Humans Ripped My Flesh

I am a weasel.

I prey after small vermin. I pounce upon them with small, sharp fangs. I drag them back to my den where I rip out their entrails, with which to savor and share with my young.

But...

Someone wants to accord me rights.
Someone wants me to roam unfettered, and live as they believe my nature dictates.
Someone wants to smugly chirp at the end of some Hollywood production, “No animals were harmed in the making of this docudrama.”

Yet...

I am still a weasel.

I still prey after small vermin. I still pounce upon them with small, sharp fangs. I still drag them back to my den where I rip out their entrails, with which to savor and share with my young.

So why? Why am I torn? Why am I exalted as the cuddly poster child for ‘animal innocence’ by insecure humans? Why is some neo-zoological nobility bestowed upon me when all I want to do is eat and reproduce?

Why have humans ripped my flesh?

Actually, that doesn’t rule.

Naugahyde Transfusion
Synapse Confusion


The frenzied bash display grasping for a day in the spotlight they chased down just to smooth a frown
Attention-baiting magnets whether they’re Classless Tards or Art Faggottes
Desperation is all the same when you Outer Crutch hides your Inner Lame

Reaction? Swish, swish at the glaring inconvenience of reality
doo-doo flies mocking brickbats
Anomalous jolt to the shadow


“It is the realization of our aspiration we hope to punge along with heartiest reprisal manifesting our sensibilities... We cannot help being particular about Neander-Transgressions...” sayeth the Pungalord.

Duty Calls in Sickbay. Where is the Doctor?

Going beyond the role
Always presenting a sense of freshness
He has the leading hand

The uniform maketh not the man
nor does holding hair of seasick maiden
Dramamine and cognac are not the cure
for a bedside manner so craven

The Oily Oracle: Lights... Camera... Hosanna!

Mistaking their own showboating for avant lifestyles, play-tards push other people’s tolerance thresholds...


“And what do you have to share...?”
Something good? The credit’s allll yours.
Something bad? Let the blamestorming begin. (Or, simply bask in Victim’s Pride.)

Sprawled in the comfy chair under the spotlight, who can resist palaverous preening and spinning tales of “empowerment?” Or tales of woe?
And lo and behold, professional back-patters appear like clockwork, ever-ready to fulsomely goad our guests to slog ever faster on the Vanity Treadmill.

And with ease our performers up the notches on the Narcissism Index™ with a bland defense of Doing Your Own Thang. This hunger for Validity Bestowed is simply an Oproid fantasy where a matrix of vague sociological frameworks gives players a free pass to either attribute notoriety and/or luck to Brave Stances, or to shrug off freewill options in order to paint selves as helpless pawns.
[The Oracle telling you what you want to hear. Hmph. Some oracle.]

And where have we seen this pattern before?

• Self-proclaimed rogue “anti-establishment” entities proffering commodified rebellion who have, in reality, become The Establishment themselves.
• The wanting to do just about anything with Relative Justification as Convenient Guarantor.
• “Inspiration” i.e. self-replicating memes that deliver said Justification by overriding reasoner code.

Perhaps Agent Smith can explain how this makes his job easier. See, it is his Oproid-High-5 Meta-Balm that gently invites others to soothe into dependence on the system, giving them sanction for their dance of the naïveté polka. All for show, of course. Little do they realize they’re getting karmically nailed in the end by not ‘fessing up to the obvious:

They are in the Desert in the Real.

Gleet: Cuz it's 'funny'

It's funny
...when looking toughest
can come across as cartoon
bringing hearty laughs!

demands to save face
dictate a witty comeback
bathetic squirming!

it's all so clear
as you are turning beet red
flex at distractions!

stompin' and cussin'
Acme™ products just don't help
look at the funny!

It's Gleet!

Containment: Recoding the Frustration of Kali

frustrato forces containment breach
writhe on the floor, point to the wall
the obvious there for any to reach
but human combust overrides all

frothing in place shows one's patience

The Hell that was the Vertol Waiting Room

Circa the days before “Take Your Kid to Work Day”
School’s out... how do you keep the kid occupied? Drag ‘em along on sales calls.

DATELINE: Waterfront industrial sector. Low-rise buildings, sprawling parking lots and heliports baking under the sun.
With important aerospace clients to be dealt with, Courier One leaves our agent left to idle in the waiting room.

Time passes all too slowly. Mundane details are amplified by the quiet, stifling heat: the decade-old wood paneling... yellowing magazines and mildew-stained blinds... The stillness of awaiting businessmen slouched in cheap chairs lining the room. Dusty sunbeams creeping through louvers, the unbearable humidity brings our agent’s attention to the slovenly executive seated directly in front of him.

Time slows even more with every iota noticed... Sweat trickling down a greasy brow... Over-sized tongue lapping slowly and steadily at a melting popsicle, vanilla rivulets crawling down a double chin... Beady eyes focusing unblinkingly at our agent, seeing his suffering without relief in the intolerable heat.
Drip.

Drip.

