen, and I was shown many things.

Behold America; a beast with 327 million heads, rolling over the landscape, absorbing everything it touches, and crapping out homogenous strip malls and casinos and LED billboards.  The beast sends its teenagers out with rifles when foreigners or malcontents object to being assimilated.  We are the Borg, except without the leather bondage gear.

 The lightning flashed again, and for a split second I could see posterity watching me:  A starveling crowd of Anne Franks, staring at me from across the lake.

Isaac wrote the calculus, giving us the language of the gods.  The operating code of the universe, which he set down on paper in between bouts of writing vicious religious tracks, and bashing on Hook, whom he hated as a rival.  Isaac was a very good hater.  Albert was not a hater, but he took Isaac’s work and told us all some very important things.  The most important was “matter tells space how to bend, and space tells matter how to move”.  Most people took Albert’s work as a collection of Thou Shall Nots, but that is stupid and wrong.   Uncle Albert just showed us a framework of how things couldn’t be done.  It was up to us to infer solutions by looking at the gaps in Albert’s framework.

Despite the temperature falling due to the unceasing rainstorm, I was sweating heavily.  I could no longer see the Anne Franks.  Were they walking around the lake toward me?  Was I to pay for America’s refusal to grant that brilliant child asylum?  They/she looked pretty damn hungry.

America thinks of itself as a republic, but it has always been an empire.  It was always intended to be an empire.  The doctrine of manifest destiny is as clear a statement of intent as anyone could ever ask for.  People were already living here, but The Beast knew how to deal with that.  Sicken them with alcohol and smallpox and kill all the buffalo.  Pretty soon the indigenous folk are formed into neat blocks of tofu, slowly decaying on the reservation.  I’Itoy watched all of this, I think, but his followers had all been told to worship another God, one that lived way the hell over in Rome.  He could do nothing; nobody had asked him to help.

Lightning flashed again, and the Anne Franks were all around my lean-to, staring at me.  They are the studio audience.  The laugh track was unbearable.  Please clap.  No, wait, please for the love of God, don’t clap.  Go away.  I wasn’t even born when they killed you.

Some astronomers and physicists now understand that the holes in Albert’s framework are loopholes in reality.  They know a Gordian Knot when they see one, and if they can’t do what they want because the universe won’t let them, they’ll just bugger off into some other universe to achieve their goals.  If reality won’t bend, get a new reality.  Others think that the above scientists are hunting snarks.  The universe is what it is, and is all that exists.   I tend to believe that the latter group are afraid of the idea, both because it sets everything we know on its ear, and also because where there are snarks, there might also be boojums.  Some of those boojums involve the fear of ridicule, and some might be a vague idea that these other universes might be really, really bad for us.

“The most wonderful thing I can think of,” the Anne Franks said, “Is that you never have to wait before doing good in the name of humanity.”  They continue staring, and it occurs to me that I haven’t actually done a lot of good.  No, I was for most of my life a perfect example of The Beast.  I would of course decry How Awful It All Was, but you can’t lie to Ann Frank…For when evil men proposed to do evil things, I stood by, having found no goodness inside me.  Instead there was only mischief and a terrible mirth.

Having consumed the North American tribes, The Beast looked outward.  A number of tiny wars followed, mostly in the name of Standard Oil and United Fruit.  Then a big war came along.  A different beast, which threatened our hegemony.  The world burned for a few years.  And then there was The Bomb.  The dangerous thing about the bomb wasn’t the destructive capacity of the devices themselves, or even the threat of extinction via nuclear warfare.  No, the bomb instead vaporized doubt.  Before the bomb, we felt that we could do anything.  After the bomb, we KNEW we could do anything.

Anne Frank looks at me.  “You are sick,” she says, “You have a ball of hatred and bitterness in your guts.  If you don’t get rid of it, it will poison you and you will die.”  Who knows?  She might even be right…But I am what I am.  I say so.
“Nonsense,” she continues, “Everyone can change.  Your reality tunnel is a storehouse of petty slights, betrayals both real and perceived, and old horrors from years gone by.”  She gave a shy smile.  “All you have to do is turn around and walk back out of that particular tunnel.”

