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okay, so i'm working on this book....a few books, actually...

but this one in particular...

anyways, here's a short chapter from the book...

the way it's set up is a bunch of inmates at an asylum for the criminally
insane are trading stories, so there's a lot of short stories in the first
person in it. this is one of them...

enjoy.
*************************************

*WARNING, THIS STORY IS NOT FOR PEOPLE EASILY OFFENDED. IF YOU
READ THIS SHORT STORY, YOU STNAD A HIGH CHANCE OF BEING
OFENDED. IF YOU READ IT ANYWAY, KNOWING YOU MIGHT BE
OFFENDED, THEN ANY OFFENSE TAKEN IS THE FAULT OF THE READER,
NOT THE AUTHOR. SO QUIT COMPLAINING, YOU WHINEY BITCH*

*************************************


Mother Dearest

By Nietzsche Mastro, 12/8/2003



I had just broken up with the only person I wanted to be with. The most
important thing in my life. Nothing else mattered to me but her, and I had
to go and fuck that up. Fucked it up so badly that I couldn't handle shit
anymore.

Whatever. That,Äôs not what the important part is. About three months
after I broke up with her, this girl asked me out. Of course, I said
sure...why not?

It wasn't like I had anything better to do. That night that we were going to
go out, fucking really...what else would I have done? Gone home. Got
online. Looked at child and animal porn. Eat something. Then probably
start cutting myself real bad. Hey, everyone's got their thing. Most people
color inside the lines. I don't even use the crayons, though.

I guess I,Äôll drop the fucking pretense, yes? We went out to watch a movie.
I didn't care for it, but I wanted to show I was interested in her, so I
faked it like a good little boy. After the movies, I was expecting that she
would want to go home, and if she'd had a good time, to set up another
date. But then she asked me inside when we got to her house.

Thought she wanted to fuck me, so I said whatever...a day without sex is
a day wasted. And I've wasted far too many days in the past three
months. I wondered if she had any kids. The thought passed my mind,
though. I was thinking that maybe I should behave tonight.

As I sat there in her living room, she went into her bedroom to get
something she said she wanted to show me. I just sat there. I looked
around, checking out the living room. Color TV, Samsung, 26" screen.
Cheap Van Gogh reprints of "The Screamer" and "Starry Night". A Native
American design on a wall tapestry, hanging over a window. Venetian
blinds. An album collection, the only thing that caught my full attention.

I walked over to the album collection to see what she was into. Abortion
Contortion. The Dirty Malcontents. The Dark Philosophers. Retrograde.
Slip Knot..."slip not..." The Evil Mothers, my upbringing came to mind.
Bloody Ideology. The Greg Pierson Experience. Who the fuck is Greg
Pierson? And Barry Manelow. What the fuck? Barry Manelow? "Is this bitch
crazy?" I thought.

She came back into the room as I was thinking that. Right as I looked at
her, she had changed into some pajamas; she blew some smoke in my
face. Marijuana. Fairly good strain of the plant too, from the smell of
things. I hated marijuana. But to humor her- we were still on a date, after
all- I smiled and she passed me the pipe.

We sat on her living room couch, me: pipe in hand, her: caressing my
neck and shoulders, trying to "loosen me up" as she put it. So I looked at
the pipe again. Glass, hand blown. Green with purple swirls. I looked at
the lighter. Plain black bic from a gas station, it looked like. She must
have thought that I hadn't done this before, because she took the lighter
from my hand and lit the pipe from me, trying to explain how to hold the
carb closed and fill the chamber, then clear it.

Puff. Spark. Sizzle. Release. Inhale. Hold it. Hold it. Hold it. Okay, you can
exhale now. Go ahead, treat me like a baby, you stupid bitch. Like I,Äôve
never ripped a pipe before.

As she cashed the pipe, and laid it down on the coffee table, she turned to
me. I was already starting to feel a change, things felt...more real. They
felt vivid, and colors were brighter, more defined. Lines were starting to
leave trails, light was brighter than it had been. And my thoughts were
freed from a mental chicken coup that I had constructed for them. She
started leaning in closer to me, unbuttoning my shirt, and leaned in
closer, drawing towards my neck. She let her heated breath gently sound
over my nape, and just behind my ears she started gently biting my neck.
Just as I was thinking "fucking god, I hope she doesn't go put that Barry
Manelow on..." her cat came over and started rubbing up on my leg. I
started to get an erection finally.

