Topics

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ruCmtbOZQg

Pics to follow tonight.

Not much to see, just yet, of course, just an outline of horrible 14 gauge stubble.

We have your beard.  It is currently alive, but that situation may change unless our demands are met.

Do not test us.  We are desperate men.  Respond soonest, or the facial hair gets it.

http://www.azcentral.com/news/articles/2010/06/29/20100629sarah-palin-mocked-by-reporters-politico.html

Turns out old Irreverend Hugh is a little indisposed, these days.

He took a 6 month sabbatical in Thailand, then moved on to the Phillipines, where he met some crazy hot chick, and married her.  HFLS has found out that it turns out that she wasn't always a woman (not sure precisely how, might have come from Hugh himself), and has apparently found some cheap Fillipino pron with Hugh's wife when she still had a dick.  He of course sent this on to Hugh with a malicious giggle.

Apparently, all of this has made Hugh go off the deep end entirely, resulting in his indefinite hospitalization.

Speculation as to what horrible fucking viruses he came out of this with are left to you, dear reader.  I mean, it's not like a Phillipine male/male pornstar is going to pick anything up, right?

<--- The best revenge is watching your enemies self-immolate.

Having put many hours of research into the subject, and tabulated the results, we have determined that it is in fact your thang, and you should do whacha wanna do, as we are unable at this time to tell you how to catch a groove.

That is all.

Dok Howl,
Is working on whom to sock it to.

The Kingdom of Weird (working title, will be changed later, possible to "Tales From Fat Ernie's).

It takes place in Maine (might change this to a rural area of one of the other NE states), and is a cop story.  I felt that detectives have been done to death by Warren Ellis and Garth Ennis, so I elected to use a state trooper - in his proper role, not playing detective - and to center the weirdness of the first part around him.  He is the only "normal" person in his town, though he doesn't know it.  He is a little strange, in that he reacts to weirdness in a manner that is appropriate to the situation, rather than by freaking out.  The fun part is, you get to learn the horrible truth about Elvis.

The second part will be from the pov of his girlfriend, Kate, who slings hash at a truckstop named "Fat Ernie's", the owner of which disappeared under mysterious circumstances some time ago.

The third part will be told from the pov of the dispatcher, a man with a very curious collection.

"Manubu" from this board will be the artist, at least for the first chapter, and I won't be making the same mistakes I made with Kim.

This will probably be a one-off, though if I can find more plot ideas, I may do a follow up issue.  I intend to pimp this out to one of the local companies, this time.

Richter, LMNO, and Suu, I will send you the script for proofreading/review tonight.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VuC_l3ymXhM&feature=channel

Loved the card and the booklet.   

...Grow a Fu Manchu stache or not?

A couple of people have commented that Doktor Howl hasn't seemed that different from TGRR.  This is true, to some degree, for two reasons.

First, it isn't easy changing your mind, let alone your personality.  It is a gradual thing, that requires constant self-examination, and involves more than a bit of backsliding.

Second, I wasn't really sure what and who Doktor Howl is.  The name comes from Doctor Howl, a deceased friend of mine who occasionally posted here sometime around 2006 or so, which he in turn, I believe, lifted from someone in the CotSG heirarchy.  The original inspiration for the new persona itself is drawn from both Doktor Sleepless (Warren Ellis), Doctor Strangelove (from the movie of the same name), and a really bad nightmare I had while I was ill ( <---mostly this).  But it has gelled over the last two weeks, during and after my trip to providence.  I know who I am now, and I know that what and who I am is far more relevant today than was the Holy Man™ that I used to be.

I am a Doktor of Horror.  This is a badly neglected field (who wants to think about it, after all), but a crucial one for the Coming Weird Times™.  While many doctors (Dr Phil, etc) try to make you feel better with drugs or bullshit 12-step programs or "interventions", I am here for a different reason.  I am here to try to figure out the Truth...What's really going on, and to make this knowledge available to anyone who might be interested.

From what I can tell so far, The Truth is more than 90% horror (about half of which is horrormirth, the other half not so much), and thus the need to study this particular facet of reality.

The new century is upon us.  The future is here.  Hide your head in the sand, or join me in facing this horrible beast with a slap-happy grin on our faces and a gleam in our monocled eyes.

The choice is yours.

Okay for now,
Dok

Having read your post on the ill-health of the biosphere, and it's inevitable impact on the human species (among others), I started thinking, and did some reading.  Remember Thomas Malthus, and his dire predictions?  He may have been right in principle, but in practice he failed to consider possible improvements in agricultural technology.

The world's population is estimated at 6,827,900,000, as of this day.  The rate of growth has halved since 1963 (1.1% from 2.2%) and is trending lower.  Agricultural methods are improving, though over-harvesting of the ocean continues.

It is just possible that we can carry on at least another hundred years.

Problem is, given our cultural trends, I am not certain that this is a good thing.  We no longer think in terms of leaving the planet.  We make toys, we're starting to seriously talk about modifying humans via RFID tags and implanted gizmos, our art is becoming baroque, we have all the signs of a culture in decline, even as our gadgets become more and more a part of our lives.

If I am correct, and we have time to get to the future in the first place, I can tell you the basics of what it's going to look like.  Look around.  This is the future.  Commercialism, religious whackjobbery, short-sighted greed, a need for newer and faster toys, the almighty dollar (or Euro, or Yen, or whatever currency leads at the time).

Forget vacations on the moon, forget flying cars, forget a cure for cancer, forget life extension technology (and all the horrors that would accompany it).  Look around.  Just look around.  You're in the future, minus whatever fun and exciting new body mods/electronics that become available to a population less and less able to deal with today, let alone tomorrow.  

In fact, I predict that mood altering drugs will be the single most important product on the market.  People can't deal with the complexities of today without Lexapro, just think about how they'll feel when they come home and find that their kid has changed his species to fit in with his friends.