The Beast began to drive the scientists, and the curve of knowledge increased and increased until it is now damn near vertical.  The Beast has realized, at an unconscious level, that it has fouled its own nest and had damn well better find another one.  But something strange is also happening.  The Beast remains a giant stupid pile of evil, but the people are changing, largely if not entirely due to the very same technology.  Jesus hasn’t saved us, so we’d better damn well do it ourselves.

“But not you,” Anne Frank says, “You refuse to change.”  I tried to explain.  I tried to tell her how I CAN’T just walk away from what I consider to be righteous gripes…But she was gone.  I felt a pang of regret as I felt the cactus losing its hold on me.  What if she was right?

Balls.  I get up and shamble toward the truck, laughing at the very idea.  I am the Good Reverend Roger.  Redemption is not on the table.. 

It occurred to me as I got in the truck that I’Itoy hadn’t made an appearance, despite loads of chemical assistance to make sure that I might at least think it would happen.  How very strange.

Apple Talk / High Altitude Hell, part 4
« on: June 09, 2016, 09:05:03 pm »
Apparently, only I’Itoi is allowed to shit in his toilet.  And I am to stop spelling his name wrong.  This is what He told me…Or, perhaps, what Merck told me via heroic doses of Lorazapam.  I spend a lot of time down at the lake, 1039 feet below my office.  My Odham employees just shake their heads.  Another white boy who made the mistake of listening to a God with a 400 year grudge, going all to pieces.

But why not?  Listening to white folks hasn’t exactly been good for me.  They snarl and they babble and they say nothing at all, while my blood pressure makes my eyes bulge out.  They put small bombs in Target bathrooms, which is totally not terrorism, but – as stated by two different news outlets – a “criticism”.

This is the church, this is the steeple, get out of line and we’ll kill all of You People.

They argue over whether it’s better to elect an outright Nazi to the office of the presidency, if that’s what it takes to show how upset they are that democracy means the winner is selected by the MOST votes, not THEIR vote.  Their sense of exceptionalism has been offended, and they can’t even blame a brown person (but they will anyway).

Gods have never understood why people get SO upset when they are given what they ask for.  This is to them both puzzling and offensive, and is exactly why they hardly ever answer the phone anymore.

I’Itoi, however, is a “big brother” god, not an “all father” god.  He understands that we’re going through a phase, and that we’ll get over it in another hundred thousand years or so.  Even if he is selfish about his bathroom.  But then again, so was MY brother when we were teenagers.  Even after what we did to his people, he doesn’t want to destroy us.  He just wants to fuck us up real bad.

Interstellar travel research is smiled upon.  Get in your rocket ships and go away, whitey.  Then one day, WE will come looking for YOU.  Father Kino?  Who the fuck was HE?

I am all about this.  I am all about a god that brays his laughter in your face when you’re dumb enough to believe him.  I am NOT claiming to be a shaman or anything like that; I am unqualified for many reasons, the least of which being that I know almost nothing about Odham culture or religion.  Nor would I want to be one if I could.  But if he’s going to hand out bad advice and prophecies of doom, who the fuck am I to “close my ears”?  I remember how Moses wound up. 

Besides, this is more of a Book of Job thing.  I walk upon the Earth and about it.  I am The Good Reverend Roger, and if you see me coming, bubba, you better run.

Or Kill Me.   

Apple Talk / High Altitude Hell, part 3
« on: June 09, 2016, 05:20:50 pm »
The world is getting pretty dark and weird again.  Neither primary is over, but the candidates have been chosen.  Ugliness and failure dog our steps in all of our endeavors as a nation, despite the fact that there’s nothing wrong now that wasn’t wrong two years ago.  Even people who hate Obama fear the end of his presidency, because when he goes, sanity goes with him.  The house of representatives is addicted to him, as is Fox News.  He is their drug, and they don’t know what they’ll do with themselves when he’s gone.