"That's my baby, Sheila. Here Sheila, come to mommy." she called her
cat over to her and started petting her, stroking the cat as she clutched it
to her bosom. The way a mother would hold her child, too old to breast
feed, not old enough for mother dearest to let go. Unless it's my mother
we're talking about. She asked if I wanted to pet her baby, if I wanted to
pet Sheila. I lied and said I didn't like cats.

"How could you not like cats? They,Äôre so cute and furry and cuddly.
Besides, this isn't just a cat to me, this is my baby." god, you stupid
fucking bitch. I don't want to touch your damn cat. I don't want to pet it. I
don't fucking want that, because you won't like what I do; you won't be
able to handle what I like. You fucking cunt.

Then it hit me. I said "yeah, you're right...how could anyone not love
cats? Or babies?" and I grabbed Sheila from her tender arms, her gentle,
loving, caring slender arms. I held that delicate little creature in my
hands, watching it lick its chops and listening to its purr and faint meows.
I scratched her chin. God she was beautiful. I wanted her then and there.
But I couldn't. I couldn't. How the fuck do I explain myself to her after I,Äôm
finished dubbing my dick all over her cat and spunking in its ear? I
couldn't handle not taking that opportunity though.

As I scratched the cat's furry little chin, Sheila,Äôs furry little chin, the child
by-proxy of this girl I happened upon and ended up dating, my hand
started to slowly move in closer, wrapping around her dainty little neck.
As I squeezed hard and twisted that feline trachea, I couldn't hear the
screams from my date as more than a faint murmur. Her claws dug in
deep, which only got me more aroused than I was before. I was near
breaking my zipper, I was so hard. And as Sheila held on for her life less
and less, and started to fade away more and more, I could feel her warm
little body go limp and start to cool. They get cold so fast when they go
just over that line. So, now that I had taken care of that I threw the dead
femea aside like I worked at an abortion clinic and this was just another
fetus that I notched on my belt.

Then the cat was rubbing my leg again. I had imagined all that? I told
you, I built a chicken coup for my thoughts. I did that for a reason, and
it's one of the reasons I don't like to smoke pot. Or drink. Things go real
for a moment, but they're complete fantasy. It,Äôs not that I don't like
fantasy, in fact, I like mine more than any others. But I want them to
remain my fantasies until I act them out for real. I don't want to get
gypped by thinking I did it only to realize I hadn't. Fuck that. She was still
on my neck, too, biting me softly, biting me gently. I didn't know what to
do with her.

I figured that since my crude imagination was finally free again, I might
as well give her what she wants and imagine that I,Äôm getting what I want
in the process. I told her we should take it into her room. We,Äôd have a
bed and plenty of room, plus comfort factor. So she agreed, and led me
by the hand. God, did this girl have kinks. She opened a drawer on her
dresser. Dildos. Cuffs. Chains. Spikes. Lube. Masks. Restraints of many
and varied types. And she told me that she wanted to be my slave. She
wanted me to do what I would with her, and have my way. Like I said:
god did this girl have kinks.

That,Äôs kinky to me, even. So I told her to take her clothes off. She started
to and got into a little bit of a strip tease. No, dammit, I said take your
clothes off. Fuck, do I have to do it for you? She looked a bit shocked, but
she finally got a smile and took her clothes off without further delay. Now.
Undress me. And no fucking around, just do it.

She took my clothes off, and tried to suck me. So I smacked her, but not
too hard. I didn't want to spoil this for her. Did I tell you to do that, bitch?
Get on your fucking bed. So I tied her down with bondage straps. Then,
for some added security on my part, I cuffed her too. Then the ball gag
and a mask. I slipped out into the kitchen and started grabbing whatever
I could find. The cat came back up to me and started rubbing on my leg
just as I was picking up some glasses. So I bent down to the cat and
scratched her behind her ear. Nice Sheila. That,Äôs a good cat. You,Äôre so
pretty. And I slipped my finger around and under her to feel the warmth
from her twin holes. She was definitely in heat. What a negligent owner
she had, too. Not even spayed. Stupid cunt. I always end up dating stupid
cunts. Stupid. STUPID! God, I hate her already. And the first night isn't
even over yet.

I loved her cat though. So I swatted the cat away as I walked back into
the room.