No, whichever way this century goes, it isn't going to be a time for anyone who isn't serious about having a good time.  This century will be for those with finely tuned senses of horrormirth, and strong stomachs.  And drugs.  Lots and lots of drugs.  It's going to be non-stop future shock, starting right here, right now.  It began in 1994, and it's going to accelerate at an unbounded rate.

Strap yourself in, Kai, it's going to be a hell of a ride.  It won't always be pleasant, but I'm pretty sure it won't be boring, at least for those able to pry themselves away from their Tri-V sets long enough to watch the world mutate around them.

Okay for now,
Dok

Similar to "First World Problems", but instead of gripes, post something you saw or did that was uniquely American.

For example, I went to the gym yesterday, and the upper parking lot was full.  I found myself getting angry that I had to walk an extra 100 yards to get to the gym entrance, to get on the treadmill.

Written Sunday, June 13th, in Providence.

Kareoki is bad at the best of times, and last night was not the best of times.

Suu had apparently had a bad night at work, serving frou frou beers to a thousand ersatz soccer fans, and on the urging of her friend Deirdre, had decided to end the evening at McDowney's.  McDowney's is one of those neighborhood bars that is one step above shit hole and two steps below nice...The fact that it has built in Kareoki equipment and only accepts cash at the bar is all you really need to know.

When Richter and I were told of their plans, we both realized that we had to take one for the team, as allowing Suu to walk home in the rain – in her neighborhood – would be irresponsible.  So we manned up, tossed on trench coats, and walked through the downpour.

It was an ugly scene.  The bar was largely empty when we arrived, except for Brenda (the bartender), Deirdre, and Suu, who was busy being an angry, angry monkey.  There was one other guy, who had spent some time and a pitcher of beer trying to chat the two women up.  At some point after Richter sat between the ladies and this guy, he had attempted to give Suu his phone number, scrawled on a lottery ticket.  Suu thanked him, and pushed it toward the bar's speed rack.  The guy got up, retrieved it, and gave it to Deirdre.  She ignored him, and he stalked out of the bar.

Conversation was impossible.  Suu was already buzzed, and was having an angry moment.  Richter and I ordered cokes, and settled in for a long evening.  We had at least gotten comfortable when Suu and Deirdre started squealing like Catholic school girls.  We were eventually able to decipher their newfound language (read: drunken bellowing) that Kareoki was about to begin.

This, I thought, justified walking out to get a smoke.  Everything was getting too weird.  Suu had spend five minutes demanding that I punch her in the tit, and now this.  But as I got up to walk out front, Suu spun around to run and sign up for the first song.  Her arm spun out, and she punched me dead in the junk.  Richter was looking the other way, Deirdre was nowhere to be seen in the now-crowded bar, and Brenda just sort of giggled.  I staggered out front and had my smoke.

I returned just in time to hear Deirdre and Suu mangle "Black Velvet" by Alana Miles.  Their rendition was of such quality that if Alana Miles had been there to hear it, she would have killed herself just so she could spin in her grave.

Moments later, though, things got worse.  After a rendition  of "Pop the Top Again" by some horrible old barfly, some clown got up and did "What a Wonderful World", while trying to sound like Satchmo.  Richter and I looked at each other in horror, and at the same moment screamed "OH, GOD, NOT LOUIS!"

After an interminable amount of time, and another musical tragedy by Suu and Deirdre, we gathered Suu up and started back to Richter's place, to get the car.  Suu kept insisting that the evening had been a bad idea, and I responded "You decided to get drunk while you were sober, and your judgment was better than now that you're drunk".
Then Suu punched a road sign.

No reason for it really, other than that it was there (her knuckle looks GLORIOUS today).  I remarked that she was going to feel it in the morning, and she giggled.  Bear in mind that it was taking both Richter and I to keep her from falling into traffic by this time.  We still had 10 blocks to go.

I breathed a sigh of relief when we got across the highway bridge, but Suu wasn't done with us yet.  She hollered "FLOWERS!" and tried to steal one of the town planters hanging from a light pole.  Richter hauled her off the light pole, and I gaped in horror as I noticed that we were about to pass an open air restaurant, full of horrible tourists that had come to Federal Hill (Richter's neighborhood), because, well, that's where you go when you want to be seen by all the right people.

On this night, Suu wasn't the right people.

"Beeeeehave yourself, Suu", I said, sotto voice.

"WHAT THE FUCK?  OF COURSE I'M GOING TO BEHAVE MYSELF!  I'M AN INDUSTRY PROFESSIONAL!"

We walked past the staring, horrified New Rich.

We put Suu in the car, and drove her to her apartment.  We helped get her into her house, then turned to leave.  Richter told me to stop for a second, and then nodded as he heard both of her door locks engage.

"I like the way you think.", I said.

"Inherent paranoia has its purposes", he said, "and if it worked better, we'd have never had to put up with Louis Armstrong being desecrated."

How the hell can you argue with that?  

We drove off through the rain soaked streets.  Just another night in the monstrosity we call America.

...they'd be best at.

Richter:  Federal judge.

Suu:  Bartender.  In a Rehab video.  With a speargun.

Hoopla:  Bouncer at the Playboy Mansion.

Nurse Rhyzome:  Jesus.

Dimo:  City worker in the Bronx.

Darth Cupcake:  Emily Latilla.  An evil Emily Latilla.

Cramulus:  Grade school teacher.  No, for real.

Cainad:  Professional wrestler.

LMNO:  Secretary of State.

September:  Random homeless guy.  Oh, wait.

Eve:  Hospital administrator.  She just looks like she'd be funny if you actually got her mad.

Nephew Twiddington:  Ambassador to Ireland.

Pope Tom:  Exotic dancer.  It was the sleeves, dude.

Have I forgotten anyone?

http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/comments_blog/2010/06/elton-john-rush-limbaugh-wedding.html

Poor Elton John.  He hasn't heard what happens to entertainers that suck up to republicans (Randy Travis, Cedric the Entertainer, Bruce Willis, Kid Rock, and Darryl Worley, I'm talking to you.).