The Bernie bots are now totally out of control, going into frenzies every time Trump comes into town.  One time they got so excited, they attacked each other.  Clinton smiles like she grew up in Innsmouth, and coos to the Sanders fans, waiting for them to come join the fold.  Meanwhile, the Nazi Cheetoh gets weirder and nastier when he should be moving to the center.  He masturbates on live television during interviews, yanking his ancient penis until nothing comes out but bloody foam.  It’s gotten so bad that Lyndsey Graham has threatened to change parties.

This comes to no surprise to me, as I can gaze into Lltoy’s toilet and see it all coming.    I have taken to chemical assistance to get me through that awful business.  I am armed with brain-smashing pharmaceuticals that will keep the Manitou away, or whatever it is that these Southwestern natives use as hitmen.

Cain will move back to Australia, to teach people in Melbourne how to speak English.  They will reject his preaching and devour him like Captain Cook, but the joke will be on them, as they will ingest fatal levels of British food that he has been accumulating in his arteries.

I’ve got snakes made out of smoke with obsidian axes to the South, just waiting for their moment.  The mighty whitey is staggering under the load of his own entitlement, and Atzlan has learned to be patient.  When the day comes, there will be hard reckoning in Tempe and Orange County, and none of us will miss them.

Paesior and Signor Paesior will spawn a new breed of Kiwi, and New Zealand will become a place of dread that not even the Deep Ones will mess with.   Mightly Cthulu is in his house in R’ley, with the doors locked and dead-bolted, one tentacle on his life alert pendant and another on his smartphone.  He will roar in fear, but the police will not save him.

This is what we’ve waited for – at least what we say we’ve waited for.  This is the Face of Chaos.  This is the post-American century, this is the new millennium, and ain’t no parking on the dance floor, bubba.

Angela will preside over the San Diego Museum, and those that touch the exhibits will be brought to her, never to be seen again. There really is no choice, in an age where Texans break fingers off of statues in Florence, Italy, because they are special snowflakes and they just had to handle the merchandise.  Skulls will line the marble steps, as a warning to the others.

Praying will do no good.  No self-respecting God would drag us out of this mess, because we DEMANDED it.  We lined up in front of the carnival barkers and PAID for it.  And Gods, being smart fellas, won’t interfere with monkeys in rut.  This is not their first barbeque, and they know we’d just fuck it all up again.   Remember the golden calf?  Neither do I.

Cramulus gets diabetes III, and has to have amputations.  They slice a little more off each time, like deli meat, until he is kidnapped by Los Angles thugs for use in nugget porn.  He is not heard to complain, given that he costars with what’s left of Chloe Kardashian, who by that date is nothing more than a pair of enormous breasts attached to silicon lips by nerve ganglia.

Whether you want to admit it or not, these are the signs of our times.  They are written out clearly in every billboard.  They are read aloud to us on commercial breaks from Preacher.  They are in the stains of bus seats and carried on the wind on the farts of the WalMart people. 

Ignore them at your peril.

Or Kill Me.

Apple Talk / High Altitude Hell, part 2
« on: June 08, 2016, 07:04:37 pm »
This mountain is wrong.  Not bad, just wrong.  We are just North of Baboquivari (pronounced boe-bah-hee-vray), where the Llttoy (ee-toy), the Tohono O’odham God lives.  On our mountain, we have his “punch bowl”, or so The Nation tells us.

But it doesn’t look like a punchbowl.  No.  I don’t even think the ancient Nation drank punch.  I think it looks like a toilet bowl.  The Nation, however, says that if you look into the lake at the bottom of the canyon, you can see visions.  Bear in mind that their religious beliefs dictate that Llttoy sent white people to them so they’d have someone to play jokes on.

However, the visions thing is true, even if I am basically staring into God’s toilet bowl (pffft.  I live in Tucson.  Impress me.)  And I don’t even need drugs, thought that won’t necessarily stop me, either, because doing it straight is hard on the nerves.

LMNO, in a fit of prophecy, is holding his briefcase tightly against his chest.  He’s older, and his hairline has receded.  He hasn’t been out to the GAY BAR in longer than he can remember.  He starts to mumble to himself…Not like a crazy man, just plumb wore out.  “I can be anything I want to be.”