She couldn't speak. The ball gag made it impossible. She couldn't see me,
either. The mask took care of that. I didn't knife fuck her, though, like
that other sick fuck. I set the various utensils from the kitchen down on a
night stand next to the bed. I removed the fucking care bear stuffed
animal that was on her bed, too. Fuck. How much of a stupid cunt can this
girl be? Seriously? I was a gentleman the whole way through, though. I
didn't tell her how disgusting I found her. Instead I started licking her
nipples and sliding my hand down towards her wet crevice. "I should wash
my hands first," I thought. But it was too late now, I don't think she would
have cared either, from the way she flinched with pleasure at the initial
touch of my hand. Or the way that she started breathing heavily as I
worked on her nipples. She must have had them pierced at some point;
there were little holes on the sides of them that my tongue kept brushing
against. Now, I,Äôm not a sadist. Honestly. I,Äôm actually really subservient. I
like to feel that resentment growing and festering, eating away at my
insides. And this is what she wanted. She wanted me to do the thing I
hate most for her, be dominant; she wanted me to be in control and the
one taking advantage. She wanted me to be sadistic. If you want to hurt a
masochist, treat them nicely and give them some authority. They really
hate that shit, so they'll thank you for it in the end.

Then I stopped. I grabbed one of the glasses that I had brought from the
kitchen and a knife too. I don't think she cooked that much. The knife was
dull. Not nicked though. If you use the knife, it'll get dull...but it'll have
nicks in it too, from using it a lot. This was a dull that came from just
sitting there. A natural dull. But I didn't want to make another trip to the
kitchen, so I decided that it would work. I took her mask off. I wanted her
to see this.

She started to breathe in a panic stricken hyperventilation. Shh,
shh...don't worry, this isn't for you. I started cutting myself and bleeding
into the cup. It was more like a port glass really. This is for me. I filled it
with my blood and sucked my wound so I would stop bleeding. Then I told
her that she was going to drink it. I removed the ball gag, and she started
telling me how wonderful this all was, that she'd never found anyone as
exciting as me. Bitch, did I tell you to talk? Shut the fuck up! I hate
having to play the sadist. That,Äôs why I,Äôll thank her when the night is
through. She tilted her head forward as I slowly poured my blood into her
mouth, dripping some down the side of her mouth. She went to lick it off
her chin, but I told her to stop. Leave it there, I like that.

"Do me now? Do me? My turn..." she said, looking at the empty glass.
Bitch, I told you to shut the fuck up. I put her ball gag back in place, and
made a cut in her arm, filling the port glass again. Then I drank it. Clean,
not a drop spilled. I decided I would leave the mask off now. Slowly, I
dragged the knife over her naked body. She must have thought that I
was going to use it on her again, because she started to panic again. I
didn't cut her, though. Not a scratch aside from her arm.

Then I started explaining to her all about me and my mother. How mother
was a four letter word. I really love children and animals. They really do it
for me. I get sexually excited. I don't think she took me seriously,
though. Maybe she thought it was all role playing. "I guess I won't know,"
was what I was thinking. I explained to her that I really got turned on by
how innocent they are. Animals never develop the kinds of things we do.
They don't hate each other indiscriminately. They don't abuse each other.
Or their children. They don't fuck their sons and daughters while they're
vomiting because of the filth that it's taking place in. and children. We
were all children once. We were all so innocent once. Nothing mattered to
us, we were free and carefree. Now, as adults, we're imprisoned and
careless. I waxed philosophical on her as I mounted her and told her my
life's story. About my mother.

Mother is a four letter word. Just like the "cunt" in "stupid cunt."

I think at some point, she finally caught on that I wasn't role playing.
Because she started hyperventilating again just before I had shimmied up
her chest. I was sitting on her breasts now, knees on either side of her.
As I bent down, I leaned over her and whispered, "I love you, mommy."

I fucking hate dull knives. That hurt more than it should have when I bled
myself into the port glass. But a dull knife wouldn't hurt enough for her.
So I grabbed an odd looking spoon that I had brought in from the kitchen.
It looked rather odd, come to think of it. I remembered my mother using
one once. On a grapefruit I think. The tip and edge were serrated. I love
you, mommy. I really do. And then I moved in closer, digging her left eye
out. She flopped and gagged a lot. I,Äôm glad I used the hand cuffs, too. As
I removed the eye from her socket, I cut the optical nerves. Those would
get in the way, I thought.