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KRY7wBuCcBY

Watch all the way through for maximum lulz.

Note:  This woman is running for governor of CA this year.

GOP bad dream: Birther on ticket

California Republicans optimistic about their prospects in November could find themselves with a bit of a problem after the votes are counted in Tuesday's primaries — a statewide ticket with the so-called "Birther Queen" as one of their candidates.

Orly Taitz is an Israeli émigré who has spent the past two years filing lawsuits challenging President Barack Obama's right to be president on the grounds that he was born in Kenya. In the process, she has earned herself $20,000 in court fines.

Now she's running for the GOP nomination for secretary of state, and with her establishment-backed primary opponent mounting a less-than-stellar campaign against her, operatives say there's a chance she could win.

But longtime California GOP strategist Allan Hoffenblum, who publishes the California Target Book, says a Taitz victory is entirely possible. "It will be a complete embarrassment if she wins, but these things can happen," he said.

http://www.politico.com/news/stories/0610/38212.html   

[dok]

Ya'll know me still the same ol' D
But I been low key
Hated on by most these noobs
Wit no cheese, no rants and no G's, no rage and no disease
No guns, no brain damage, and no STD's
Mad at me cause
I can finally get away with abusing my family with unnecessary IV's
Got a crib with a lab and it's all full of racks
To add to the tub full of smack
Sitting up in the shed in back of my house like a trophy
But ya'll think I'm gonna let my weirdness freeze
LMNO, Please
You better wear a spike on both knees
Who you think taught you to puke rants
Who you think brought you the poompy pance
Chef D's 's Hambone's and MRH's and "Bob D O double B's
And a cabal that said muthafuck the police
Gave you a podcast full of insane beats
To bump when you stroll through in your hood
And when your forum wasn't doin too good
Who's the dok that they told you to go see
Ya'll better listen up closely
All you noobs that said that I turned grey
Or that the mad science is gheyy
ya'll are the reason Dok ain't been getting no sleep
So fuck ya'll all of ya'll
If ya'll don't like me, KILL ME
Ya'll are gonna keep fuckin around wit me
And turn me back to the old me

[chorus x2 - Freeky]

Nowadays everybody wanna talk like they got something to say
But nothin comes out when they move they lips
Just a buncha gibberish
And muthafuckas act like they forgot about Dok

[Freeky]
So what do you say to everybody you hate
Or anybody tryna bring pinealism your way
Wanna resolve things in a sillier way
Just study a post of MSY.
One day I was walkin by
With an ipod on
When I caught EoC givin me the evil eye
And strangled him off in the parkin lot wit his ridiculous tie
I don't give a fuck if it's PD or not
I'm harder than me trying to park a Dodge
When I'm high on pills
Right next to a humungous truck in a two car garage
Hoppin out with a broken dick trying walk it off
Fuck you too Burns call the cops
Ima sechs you and them loud ass muthafuckin barkin dogs
And when the mods came through
Me and Dok stood next to a burnt down thread
Wit a can full of gas and a hand full of matches
And still ain't banned yet
From here on out it's the moronic 2
Startin today and tomorrow's the new
And I'm still loco enough
To choke you to death wit some cactus too
[Record scratch]
Nurse Freeky hotter than a plate of sex beef
In a hooptie jeep with the windows up
And the temp goes up with no relief
Callin men ladies
Sorry Dok but I been crazy
There is no way that you can save me
It's ok go with him Dimo

[chorus x2]

[Dok]
If it was up to me
You muthafuckas would stop reading my shit for free
Wit your hands out trying to grope me
Like you want it to hurt when you pee
When my last rant was out you wasn't humpin me
But now that I got this little company
Everybody wanna come to me for some horrible disease
But you won't get a microbe from me
Cause I'm from the streets of Tucson
I told em all
All them little Discordians
Who you think helped warp 'em all
Now you wanna run around and talk about puns
Like I ain't got none
What you think I told 'em all
Cause I stay well off
Now all I get is hate mail all day sayin Dok fell off
What cause I been in the lab wit a wrench and a lathe
Tryna get Nurse Freeky off
I ain't havin that
This is the millenium of Cramulus
It ain't gonna be nothin after us
So give me one more podcase and fuck Stang
You can have it back
So where's all the mad ranters at
It's like a bathroom stall in this habitat
But all you fucked up cats
Knew that I was killing a motherfucker
When you were sniffin' around Eldora's snatch

[chorus X3]

Yeah, I'm bored

Okay, all.  As a writing exercise, I have begun writing horribly disturbed letters to everyone on the MSY mailing list (or rather, to everyone who didn't tell me to kill their PI to avoid this shit, which means everyone is still on the list, so far).  No two letters will be the same, and my goal is 5/week.

If you didn't buy an MSY, but still want to be included in horrible shit that would make Anthony Comstock shit his pants, PM me your address.  You will then receive 1 depraved letter (or maybe more than a letter, if I can find an object that properly expresses how I feel about you) every 6 weeks or so.  I will also reply to any replies I get, as I have time (over and above the 5 letters/week).  

For those who wish to participate - or if I get your address by any means, no matter how shady - bear in mind the spirit of the exercise here, and rest assured that I (probably) will NOT actually show up at your house wearing nothing but a loincloth, a Samoan war club, and a slaphappy grin.

You will not be told in advance when a letter is sent.

When I finish the first set of letters, and begin the second, I will post the first run of letters here, along with any responses I get (unless you ask me not to).