Things don’t look good for whitey.  Things in fact look really bad.  The snake is eating itself from the tail up.  Bad omens, filthy tales of failure as the best possible outcome.  It’s worth mentioning that there isn’t a single coyote on the mountain, but God damn those ravens are huge.  Bigger than the biggest parrots I’ve ever seen.  They are cheeky, and absolutely unafraid of men.

Junkenstein got the contract of his life.  He is to demolish the constitutional monarchy, all the way down to the House of Commons; Lord Protector Cameron is paying a pretty coin.  And it’s not as if Junkie has any sort of loyalty to his fellow subjects.  They were dumb, and now they will get exactly what they asked for.

It’s kind of like the ghost dance, but the white devil is doing it to himself.  And herself.  Posterity is a cattle car full of emaciated corpses, watching the play unfold.  They do not clap.  Please clap.

Queen Gogira and her friends man the barricades, as the newly-formed Morality Brigades™ march towards them, stun batons clashing on shields.  She clutches her can of oven cleaner, determined to give at least one of them a farewell present that he’s never going to forget, before they haul her down off of the improvised roadblock.  Remember how fun the FIRST pride parade was?  Well, this is the LAST parade, and it’s going to be a riot.

I’d tell you to pray, but it wouldn’t do any good.  You earned this.  You in fact stood on the roof with your underwear on your head and DEMANDED it.  And now it has arrived…And so has the invoice.

More later.  My fingers feel like tiny sausages and typing is a chore.  And it’s lunch time, so I’m off to the lake.

Or Kill Me.

Apple Talk / The Elephant in the Living Room, part 4
« on: May 17, 2016, 06:37:03 pm »
You will not be saved by Bernie or Bust.  You will not be saved by making America great again.  You will not be saved by Hillary Clinton, Debbie Wasserman-Schultz, Jill Stein or Whichever whacko they have running for the libertarian party.

The ones that might be able to save us know enough about the system that they won't bother.  The other clowns, fools, and cheap hucksters are looking at the situation and seeing what they want to see, and we know how that ends up.

You will not be saved by single-payer health care or overturning Roe v Wade.  It may take a village to raise a child, but the village is poor as dirt and the kids are all on meth.  Quantitative easing didn't work on the economy, so let's apply it to student debt.  Everyone should vote, but the delegates don't care.  You will not be saved by the free market, because the free market doesn't exist and never will.

All of these ideas will fail because they run counter to two million years of monkey programming.

You will not be saved by the impossible drive, or the "poof, you're there" drive.  You will not be saved by 800 billion "Earth-like" planets in the Milky Way.  "Earth-like" isn't "Earth", even if we CAN get there, and just one tiny factor of an alien ecology could doom any number of colonists, unless you had time to do it right, and time is the one thing we do not have and cannot buy with our wealth.  You will not be saved by Mars, because Mars is a death trap and living like a mole on another planet isn't "surviving".  In any case, you and I won't be going, anyway.

There's nowhere to run.  7.5 billion primates gotta take a shit.  Here it comes.

You will not be saved by Jesus, because that's the wrong kind of saving, and it's probably the wrong kind of Jesus, anyway.  You will not be saved by Yahweh, Illtoy, Buddha, Allah, or Vishnu.

What made you think that was even on their agenda?

In short, you will not be saved, so relax; It's only slapstick.

So while you huddle among your possessions, waiting in terror for the day the lights go out and the faucet stops running and things get just a wee bit out of hand, remember the words that I - your spiritual adviser - told you, lo these many moons ago, and just dance like hell.  Do the Lindy when Trump takes office.  Do the Twist when we break off relations with everyone.  Do the Charleston in the smoking ruins, to the beat of the car alarms and the screams of the horribly burned.  Do the Running Man as you are shot for dinner by rogue remnants of the national guard.

This is, obviously, not a good era for people who aren't serious about having a good time.

Or Kill Me.

Pages: 1 2 [3] 4 5 6 ... 113