I placed my hands on the wall above her head board, shimmying up her
body further and further. Now my knees were under her arm pits. And as
I fucked her eye socket, she stopped moving. She stopped breathing. "I
actually killed her," I thought, as I focused on thrust-pivoting. An eye
socket isn't as smooth as you'd think it was. Now that I had no one to talk
to again, I started thinking about my mother again. One thought
particularly came to me. The night my mother greased up a plunger
handle and went to work on me. That did it. I shot my rocket load deep
inside her. I always liked to get into people's heads. A conditioning that I
picked up from mommy, I think.

After that, I was all finished. I took her ball gag out and kissed her
goodnight. "Thank you, mommy." I told you. Tell a masochist to be
dominant, and because they're submissive, they'll fucking hate it. But,
they'll thank you for it in the end. I put my clothes back on, and as I
walked out of the room, Sheila rubbed up against my leg. It,Äôs a shame
that I can't have pets in my apartment. I bent down and scratched her
chin some more before I left.

Just before I opened the door, something came over me again. I walked
back to the album rack and grabbed the Barry Manelow CD. Then I took
my exit, thinking sweetly to myself, "Thank you, mommy. I love you."

so here i am, stoned at the library. waiting to start working in about
45 minutes.

isn't it funny how things work out? i think it's hilarious, because they
certainly don't seem to be working out. just like that guy who sits on
his ass everyday, eating freetoes and watching TV, saying to himself,
"I know i said i was going to go to the gym today and work out...loose
some of this weight...but i'll start going tomorrow..."

his ass just keeps getting fatter. you know why? because he's a shithead.

i have to deal with shitheads (of this type and various others) on a daily
bases. (i know, quit bitchin, don't we all.) well, this rant has nothing to do
with that fact at all, i just thought i'd bring it up.

reviewing this and that over and over in my mind. reading palanhuik's
book, "Choke"....pretty good so far. i keep thinking "gee this guy is so
pathetic....pathetique even. i wish i were a textual fiction character in this
book, so i could climb on in and kick his ass.

the fucker should just let his mom die, but he's too much of a dumbass to
think of that, he's just gonna sit there and let his mom stay in a state of
perpetual jamais vu, with her brain and body wasting away, like so many
castles made of sand.

but oh well, we all make mistakes, right?

conversely, i wish that that dipshit in the book were a real life character,
so he could come in and kick my ass for being such a dork and not
slapping that chincy muthafucka that swooped in on my promotion
because his aunt works here.

like i said, we all make mistakes.

so now all i have left to do is clinch my ass cheeks one more time and
go to work like all these other pathetic shits who work, to get money, to
eat and live, so they can survive, and then come work some more...

and they wonder why crime rates are so high? QUIT MAKING US WORK!!!

if i had no job, i would just be poor. but no, i have a job, so now i'm poor
AND pissed off.

oh well, we'll figure something out, won't we my precioussss?

(originally posted on the http://virus.lucifer.com bbs on:
2003-07-24 16:56:25)

this isn't exactly alchemist's gold as far as topics go, but it is an interesting
subject to chew on...

firstly, i'd like to note that the source of these quotes is Tom Robbins, from
his book "Half Asleep in Frog Pajamas."

[as a side note, i would recommend that anyone reading this also read some tom robbins...anything...."Still Life with WoodPecker" ,  "Frierce Invalids Home from hot Climates" , "Even Cowgirls get the Blues" "Skinny Legs and All" or anything else he's written...]

second, for easy reference and to save some typing later, a table...

LD =  the character Larry Diamond from the book.
GM = Gwen Mati from the book
N = Narration

[second side note: this book i'm quoting from is most interesting in it's presentation alone. whereas in grammar classes, all the way up to critical composition in college, we are instructed not to write in the second person as it is accusative, this book is writen entirely in the second person...bravo Mr Robbins...it has an interesting way of drawing you into the story, where you end up reading at least a chapter or two more than you expected to in each sitting.]

***********************************************************

okay....so, could jobs be on the way out? it sounds reasonably plausable to me after reading the passage in this book:

*****
LD: Human beings have been here for a million years...

N: (you think him mistaken about that)

LD:...but have only had jobs for the past five hundred years...