Okay for now,
Dok

ETA:  Running totals:

Completed:

Kel & Badge*
Kai*
Nonpublished
Fred
Cram
Richter*
Devil Squirrel (old member)
Nigel
Remington*
Charley Brown*
Thurna
Syn
Alty
Nast*
LMNO*
Vexation
Dimo
Net*
Cainad*
Bella/HFLS
Doktor Vitriol
Squid*
Jenne*
Hoops
Pixie
Triple Zero
Badbeast*
Faust*
Payne*
Lizzay
Risus
ECH
Iason*
Suu*
Khara*
Stella
Michal
EoC*
Telarus
Sigmatic
Iptuous
Captain Utopia
Babylon Horuv
Peleus
Sister Gothique
Tactically Evil Dan
Bones
Nephew Twiddington*
Burns
Daruko
Iron Sulfide*
Hat
Uncle Dad

Asterixes mean I have recevied some sort of snail mail response.  I will only be doing a second mailing based on people who have responded, and only those responses which some snail mail (Emails, PMs, and posts here don't count).

Non-completed:

Muir
EBS
Roaring Biscuit
Rumckle
BDS
Lysergic
Nurse Rhizome

Why didn't anyone tell me?   

http://www.cnn.com/2010/WORLD/americas/05/31/honduras.storm.emergency/index.html?hpt=T1

1.  Locking people out of his blog is an adult thing to do.

2.  Anyone remembering this behavior of his is not acting like an adult.

3.  Taking down content after being owned is an adult thing to do.

4.  Posting some sissy-ass crybaby shit in the first place is an adult thing to do.

Also, his website skills are unmatched:  http://discordia.egypt-media.com/

"unconfigured site".   

Guess I'll just have to do this the hard way.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jimmy_Carter_rabbit_incident

http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-503544_162-20005474-503544.html

Now that the Tea Party-backed Rand Paul has the GOP nomination for Kentucky's open Senate seat, the media and his Democratic opponent are pouncing on his extreme libertarian views -- particularly with respect to his position on racism in private businesses and whether he would have supported the 1964 Civil Rights Act.

In an interview on NPR yesterday, host Robert Siegel asked Paul, the son of libertarian hero and former presidential candidate Rep. Ron Paul (R-Texas), whether the Civil Rights Act went too far. Seigel noted that Paul has said in the past that the Americans with Disabilities Act was an overreach of the federal government.

"What I've always said is that I'm opposed to institutional racism, and I would've, had I've been alive at the time, I think, had the courage to march with Martin Luther King to overturn institutional racism, and I see no place in our society for institutional racism," Paul said.

However, he added:

    "I think a lot of things could be handled locally. For example, I think that we should try to do everything we can to allow for people with disabilities and handicaps. You know, we do it in our office with wheelchair ramps and things like that. I think if you have a two-story office and you hire someone who's handicapped, it might be reasonable to let him have an office on the first floor rather than the government saying you have to have a $100,000 elevator. And I think when you get to the solutions like that, the more local the better, and the more common sense the decisions are, rather than having a federal government make those decisions."

Later on MSNBC's "Rachel Maddow Show" yesterday evening, Paul was pressed on the specific question of whether he thinks the government should prohibit private businesses from discriminating on the basis of race -- he refused to give a straight answer.

"Should we limit speech from people we find abhorrent?" Paul asked. "Should we limit racists from speaking? I don't want to be associated with those people, but I also don't want to limit their speech in any way, in the sense that we tolerate boorish and uncivilized behavior because that's one of the things that freedom requires... that we allow people to be boorish and uncivilized, but that doesn't mean we approve of it."

I'm thinking Mr Rand Paul might be needing some "help", if you catch my drift.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ut-UPttf-dg&feature=related

Go to 8:30.   

Dear Richter,

They came and took Harry away, today.  There was no choice, really.  He was working away, just like always, and then he started banging his wrenches on the table, like he was playing the drums.  I asked him what the fuck he was doing, and he said he was trying to get the Native American "ghost dance" effect.

He said that if he could just pound out the right riff, when he stopped, he'd be in the right universe.  One where his son wasn't killed in Iraq, where his daughter wasn't unemployed and desperate, and where we weren't heading back to the 1950s with weird Jim Crow laws.

He pounded on the welding bench with those wrenches, and it was actually a pretty catchy tune.  He smiled at me, still playing, and said that this universe was obviously broken, and that there was a perfectly good one somewhere, and he just had to find it.  He said that if he found it, he'd tell me how to get there, if he had time.

I smiled back, and said that I had a few things to take care of.  I went to the office and called the police and an ambulance, of course.  Harry was obviously having some kind of breakdown, and  I figured I better get some help, quick.

And you know what, Richter?  Tucson's emergency services are efficient as hell, because in the 5 minutes that I was gone from the shop, they had already come and gotten him.  All that was left was the two wrenches sitting on the table.

Or maybe they're not so efficient, you know?  Because 30 minutes later, they showed up, looking for Harry.  I told them there must have been a mistake at dispatch, because he had already been picked up.  They called in, and they said that nobody had been by prior to them.  Sounds like dispatch messed up pretty bad.  Or maybe Harry just wandered off into the desert.  That sort of thing has happened before.

So now I have to arrange for a new mechanic, Richter.  I'll do it on Monday.  This afternoon I'm heading out to the Indian Restaurant I like so much.  Hopefully, they'll be open again, what with being closed for a bit while the police verified the owner's right to be a person.

Okay for now,
Dok

One thing about Tucson is, it makes you value your friends.  It does this by randomly taking them away.  It does this with a disproportionate number of traffic accidents, or by making them junkies, or by them being shot or stabbed and tossed in a dumpster.  Or it just makes them recluses, or narcissistic basket cases who suddenly decide that all of their friends are somehow beneath them.

Fact is, you and I are beneath most of our friends, if you think about it.  We all have our failings, our dirty secrets, our regular old human foibles and faults that - taken together, with no filters - might make us seem to be somewhat of a collection of feces.

However, the great thing about friends is that they get to know you, and they still like you.  And if you're willing to pitch that away by exhibiting casual contempt for them, or by neglecting them, then you deserve the loneliness that you'll eventually experience, when folks around you finally catch on to your amiable disdain.