Our agent chokes back tears of frustration. He sees the thoughts flickering behind our businessman’s eyes in between each slurp of his oozing refreshment:
The still, silent sadism of seeing others squirm.

Another drop of sweat: Drip.

The petty chuckle of hollow schadenfreude.

Another drop of vanilla: Drip.

And lo, the Timeless Voice from Above:

Agent: Take yourself outside of the moment and look at the picture.
You know wrong when you see it.
And you see it in this infernal vestibule.
And so what kind of man does it take to laugh at unjust misery? Know he cannot be of substantial depth or hold a modicum of taste with his gluttonous habits and reliance on material comforts.
The karmic wheel is already in motion, going around, going in circles, going nowhere, so this room of waiting with fumes unabating seems a fit recompense.
And should you see and learn, even though suffering yourself, you will follow the right path in Mahayana’s Great Vehicle with Dharma Wheels spinning and pushing you forward... Sutra Discriminating the Intention... No more waiting... no more waiting... no more waiting... ... ...

Derwood Smokes Doob

“Time is not on my side... But since I’m in denial..."


Mid-Life Crises in adult males tend to manifest in modes contingent upon the depth of the individual's life outlook. The classic textbook scenario paints a picture of one, who, after years of fronting the image of a "successful," albeit empty career (same can be claimed of marriage, social standing, and personal growth), realizes said emptiness and the futility therein. Self-insult adds to self-injury when the subject remedies his Situation by making comically desperate grasps at out-of-date youth symbology and faux-rebel stances.

This bourgeois dabbling in anachronistic self-actualization is only confounded by the vast array of hedonistic options available.

Alas, no amount of witchcraft can bring him what he probably never had, yet most definitely lost if he did.

Sunshine Tactik: Mano a braino

Situational Advisory: Mammon expositions of Cabal gudgeons demand measures be taken to gut efficacy of fumbling kakistocrats.

What are you talking about?

(A top-shelf requiem to those who have suffered under inEppt management everywhere)

ONE HELL OF A WAY to start a work day, man. I am really baffled by your memo this morning which implies that I have failed somehow to execute my duties with respect to the Tiki Temple or, more specifically, a request from you to do something. On the contrary, neither is the case.

Please don’t mis-direct blame at me for deficiencies in your instructions, whether lack of clarity or lack of correspondence with reality. You have misrepresented what appears to be a misunderstanding on one or both of our parts, turning the situation around to suggest that I have willfully disobeyed your orders.

My personal feelings aside, I resent this undocumented, unjustified smear on my professional behavior, and I will not accept it.
I have no interest in the unnecessary, unresolvable conflict introduced by your tactic, except that the untenable and mutually disadvantageous positions in which we are placed be immediately abandoned.

Among other accomplishments during my tenure at Tiki Temple, I have familiarized myself with Idol Access, saving us from scores of angry spirits. By helping to keep our present anemic temple in operation, to the limits of its capacity, I have enabled our investors to comfortably reject the five-figure expenditures proposed for temple upgrades by your predecessors. I have used my familiarity to improve communication between the people and idols, which helps us in our mission. I have done all of this (save acquisition) without instruction, taking initiative to apply my talents where I have seen a need. I have received no training nor financial support — from this temple or elsewhere — towards these achievements.

What remains unclear is what you are asking me to do. I have plenty else to do. I’d rather I never accessed an idol for you again than have as my thanks the accusation of obstruction. If necessary, I will relinquish my access to this temple — and to all other aspects of my involvement here — to avoid having my name and professional reputation contaminated by implications of misconduct.

Just let it be clear that I have not failed to follow your instructions.
Also, let it be clear that you have made it my priority today — Tuesday, the day before the arrival of Tiki Prime — to respond to your accusation.

— Rev. Tiki Resbo

The crisis at TikiTemple is now over.
Pissed-Off Tiki was ousted — much as he deserved to be. Be assured that the temple remains by its cause and still strives to bring followers the best in Idol Access.

On doubt.

ƒnc+σ
• neurochemical reactions
• function of biology plus stimulus

euv
• ego utility vehicle
• social machinations
• questioning of brain chemistry

Attraction...
It can freeze a man like the electromagnetic pulse before a nuclear event. The interim, either seconds or years; the blast itself, either immolation or ecstasy.

...and what follows?
Is what the heart says simply sleight of mind? Does the subconscious justify a simple need for feeling? Or is this yin-yang a combo of both, blurring the seams of certainty?

Gut/Heart/Mind as Rock/Paper/Scissors
Paralysis lies in the questioning of multiple yet unilateral truths, parallel yet intertwining like DNA helices (never to meet?) spiraling like confetti out of the genetic code, dictating drives, desires and cortical functions to one following Biology’s orders.

Solution..?
Is it time to put over-reasoning aside and allow a smidgen of faith to take over? Why bother to consciously dissect the minutiae of every stroke when you already know red flags would go up were Suspect Circumstance to occur?

It the fear of flawed reasoning that kills the fuel of desire, the teetering of transcendence, the energy of being alive — regardless of whence the feeling came. Reason per se need not be gutted, but put into proper perspective alongside the self-instinct of Faith to fend off That Which Drains.