N: (that doesn't sound right either)

LD: ...an inconsequential period, relatively speaking. people have always worked, but they have only held jobs- with wages and employers and vacations and pink slips- for a very short time. And now, with the proliferation of cybernetics and robotics and automation of all types and degrees, jobs are on the way out again. in the context of history, jobs have been but a passing fancy...
*****

are jobs, in the context of history, merely a passing fancy? it is rather diffucult for one to imagine (i would imagine) a world where there are no jobs, as we were raised in a world with jobs, and careers all around us. we know no other way, so i could see the notion (being almost completely foreign to most) being no more than scoffed at.

but in between the lines...you start to think about it a little more (after you've smoked half a joint with a 55 year old gas station attendant, stranded roughly 120 miles away from both your starting point and your destination...)

it seems more plausable...yes, i was intoxicated while it made sense to me, but then it also carried over into sobriety as well. random thoughts that i have while intoxicated rarely make sense (at least for me) once i re-enter a state of sobriety. i feel that what merely happened was i was more open to  accept the possibility that the entire way i have viewed the world could be completely different in a (relatively) short amount of time. almost as though it was a fashion trend that faded away after the novelty wore off...

let's go back to the book for a second...

*****
LD: nowadays, the state uses jobs, or rather, the illusion of jobs, as a mechanism for control. when there is an outcry about some particularly vile instance of deforestation, wreckage or pollution, the "pufftoads" hasten to justify the enviornmental assault by trumpeting the jobs it will allegerdly save or create- and then the protestes fade like the rustle of a worn dollar bill.

N: you hasten your wonder of what he means, hoping he'll get to the point and give you the financial information you've been waiting for.

GM: so you're saying...

LD: foreign policy decisions, including illegal and immoral acts of armed intervention, likewise are made acceptable, even popular, on the grounds that such actions are necessary to protect american jobs. virtually every cadidate for public office in the past seventy years has campaigned with the rubber worm of "more jobs" dangling from his or her rusty hook, and the angler with the most lifelike worm snags the votes, even though the voters- except the cerebrally paralysed must recognize that there are going to be fewer and fewer jobs as time- and technology- progress.

N: you shoot him an akward glance.

GM: would you say then, larry, that those of us who're concerned with jobs are reading the wrong libretto [missing the point]?

N: he beams at you magnificently...

LD: there's hope for you yet...
*****

this is where it really starts getting interesting...

now imagine that jobs (the notion of jobs at least) are being used to misdirect people from what someone doesn't want them to see. much like a magician misdirecting your eyes to his left hand while he palms a coin in this other. only this magician isn't going to turn the "magic coin" into a suprise for you by "pulling it out from behind your ear." this stage magician is a little more malicious than others. once he palms the coin and gets away with it, he moves up...using similar misdirection to remove your wrist watch like a street magician might do in his preformance. once again with the difference: this time that he pockets your wrist watch without giving it back...etc...

when "terrorists" suicide bombed the twin towers on 9-11-2002, why didn't we note how many jobs were left open by the deceased people? because the magician needs his audiance to work with, doesn't he? when you take away the audiance, there is no reason for misdirection, because there is no one to misdirect in the first place...

but we regained confidence when we found out that by returning the attacks- and even going a little further and bombing a few other countries- that we could create many many new jobs (bush did state that in one of his addresses, though i honestly can't recall exactly which one, sorry...if you like, go ahead and discount this statement for lack of provided evidence).

anyways...lack of jobs does bring a few other things that could be questioned about living conditions and survival in general.

back to the book...

*****
LD: ...tell me who's more equipped to escape obsolecence: the toads of industrial fundamentalism- lost and hysterical in a world without jobs- or the transformative frogs who..."

GM: if they can't pay their grocery bills, one's just as dead as the other.

LD: 'no jobee, no eatee,' eh? they must've used a harsh detergent when they washed your brain [note to self: remember this phrase for personal use later...it's gold!]. on the roof of the Thunder House [his residence], we could grow enough food to feed everybody in a six block radius, year round. you could do almost as well on top of your appartment building. you wouldn't need to haul a lot of heavy soil up there either. tomatoes'll grow like weeds in shredded newspaper.

GM: tomatoes won't pay for my porshe.