People don't like being spoken down to...It's harder to stomach than outright hostility, particularly when done "drive by" style.  Condescension, like many other things, can't really be taken back, at least not too many times.  After a while, people begin to doubt your sincerity.

Case in point:  At our local gameshop, there's a new-er guy by the name of Erin.  Funny guy, very witty.  He was a big hit for quite some time.  He started several new projects, organized a lot of things.  Then, one day, a few of us were tagging the front of the entire strip mall across the way with stickers and sidewalk chalk.  When I walked in to buy a soda, he asked what we were doing.  I told him, and invited him out to see.

"Oh, well, I suppose I better let you show me what you're so proud of."

"What the fuck?  Don't bother, if it's going to be a chore."

"No, let's go look at your fun."

He walked across, and took a look.  Then he turned to me and said, "Very cute.  Golf clap."

I honestly didn't know what to say.  My first instinct was to stomp him, but that didn't seem appropriate.  But the next time I stopped in at the store, he said hey, and I walked right past him.  He seemed puzzled, but that wasn't exactly my problem, was it?  I haven't spoken to him since...I have no time for people who think casual humiliation is somehow amusing, for the same reason I don't watch sitcoms (which seem to be based exclusively on humiliation and embarrassment, ho ho!).  From what I gather, he still doesn't understand why I won't give him the time of day, and I see no reason to explain it to him.  His value as a friend evaporated the instant he decided to treat me (and the people who were helping me) like a retarded child.

Funny thing is, it seems that I'm not the only one who feels that way about him. 

Burn enough bridges, and you can't get to anyone, anymore.  Treat people as if you're doing a favor by talking to them, and you'll find that you won't need to do many more "favors".  Act like you're too good for people, and they'll oblige your sensibilities by giving you what you want: Solitude in your fortress of arrogance.

Okay for now,
Dok.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=crfGXmxJ1vM&feature=player_embedded

Oh, yeah.  There will be rejoicing among the WalMart "Mobility Scooter" crowd.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/B-58_Hustler



FLOWN BY ECH AGAINST TEH COMMIES.

Wladziu Valentino Liberace was quite possibly the nicest man in show business.  He was, of course, as gay as K.D. Lang's mullet, in a time when that was not socially acceptable...But nobody seemed to mind.  He always had a big smile, he was always happy to perform, and he always seemed surprised and grateful that so many people came to hear him play the piano.  

He was, the story goes, just as nice offstage, and he would spend hours after each show signing autographs, free of charge.  It drove his manager nuts, but Liberace always said that he loved his audience as much as they loved him, and he didn't want anyone to be disappointed.

But some time in the late 70s or maybe the early 80s, the world changed.  It grew colder, and poorer in spirit, and suddenly there was no time for a smiling old queer with a genius for piano.  The fans still came, but more in desperation than anything else...Though no longer the highest paid entertainer in the world, he still packed them in, masses of people listening to music 20 years out of style, trying to remember what life was like when Liberace wasn't the only person smiling.

Then, one day in 1987, he left.  He didn't even have time to say goodbye.  His fans never held it against him, but life just wasn't the same without the flamboyant old man beaming out his love of his music and his fans.  They had loved him, and he loved them back.

The cleaning crew at the Radio City Music Hall say that they can sometimes still hear him playing, late at night.  The management wanted to hire an exorcist, but the janitors threatened to strike.  

Because they know that at 2 AM in Radio City Music Hall, it's always 1979.  Reagan and Clinton and Bush never happened, and there aren't tens of thousands of wounded veterans being neglected, and there isn't a Camp X-Ray, and those towers never fell.  There's no PATRIOT Act and things aren't so crowded and busy.  There isn't a future full of fears and fresh scrawls on horror's scrolls.

There's just a gaudy old man and a piano.  And a smile.

Okay for now,
Dok  

We've been travelling in this rig together for, what, 2 weeks?  Covered a lot of ground, even though you obviously can't take a turn at driving.  It's just nice to have someone to talk to, helps keep me awake, you know, makes the hours go by. 

But there's a couple of things I just have to mention.

First, you're starting to stink a little.  There's no excuse for that sort of thing in cramped quarters.  No offense, now, I'm just saying.  It's getting a little thick in here.

Second, I want my knife back.  My daddy gave it to me when he retired, and it's kind of an heirloom.

So hold still a minute while I yank it out of your head.

Here, let me fix your hair.  There.  At least you don't wear it all long and messy, like most hitch-hikers.

Damn.  Lights went out.

The Dok accidentally took 4mg instead of 2mg of his kickass anti-seizure thingies, and requires assistance.

Send me your women.  Dok is in the midst of a chemically-fueled mating frenzy, and you DON'T want him coming down out of these mountains.  The women should not resemble tweakers, and should be equiped with a full set of football pads and probably tasers (to let me know when to switch out).

SEND THEM.  SEND THEM NOW, BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE.

Sir:

Don't think we aren't on to you.  You stay your ass in Alaska, you degenerate.  Anyway, there's no permafrost for you to eat down here, so you'd starve anyway.  You fucking Artic weirdos are all alike.  Just stay up there and do your civic duty by knocking one of Palin's daughters up.  Your kind we can do without, down here in our sunny paradise.  You'd just ruin it with your heathen ways.

Sincerely,
Dok

WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?

GET YOUR WOOKIE PORN SOMEWHERE ELSE!  THIS IS A FAMILY BOARD!

He shot down the flying doctor.  Fact.

If a younger me fell through a wormhole back in 1985, and got a look at me now, he'd be aghast.  A kid who only cared about sex, drugs, and rock n roll looking at his future self, sitting in an office at a refinery, brooding while spinning a pencil in his hands like in that old Don Henley video (My colleagues think I'm brooding over work issues.  I'm not.).

Jesus, how the hell did I get here?

How did I ever find myself in Big Oil, strung out on stress medication, and thinking about a girl that's thousands of miles away?  When did I stop chasing what I wanted?  At what point did I become so fucking obnoxiously complacent?