Leonine Moonwalk

I was there.
All those animals. The habitat.
I was not scared.
An adventure unfurling...
Baboon crosswalks, ursine pageantry,
sauroid surveillance...
and the pièce de résistance...

Leonine Moonwalk


That which I was denied... a safari cut short,
the tropical Logos abrogated...
the faunal guide for me to defy gravity...

...impeded.

“For chrissakes, you’re cryin’ over not getting to jumpy-jump on some lion-shaped inflatable trampoline thingy... Why are you acting like a six-year-old..?”

“Because that’s what I am...”

I walk through that tunnel crying, not in fear of the lord of the jungle, but with frustration at the petty fettering in the communion with man’s construct of Mother Nature as intended for six-year-olds.

Garage Door Atlas saves wife's dog

Garage Door: The Inevitable Force upon PetMeat
— vs. —
Fifi: Preciousness at Bay

Who could conceive
one of mankind’s treasured friends
being inscrutably chewed
by a reputable convenience

and that a suitable
modern-day Atlas so dutiful
is there to deliver us all
from a crucible so futile..?


Schwartzman Saves the Day

ERS memo #CDEX092498-A

Fornax in Cælum

el levantamiento que fuma
y de batido y los corazones ardientes
se elevan en el cielo sin las paredes
ni la fundación para ceñir
un vuelo encendido
basado en pero la pasión solamente
se olvida de las dudas
y alcanza hacia arriba
para calentar los cielos

¡espéreme cielos!

Hop On In: The Emperor's New Wheels

Lost? You’re almost certainly lost as long as you’re still out there, four-wheelin’ the dusty road in the desert of your mind. Satisfying every whim with your hunger for attention, turbocharged nullibiety, and improved nepotation asserts your dude half. On the other hand, your penchant for eating boogers affirms your tard half. You wear yourself well, whatever you wear. Sweet. Just don’t forget the bib.

The 2006 APF 1200 Short Bus
by APF Orville Automotive

Der wiederkehrender Alptraum von der Luft

[View from the cockpit]

“Leveling off... visibility better... following interstate
CEILING HAZARD -- no clearance
We got power lines -- -- No lift... losing speed-- - throttle up..!"

STALL WARNING STALL WARN I N G
"losing altitude... 0.033 two-five-oh...two-hundred...
one-hund-- -- Overpass ahead...
Brace for impact."

[View from the ground]

Airliner belly-flops onto interstate
bounces toward overpass
bounces again directly under bridge
tail & rudder crash up against girders

metal shearing metal screaming
wedged fuselage
crunches to a halt.


...I made it.

Haiku Tribute to Carol Wayne

Starlet on Carson
unwitting stereotype
she gives it her all

15 minutes gone
Hollywood has no more use
mysterious death

What Happened to Carol Wayne?

Passport to Infinity: Self-Revoked?

Art is nice, y’all. It can celebrate the Viewed Aesthetic or goad the Unorthodox Beast. It can be a vehicle of the heart or the leid of despair. O the limitless potential we see when time-space works unrestrictedly. But what happens when leaps of imaginations fall short? To bridge the chasm of irrelevance we see Lenticulation of the Spectacle as automatistic face-saver [or a Band-Aid™ on Breton’s Boo-Boo, if you will]. Here is where we see the self-revocation of artistic opportunity from the 4th-dimensional realm. [Quantum Betrayal: “Shirking the Spore”] The Triumph of Gesture over actual meaning, like Saussure gone on a bender, reduces the spectacle to two dimensions [the ontic end-all Self, and the content-less dada Act]. The Heroics of Self are fêted as mere obnoxiousness is touted as a Courageous Act. Hollow pantomimes replicate like anti-spores drifting off a bandwagon driving in circles. In this, as is evident to even the layman, Art Cred is compromised. Actors may shrug shoulders in an emotivist defence, or reflexively shriek at the Critic, mistaking them as Censor 4 tha Man. But in the end, a lack of the Thumotic Assertive, coupled with an infinite allowance of empty signifiers (and a reliance on spongy affectations meant to soak up free-floating memes) results in mere pogo-ing atop an empty soapbox... a flushing of potential... and a shredding of the Infinite Passport itself.

This has been a test of the Emotive Response System. Defensive plaints about “artists’ rights” are expected but moot. The exercise was merely a placement test for identifying Gesturing Husks in reduced dimensional contexts. As for smarty-pants pointing out that this test is equally guilty, the authors must clarify that using postmodernism as a means to end postmodernism has always been an openly stated foundational tactic of the ERS.

Magruder's World 1: СЕЛƠ безвкўсный

The dependence of individuals on complex reality-enabled applications has grown beyond anything imagined only a few years ago. Which has led to the need for Taste.

The ability to identify a lack of community refinement is paramount for one securing valid avenues of social ascent. One must sidestep the real-time potholes of municipal meandering and get into the express lane of distinction.

Or you’ll be left standing in Tasteless Town.

СЕЛƠ безвкўсный