LD: true, but your porche can't drive under water either...[still not exactly sure what he meant by that...probably something like 'you can't take it with you' or even 'it's just a fuckin car, it doesn't need to be that opulent or what-have-you; there are things more important than an expensive car...' but i dunno, that's my interpretation of that particular phrase...]
*****

a lot of people...i mean A LOT of people...damn near all people, really...are stuck on the idea that they HAVE to live within the system that they are in, that no other system will work, because they have never been a part of another system really. they've mostly never even considered that there is another system of "doing things" or "living" at all.

we, humans that is, as a species, and as civilizations, have always had work to do, and will always have work to do. but jobs are a recently ocurring phenomena, in which preception, ethics, "truth", and even "reality" have been distorted. there is the general concept that if one does not have a job, that one is an invalid; one cannot exist properly any other way.

this begs the question (i think at least) of "where did this conception originate, and on what premises is it made?"

i'm going to retire from my ranting for now...i leave you to contemplate or to criticise, what-have-you.

perhaps this could be a future chat discussion? maybe even an addition to some part of the recommended reading portion in time?

c'est la vie, c'est la mort, c'est la guerre....

c'est la pom de terre...

it's all the same to me.

-mo cara,
st. b

MOTHER FUCKER!

i jsut wrote a rant the size of kentucky, and my browser crapped out as
i was posting. usually when that happens, the post will make it, but my
browser will die...not this time...i'll reconstruct what i can or it and post
it later though....

arg! curses!! (by the way, the title of the thread was the same as this one,
so if you see another thread with this title, read that one...it might just not
have posted yet, or not have shown up on my browser for some shit
reason. if it doesn't, the reconstructed version'll be posted in this thread.
peace, i'm inside out.)

so...here it is...

my recon is finished. the survey report is finished. still waiting to collect.

Non-Prophet: A Study of Counter-Cultural Pseudo-Cults and Non-Religions
By *Me*

There once was a young man who wanted to know the meaning of Zen. This young man learned of a Zen Master outside of town who sat on a hill all day, so he went to visit the Zen Master.
   ,ÄúThey say you are a Zen Master,Ķis this true?,Äù
   ,ÄúIn Zen there are no masters,,Äù replied the Zen Master.
   ,ÄúWell, can you teach me the meaning of Zen?,Äù asked the young man.
   ,ÄúIndeed, all you need do is ask,,Äù said the Zen Master.
   ,ÄúOkay then,,Äù said the young man, ,ÄúWhat is the meaning of Zen?,Äù
   The Zen Master then promptly whacked the young man on the head with a leg of lamb. Experiencing this, the young man was enlightened.1
   This is a Zen Parable from Discordian Tradition. ,ÄúWhat is Discordianism?,Äù one might ask. Discordianism is a ,ÄúPseudo-Cult,Äù or a ,ÄúNon-Religion,,Äù which is to say, a pretend religion created in a fashion that mocks organized religion in the spirit of counter-culture. It is the Author,Äôs intent to investigate and research various Non-Religions and Pseudo-Cults for the purpose of understanding the phenomenon, as well as to prove their relevance to the counter-cultural movement and hence American History.
   First, what exactly defines a Pseudo-Cult; how does a Pseudo-Cult differ from a real cult? The simple answer is merely that a Pseudo-Cult is meant in jest, whereas a real cult is meant in all seriousness. But what are the characteristics of a Pseudo-Cult? A Pseudo-Cult:

,Ä¢   Resembles an ,Äúedgy,,Äù ultra-radical faith system far outside the ,Äúnorm,Äù of religion.
,Ä¢   Incorporates existent religious symbolism, exaggerations, new insights into old doctrines, and/or humor.
,Ä¢   Always has an undertone of mockery intended on ,ÄúIlluminating,Äù hypocrisy and inconsistency in organized religion.
,Ä¢   Has a ,Äúcult,Äù or ,Äúunderground,Äù following, comprised of a small minority of-typically- young adults.

Most of what would be called ,ÄúPseudo-Cults,Äù take place in high schools and on college campuses. What classifies these groups as Pseudo-Cults is the considerably small following that they have. So what makes a ,ÄúNon-Religion?,Äù