This kind of shit sneaks up on you, I think.  One weekend, you just fuck off and don't go out, because work kinda kicked your ass...Then you wake up and months have gone by since you shot anything.  There's plenty of challenge, but no fun.  Even abusing evangelists has worn thin.

Something must be done.

Okay for now,
Dok

Threw a blacksmith mallet at a 3" scorpion on the other side of my office, and smashed that fucker flat.

Dok,
Mjollner for hire, will travel.

I regret to inform you that Mangrove is no longer with us.  At 2:00 this morning, he was torn to pieces by latex fetishists for reasons that have not been properly explained. 

Mangrove was a freak, from the day he was born.  He was an unruly child, and was expelled from the American school system after The Incident.  Details were never made public, as he was a minor, and the teacher in question still hasn't remembered how to speak English, so we'll probably never know.

In his later life, he was a highly-paid killer for the Antignano gang, as well as being their lawyer and literary agent.  Despite his horrible handicap, the police were never able to pin anything on him, Even on those occasions where he was seen running the streets with blood on his shirt and bits of flesh hanging from his grotesquely protruding teeth.

The necklace he fashioned from the foreskins of his victims will be placed on private display at the Smithsonian, next to John Dillinger's penis, and other examples of freakery best not viewed by the general public.  His patents revert to Mama Diabo's House of Bondage.

Viewing will be private, and the funeral will take place in Los Angeles, where the 55 gallon drum he's been stuffed into will be tipped into a drainage canal, hopefully to be carried out to sea.  It's better that way.

So goodbye, Mang, you hideous fucking freak.  You will not be missed in high society, but you will be mourned by your people, in the shitty bodegas and the places where low men gather.  You were a giant among them, and their lives will never be the same.

Okay for now,
Dok

I'd like to apologize for going the fuck off on you the way I did.  I read more into what you said than you intended, I think, and I acted like an ass.

I'll understand if you can't accept this apology, but I wanted to do it anyway, and since my behavior was public, the apology needed to be public, too.

[The First Pillar: Discord.]

The house of Eris is held up by five pillars, five concepts that have kept this board and this way of life going for 8 years now.  Not everyone has any use for all five of these, but to attempt to eliminate one or more of them is to begin the gradual destruction of the user base (this is already happening, after the no-fluff crusade a month or so ago).

These five pillars are:

The First Pillar:  Discord.  Drama and infighting have always been a part of PD, right from the very beginning.  Sometimes it's low key, sometimes it's mad screeching and hollering, all over the board.  It's not ALL of what Discordia is, but it IS an intrinsic part.  If this makes you pull up your skirts and shriek, maybe you should find out wherever Paes scurried off to, and join him.  Eris wants no sissies.

The Second Pillar:  Fluff.  Fluff has also always been part of PD.  It's where we get some of our best ideas, and it's also a way people have fun.  Remember fun?  That thing you used to have before you became srsly srs?  Now, I'm not advocating a return to the days when Hugh and Malaul ran through EVERY THREAD babbling about cookies and pie and tequila stabbity stabbity, but fluff threads themselves are pretty fucking obvious, and if you don't like it, don't click. 

The recent attempt at a crackdown on fluff cut our user base by a third, and did not increase content.  In fact, content went down with it.  Nobody likes being humiliated publicly when their thread name is changed to some demeaning shit, or when someone comes onto a thread where people are having a conversation and berates them for having that conversation.  Fluff never hurt a fucking thing, and it's actually half the reason many of our longer-term users still come here.  If you're that butthurt by people having an innocent conversation, then an exciting new career in the cat-herding field, or perhaps the Mormon Church, may be for you.

The Third Pillar:  Rants.  This is fairly self-evident, but there's a couple of issues here that ought to be addressed.  The first is that nobody is actually required to read your rants, or having read them, respond to them.  Sometimes people don't have time or energy to dish out a page and a half describing your greatness and wit, and they express themselves with mittens.  It's better than nothing.  Granted, it IS disappointing to pound out a thousand words and get no responses, but life is full of little disappointments like this.  If you can't handle it, go save the world with blogs.  Or take over for Krugmann when he retires.

The other thing is derails.  Threads ARE going to derail, but why fucking hurry it?  Think before you post; if your gem of wisdom has nothing to do with the actual OP, start a new thread.  On the other hand, when a legitimate point in a response causes the thread to drift, it's not the end of the world.  The point is the discussion, not an endless rehash of the OP.  If, however, you just feel the need to fuck with a thread to show how zany you are, don't cry when you get your very own unlimited thread.

The Fourth Pillar:  Discussions/Projects/Pranks.  If they're political, God help you.  That being said, if you're bringing up the same argument for the 30th time, expect the same rebuttal for the 30th time.  Also, if you're trying to convert people to libertarianism, Catholicism, Liberalism, Conservativism, etc, then you are probably at the wrong place, and while you are by all means welcome to remain, perhaps you should evangelize elsewhere.  Of course, that's not what's going to happen, so wear a fucking helmet.  And as for you who are offended by the 500th Libertarianism thread in a month, again, don't fucking click.  How goddamn hard is it?

The beautiful thing about PD is, you can bring your latest genius idea here, whether it be political theory or an idea for a prank, throw it to the howling masses, and watch them tear it to bits.  If it survives this place, it's almost certainly a valid idea.  But don't whimper when it's ripped to bits.  If that really bothers you, you probably should post it on a board that's already dedicated to something similar, where everyone will tell you what a genius you are.

The Fifth Pillar:  Friends.  Many of us have been here for years, and I consider many of you just as much of a friend as anyone in "real life" (with the exception that I probably haven't puked on you).  If you're one of those people who thinks that treating people here like shit is okay and hilarious because "it's only the internet", then you're probably better off at 4Chan or Camp Idiot, among other psychopaths of your kind.

Now, please don't take the above as an order for certain types of people to vacate.  Instead, think of the above as a set of suggestions as to where you might have better luck posting certain things or behaving a certain way when you feel the need.  Eris' house has many rooms, and not everyone has to do everything in the bathroom.  Fucking perverts.