A Non-Religion is essentially the same as a Pseudo-Cult, save for the amount of people who participate; Non-religions tend to have a level of people participating that exceeds the levels of a Pseudo-Cult by a long shot. Such Pseudo-Cults include The Temple of Clown (a cult based off the cult-classic movie ,ÄúKiller Klowns from Outer Space,Äù), The Church of Joe, stared by a high school student in the Lodi area, and other such pretend cults. Similarly, Non-Religions share the same foundations, though are based off more original ideas, instead of movies or video games, etc,Ķsuch as the Church of the SubGenius, the Temple of WingZero and Discordianism (Church of Eris). Discordianism is, though a Non-Religion, also an oddity, as it can also classify as a Pseudo-Cult.
In 1958, two Californians known only as Omar Ravenhurst and Malcalypse the Younger (Mal)2 founded the lunacy that is called Discordianism, a Non-Religion centered on the Greek Goddess Eris (Roman counter-part: Discordia), Goddess of Chaos, Strife and Confusion. This came about, according to Discordian Lore, when Omar and Mal where indulging in their favorite past time: drinking coffee and conversing at a local all night bowling alley. Upon trying to figure out the solutions to the world,Äôs problems, Omar and Mal came to the conclusion that Chaos and Confusion were the root of all the problems in the world. Then the story gets weird: the fable says that the room froze, and the two men were approached by a tall, up-right standing chimpanzee, who spoke to them, citing things such as Pickering's Moon orbiting in reverse, men having nipples, though they do not bear milk and Heisenberg,Äôs Uncertainty Principal, and declaring that Someone had to put all this confusion here.

From what I can gather, the previous is total nonsense, which is exactly what Discordianism is all about. What probably transpired was a conversation about the previously mentioned items (men having nipples, etc,Ķ), followed by the notion that life was inherently Chaotic.
Aside from this nonsense, it seems that the entire premise of Discordianism is ,ÄúNonsense.,Äù The Religion may be fake, but the underlying philosophy is real: things should not be taken so seriously. The reasoning behind this is entirely intuitive, using a Discordian equivalent to Satan, named Grey Face. Long ago, Grey Face decided that people were having too much fun, and he saw no use for it. So Grey Face started putting ,ÄúUnnecessary Order,Äù to mankind and plaguing them with Seriousness.

Omar and Mal took it upon themselves, declaring each other High Priests of Discord, to compile the Principia Discordia, or The Magnum Opiate of Malcalypse the Younger, the holy book of Discordianism, to spread the word of Eris. They formulated their own Discordian Calendar, Initiation Rites, Sacred Symbolism, The Law of Fives, The Law of Negative Reversal and declared all men women and children to be Popes.

They even set out guidelines for individual Church/Sect development. This is where classifying Discordianism as either a Pseudo-Cult or a Non-Religion becomes difficult. Any member of the Discordian Church can start their own Cabal, or Sect of Discordianism; many Cabals exist: The Temple of the Hidden Buddha, The Ranch of the Laughing Jesus, Topanga Cabal, The Purple Monkies Cabal, The Hypser-Discordians, etc,ĶSo in this respect, Discordianism as a whole is a Non-Religion, but each individual Cabal can be considered a Pseudo-Cult.

Perhaps the only Non-Religion to compare and rival the Church of Discordia is the Church of the SubGenius. Founded by J.R. ,ÄúBob,Äù Dobbs, the Church of the SubGenius shares many similar aspects with Discordianism, but drastically veers off with many of its doctrines and especially with its presentation. One claim made by the Church of the SubGenius (CoS) is that the Church actually originates from the same time as Discordianism (c. 1958), but that the doctrines predate even Grey Face,Äôs Existence (c.1166 A.D.). However, pamphlets relevant to the CoS didn,Äôt start surfacing until the early 1980,Äôs, so for the sake of this survey the CoS was started in the early 1980,Äôs.

The CoS is presented as one huge infomercial, constantly trying to sell fictional products, services and itself to anyone that it can. The main points of SubGeniusism are: Marketability, The End Times, Slack,Ñ¢, and other such. Pamphlet #1 of the CoS says clearly that this is ,Äú,Ķan inherently bogus religion that will condone superior degeneracy,Ķ,Äù So, like Discordianism, one knows right from the get-go that this is all pretend and that it shouldn,Äôt be taken seriously. But what about Slack,Ñ¢?
Slack,Ñ¢, the underlying philosophy of the CoS, is real. Just like Discordianism, the CoS is using a fake religion to spread a real philosophy. Slack,Ñ¢ (yes, the ,Ñ¢ is necessary) is the philosophy that you shouldn,Äôt work a job that you hate, you shouldn,Äôt have concerns about money, you shouldn,Äôt take things too seriously,Ķperhaps in the end, at the root of what they both are, Discordianism and the CoS are not so different. But how are they relevant?

What makes them relevant to American History is that they are components of the Counter-Culture movement. ,ÄúHow?,Äù one might ask. There are several reasons. A science- a controversial science, the foundation of which is questioned by skeptics- called Memetics provides an answer: virus-like spreading of ideas and philosophies; a propaganda-esque distribution of information.

Memes- the ideas and concepts that are memetically transmitted- are the foundation of Memetics. Entire books have been written about the subject, so lots can be said, but simply put, a meme is an idea that is constructed and structured, then spread to other people with the intent that the idea will have been presented in such a way that the recipient of the idea will feel the urge, the desire to pass the idea on to other people. This, according to memetics, is the reason and purpose of all the preaching that takes place in most major religions. If the idea doesn,Äôt spread to new people, the idea dies, so to speak.

There,Äôs even a Non-Religion based on this science, called appropriately enough the Church of Virus. The unique aspect of the CoV is that it is an entirely internet-based religion, and that its memetic ,Äúhook,Äù is that it says up front that its goal is to ,Äúinfect,Äù your mind with the ideas and philosophies that are relevant to the CoV,Äôs views.

All these fake religions have at least one thing in common: they are tools used to help spread their ideas; ideas that question the validity of the mainstream mentality of organized religion, the same goal as anything else to be considered ,Äúcounter-culture,Äù. The aim is much more than just questioning, though; the idea is to bring about a different perspective. Not to say that any one perspective is better, even, but to get people to look at something differently, as many ways as is possible. When people view something commonplace from a new perspective, they gain a better understanding of what they,Äôre looking at.

Religions inspire people and guide people through their lives, even give people a sense of meaning and purpose. Non-Religions do the same, but in a different manner, and usually with a lot less seriousness to their approach. Perhaps this is the reason why made up religions are still around and continue to gain popularity. Where real religions offer answers to the questions people have about Life, these Non-Religions treat the questions about Life as a joke, to which Life is the punch-line. After all, in the words of J.R. ,ÄúBob,Äù Dobbs, ,ÄúF*ck ,Äòem if they can,Äôt take a joke!,Äù

perhaps this sensation is

                 aquired
   
    from shelving books for a living
                                                   i don't know


but i've noticed that letters and numbers seem to have this permanently
affixed expression. some of them look happy. some of them look proud.
some of them look angry. some look goofy.

let's look at the alphabet first:

A.   A looks rather bold,  very Assertive. nice and angular, it looks sturdy
and reassuring.

B. B has an attitude. i don't know why. probably because B came in
second to the A. B is definitely a male Letter, and also a GreyFaced Letter.

C.  Cis pretty much just chillin there. "Okay, i didn't get to the front, but
hey, i could be a lot farther into the alphabet than i am." says C, and smiles.

D.  D is a very happy Letter. you can tell. That's why we use the D when
we do the emoticon for a big, shit eatin grin. :-D

...

X, Y, Z, Q.

these are just the Weirdo Letters. They don't Fit it with the other letters'
expressions. they stand out, like individuals in a high school. They Know
that they are different and they like it. i deem these letters to be Discordian
Letters.

then there are some numbers, too that do this.

1. 1 seems a very arrogant number to me for some reason.

2. the number 2 strikes me as condescneding. though happy. though
still condescending.

3. 3 to me seems to be one of the jokers among the numbers. i mean,
i looks like a butt...it looks like boobs...it looks like a backwards E. it even
looks like a side-ways nut sack. anything that looks like anatomy can't be
taken too serious. though i'd watch out for masons while dealing with 3's.

4.  4's seem like A's to me, prolly from hanging out with hackers. when i
see a 4, i think..."hey, it's an A, only it's moving!"

etc

not that this couldn't have been done already with some of the posts in here, given the prolonged longevity of a few threads...

but i think we should write a compiled book of discordian/zen/discordian
zen sayings and phrases etc...

everyone just toss one in and we'll see how close to a book we can get!!
i mean literally anything. just throw it in here. haiku are good, too. i've
been trying to revive the lost art of MuPoo...insulting/offensive haiku.


Mine (MuPoo):

#1

this irritable
bowel syndrome leaves my ass sore
just like you once did

#2

a handful of shit
and a wish in your heart
which one happens first?

#3

just another day
why should your shit smell better?
you're just an asshole.

#4

life is another
STD you cannot cure;
terminal illness.

#5

set up us the bomb
all your base are belong to us
haven't i heard this?

#6

i hate when you speak
to see you makes me vomit
die away from me