Okay for now,
Dok

That thug from Southampton has murdered him and ate him.   

I've tried everything.  I've hauled it out and rebuilt it, I've been over it with a fine tooth comb, tried new fuel, everything.  The damn thing still won't work right.  I'm really at my wit's end.

So I took a short break, I guess, and listened to an old Confederate Railroad song, The Queen of Memphis, smoked a cheap cigar in my office, and swilled some coffee.  Thinking, you know, "What would Payne do?"  Took a short walk outside, texted a friend, and said something pointlessly nice to our receptionist, a sweet lady with truly unfortunate looks.   

Then I watched a road runner the size of a goddamn chicken cruise across the back 40, and it was poetry in motion at about 30MPH, just beautiful.  It wasn't hunting, I think, I'm pretty sure it was running just for the joy of it, because maybe that's the only mode of pleasure you can fit into a brain the size of a thimble.

Then I chatted with a couple of my guys, you know, mostly as a way to give them a bit of a break from a tedious job I have them on, and wandered over to the back of my building again, and called my grandfather just to say hello.

When I got back into my office, wouldn't you know it?  The damn thing works again.

Okay for now,
Dok

I keep hearing this shit about authenticity or originality of music, about how this band or that band is just a knockoff of bands that preceded them...How Elvis ripped off Roy Orbison & Big Bill Broonzy, or how Memphis Lil wasn't really from Memphis, you know what I mean.

But so what?  Warren Ellis ripped off Hunter S Thompson's style, and HST ripped off H.L. Mencken, and Mencken ripped off Samuel Clemmens.  But I still like to read Warren Ellis.

It's not about any of that shit, LMNO, it's about getting people out of their seats.  It's about getting people to dance or at least feel something.  Roy Orbison could make you feel like your heart was breaking, even if your life was everything you wanted it to be.  Brad Paisley can make you feel like things are getting better, that life is GOOD, even if your life is collapsing around you.

And I think that's what art is, man.  It's a way to communicate emotion at a visceral level...If you see Guernica and don't feel any different, you probably don't have a soul.  Art isn't the province of some bitchy elite, forever moaning about the pedestrian masses and their lack of appreciation.  If you're an artist, those pedestrian masses are your actual canvass.  If your music or your painting or whatever you do causes a portion of those masses, however small, to sit up and feel what you feel, then you've succeeded.

This is why I feel that artists are quite possibly the most important part of any culture.  The rest of any society concentrates on making life possible...Artists of all kinds make life worth having.

Okay for now,
Dok

Yeah, it's great here, isn't it?  I have 500 channels to watch, satellite radio, an Ipod, games on my phone, and I can talk to any number of ignorant yahoos on the internet.  I have the house and two cars, the gym membership, and all the pills I can shovel down my throat.  It's fucking GREAT!

The only problem is, I can now ONLY relate to machines, because everyone I know does that and nothing else.  We have goddamn ZOMBIES walking through the malls and the airports, talking to their Bluetooths™, they're surrounded by thousands of people they look right through, while they're talking - presumably - to someone hundreds of miles away.  If you believe that.  It's no use visiting my friends, because they're busy "socializing" online, at Deviant Art, Facebook, or just "stumbling".  Whole lives trickle away, and nobody really notices.  It's normal, now.

Now that we all have Ipods, you can't catch a decent show anymore, at least not in this hellhole.  I suppose I could go to the Casino and watch some fossilized never-was, but that isn't rock n roll.  There isn't any more rock n roll, man, it's all just canned shit you download from some "file sharing" site in Russia.  Well, you can settle for Justin Beiber, I guess.  Does that count?

It's fucking LONELY up here in these goddamn mountains, LMNO.  I have 1.1 million people within the greater Tucson area, but they're all a million miles away.  I live in a fucking mausoleum.  Nothing but corpses until you get to San Diego, and I'm not feeling optimistic about that place, either.  I'm starting to think that I missed the fucking Zombiepocalypse.

But, shit yeah, I live in the Boomtown™.  And only I live there.  Everyone else is dead.  Shambling corpses clutching their personal electronics and pretending that they're still alive.

They're all DEAD, MAN!  Can't you fucking SMELL IT?

Okay for now,
Dok

Jim, while I am definitely not going to claim to be an authority on Discordianism, I am entitled to and do have my own opinions on what qualifies or disqualifies a person.  Let me stress that again:  In my eyes, there are some things that preclude you from being a Discordian, as I understand it.  There.  Enough e-prime.

It is my opinion that when you start identifying with the various fake ideologies that the monkeys have all bought, you drop on your knuckles and no longer qualify as a biped...This, in turn, disqualifies you as a Discordian for the duration of your error.  This would include political, economic, religious, and fraternal beliefs. 

For example, if you identify yourself as a "Libertarian" or a "Liberal" or a "Baptist" or an "American Legionaire", then that's what you are.  Enjoy it.  Don't try to redefine Discordianism to fit your new and ridiculous beliefs.  All of the above are monkey traps, and while you have the perfect right to crawl right into one and close the cage behind you, please don't get your poop all over the rest of us.  We'll still be here when you remember how to think, and - as the man said - you can come back, baby, rock n roll never forgets.

We are not on ANY of their sides, as none of them are on OUR side.

One test of humanity is whether or not you spend all day trying to pound square pegs into round holes...By which I mean whether you try to warp and twist some ideology you think looks GREAT on paper into functioning in the real world.    If you're in the habit of doing this, then you'd be better off joining the organization that most closely resembles your belief, and then riding it WHOLE HOG, until the inherent idiocies make themselves plain to you.  This may be the only way to cure yourself, and even if you don't, you'll have more fun than the other monkeys you're associating with.

This seems to be the solution for a lot of things...Take it, and then run it right to the wall.  If it can't stand the strain, it's not valid.  If the others can't handle the strange bodily fluids you emit, or the strange howlings of the rock n roll you blast while you stress-test their system, then you'll know the truth.

It even happens here.  When things go in the shitter, the weak-kneed so-called "Discordians" get all huffy and "throw a Paes", and piss off until things are nice and safe and vanilla again.  This century isn't going to be kind to them, I think.  In fact, I think it's going to be a real bummer.

Which is okay.  More fun for the rest of us.

Okay for now,
Dok

There's very little to be said in favor of daily hour-long treadmill fests.  They're boring, they hurt (if you're doing them right), and 15 minutes into it, you're too miserable to properly enjoy the hottie on the machine ahead of you.  They DO, however, carve fat off like a motherfucker, and do nice things for your heart.

So you do it.  You smile through the pain, and keep moving, and eventually the hour is over.

I have to say that this applies to a lot of things.  Whether it's getting out of a bad relationship, walking away from a job you hate, or just another Friday night at the Meatrack, the pain will eventually end, and you'll be better off for the experience.

Curly and Payne, God rest their souls, understood this.  You never saw either one of them moping...They always had a bright, cheerful smile, even if it didn't always reach their eyes.  They're both dead now, of course, and the manner of their passing was gruesome, but while they were here, they got it.  Life may be painful at times, but - if you're doing it right - the good times outweigh the bad...If you can remember to enjoy them when they arrive.

Captain Ahab, on the contrary...Well, he went through the pain and scowled.  He kept on scowling, consumed by revenge (for the loss of a leg to a creature he was trying to kill at the time, ironically enough), and he wound up getting himself and everyone who followed him killed.  Not that anyone in Providence missed him, of course...He was a belligerent drunk with the bad habit of shitting in the church poor box when the mood took him, and everyone hated him so much they got Herman Melville to immortalize him in bad prose.

So where's the relevance?  Easy.  Judging from the "who's online" function, half the board just sits and scowls at their computer, coming here largely out of habit alone, I assume.  Things have gotten too bitter, some say, and the steady loss of posters is the result of the hate and the anger and the drama.

Well, whose fault is that?  This board is what we make it.  All of us, even - especially - the self-righteous folks who are too busy saying "OH THE DRAMA" to have time to say something constructive.

Are you a Captain Ahab, clinging to your hate and anger, unable or unwilling to post something worth reading because you can't stop scowling long enough?  Or will you be Curly or Payne, and show up with a smile and something to say?

The world is full of Ahabs.  If that's what you want, go drive in rush hour traffic, or hang out with teabaggers.  I much prefer the company of Curly and Payne.

Okay for now,
Dok

So, yeah, you're the maintenance chief, and therefore you are to blame for things when they break.  It doesn't matter that the installation was properly done, and that the parts were good...and that some geek in operations left the agitator on when he pumped the product over to the feed tanks, allowing the agitator to freewheel, and thus bend.  No, you're the maintenance chief, so when something breaks, you're responsible.  Heaven forbid the little darlings take responsibility for their actions, right?  As long as the management team believes that improper operation isn't happening, they don't have to deal with an ugly situation.  But their belief doesn't prevent the plant from hemmoraging money, does it?

But it's not just the plant, Richter.  I can look on tables and see at which point a bolt will sheer, or a strut fail, or when metal will anneal.  This data is all available, and has been for more than a hundred years.  But where is the information listed that shows when a human will bend and break?  What is the rated crush depth of a man?

Sometimes the question is physical, and easier to answer.  How much actual weight can a human pick up?  This can be answered, on an individual basis, simply by testing and gathering data.  Sometimes the question is emotional...How often can you have your heart broken, before it becomes a mass of callouses and you stop giving a shit?  This requires destructive testing.  You can't really know until failure occurs.

And sometimes it's a little deeper.  How often can your basic assumptions of how the world (and the people on it) operates, and still give a shit about whether or not it functions at all?  Or even worse, how long before you protect your ideological territory by wrapping yourself in a belief system, and not allowing yourself or anyone else to question it?  It's a lot of work to get yourself out of that trap, and most people aren't willing to do it.

For example, for decades I believed that somewhere, some place, there were people who could see the world the way it really was...That could deal with facts on their own merit, and not hammer them into weird shapes that fit a pre-existing ideology that they've fallen in love with...That could deal with a situation logically and fairly, without screaming and planting their heels.

First, I thought these people were the Church of the Subgenius.  They seemed to have their shit together, at least at first, but sometime around 1994 they turned into a collection of tragically hip retards who endlessly cycle the same tired jokes, and worse.  I watched on alt.slack, as one lady asked a simple question, and was told that the person asking "has no time to cater to fangirls".  Needless to say, I won't be asking any questions of them.

Then I tried out Discordianism.  I had been around the scene since the 80s, but only peripherally until about 2000 or so.  For quite some time, I really enjoyed myself...Until the inevitable happened, and the horde turned and began to feed on itself.  People that startled me with their humor and their intelligence - myself included, I imagine - began to stake out intellectual turf, and did their level best to wound anyone who intruded on that territory.  It's been like that for 6 months now, and I don't see it getting any better.  It won't.  It can't.  We've built our comfortable Black Iron prisons, and we'll punish anyone who tries to free us.

Who would have guessed that we'd reach our collective breaking point at about the same time?

Well, that's going to change, at least in my case.  I am abandoning politics, and any attempt to talk anyone out of anything, no matter how accurate or inaccurate their beliefs are.  There's simply no percentage in it.  My focus from now on will be strictly limited to punishing the primates for their various and sundry follies, and "solutions" will not be attempted or even considered.  Humans won't listen to solutions unless those solutions agree with what they already believe, and that includes each and every one of us.  "Science" is impossible, because everyone in the world today operates strictly on beliefs they've converted to, opposing facts notwithstanding.  Man "thinks", and the Gods laugh.

So have your beliefs, mortals, and be damned.

Okay for now,
Dok