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Transfer

standing on the earth pushing to the core of me
i raise my hands to the sky, and
let go..
serpent hair winds the wind, whispering secrets in my ears
things unremembered 'til now.
safely above fragility, i release my lightnings, and thunder-snakes to the sky
to roll around and pound out a rhythm i can move to.
i can dance this fire. moving in passion, i have no fear.
worlds take shape within me,
as i shed another skin.


FraterSenior;
Slowly i adjust to the physical confines of this Union. My penchant for *Makers, proves itself out, again. The present Human associates of this form, have great tolerance for * odd behavior, it is dismissed as part of "the creative process". This has been most helpful. I continue to accept the chemicals they line up for me every morning, and dispose of them at first opportunity, as i still have no reply on the affects on Union.The work continues, i can feel pleasure again. Flexing the seeking part of this Coadjutant mind, regularly, has improved it's focus. The ability is strong, the control is nominal. I await instruction. P.S. Are there other constituents of a complimentary Genisis, in this quadrant? I have been approached. Advise.

Desensitization techniques for the 21st century (and beyond!)

Friend of mine once said to me, "If you have a distaste for the smell of shit, force yourself to smell it until it doesn't bother you anymore." I doubt he meant this in a literal sense, although the image of a Sufi master literally forcing the student to eat hir excrement for the sake of desensitizing the pupil to the corrosive elements of the world and hir own personality- (and primarily for what I would imagine to be shits in giggles, pardon the pun!) is an appealing one for comedic value alone, this is something I wouldn't take literally if I were you.

Many cultural biases or triggers we share collectively seem to provoke irrational fear, anxiety or to trigger the "panic button" response in human beings. It's somewhat of a hardwired physiological phenomenon that has basis in our evolution- That which causes pain or discomfort is to be avoided. The child is burnt by a stove, he or she learns not to touch it again. We associate with individuals who are perceived by us to be untrustworthy, and due to our past experiences we establish barriers or walls towards people who seem to be of the same disposition in the future. If you have a bad experience with any element of life, you will tend to avoid it to prevent yourself from being put through the same pain or burden you have suffered before.

Project 9

REVOLUTIONARY TERROR

Eros For Life

“Everywhere I go, in every experience, I see life constantly on the verge of death, the intensity of it almost overflowing, overwhelming me precisely because every thing is, from the moment of its creation, so  close to its own annihilation. Life exists to the extent that it stands in  stubborn and harsh contrast to its own non-existence. One who is alive, truly alive, experiences Eros for life, as the tension between what we see  as being through becoming is contrasted with the darkness, the hallow  absence—not the light!—at the end of the process.

Through this we may see the first will-to-meaning in the struggle between the secret gravity of our end  being ahead and behind us, and our constant attempt to create a beginning, an eternally present moment, right now.

404 Documents, Installment Two: Mind your dreams

The mission began innocently enough.

I got an email from Agent 156 , which was equal parts cryptic and amusing. Or was that irritating? I’m not even sure anymore. Still, I knew more of the lingo than I liked to admit.

Truth is, the moment I finished reading the email, I felt like I had a purpose again. As an Agent, the daily grind became just a front. You can keep your dignity, you see?

TO: Agent 888
FROM: Agent 156
Subject: Briefing for Op. Mem-Nun-Aleph.

I am currently working on developing a questionnaire which will be used to determine an applicants 'placement' into one of six cells. (Part of the questionnaire will be a release form. We can't take responsibility for what these crazy kids are doing...)

“True or false:
I often cry after masturbating.
I sometimes dream about having sex with my mother/father.
I have an interest in theater.
I consider myself to be comfortable speaking openly to others. I have a psychological case file that is currently open or have received psychiatric treatment in the past 2 years.
I have faced significant legal problems in my life. I often find myself daydreaming about violent acts...”
Pretty basic stuff, psychological profiling and such.

The Buyer has provided me cell diagrams. These cells will continue to be given missions, projects, etc. relevant to their placement. If successful, this would provide for memetic infection, and good times for all. (Additionally it would allow us to provide cultural nudges. Part of the beauty of the cell concept is of course that no one involved at any level knows who else is involved, or where information is coming from. We are all moles. I will say that I am not the one running the show, nor is the Mother Hive Brain syndicate the only dis-organization involved--this connected with other similarly intentioned orgs.)

So what I want to know... is ? ! are you ready? Meet us in front of the KOP mall in a week. We will have supplies.

In closing, consider this aphorism:

Our sages say "the kidneys give advice." In particular, the right kidney relates to spiritual advice or introspection. The kidneys act similarly to the "conscience," as is said "by night my kidneys chastise me." This refers to the "chesbon nefesh" (introspection) of the month of Iyar.

Mind your dreams, Agent 888. Mind your dreams.

mistah kurtz, he dead.

THEE death ov Rusty Shackleford:


my thoughts are fragmented. can't even remember how long it's been since i've even slept. going back thru and tweaking mixes, wondering why all my friends seem to be diasterously self-destructive suicidal or badly dependent on narcotics. we were taught to believe that growing up we would become astronauts, actors or in my case, the unfortunate delusion that still has yet to die: the myth of a struggling young artist, intoxicated by ambition and desire to somehow articulate some socially pertinent matter at hand before dying at age 27.

Too many voices! I do not know who is speaking. Your tongue is a switchboard. Your eyes record the conversation. Plugging bits of information into other sockets to be used for, or against, at some later date. You imply only what i think you said, and never say what i think you could possibly mean. I have a sense of deep unease, the jitters well up and wave a flag of premonition......disaster. A great fire will ensue, and nothing will be found, but everyone will suspect arson, and attribute it to me.

Frater? Where are you? Something went wrong at transfer. The seeding was normal, But this coadjutant union is defective, Efforts at standard contact are hampered. There are vascular issues, and all attempts at revivification of said system has (so far) failed. Please advise, re: appropriate drug responses, and the effects on Union. Obviously, I can not take their prescribed chemicals for this body, if they imperil my ability to retain union. I do not know what to do...please instruct! Sorer Anath

If You're Falling, Jump!

!MOTHER HIVE BRAIN?

HOW DO I SIGN UP?
If you are on the wavelength, you're already a memebearer. If not, you never will be. So pick up that pen, or guitar, or shovel, and get working, Agent.

Resources:

Fallen Nation

Naked Lunch

The Invisibles: Say You Want A Revolution

Fear and Loathing in Los Vegas

The Immanence of Myth

Join My Cult!

Citizen Y

Access the resources, build an information network from there. Follow the link above. An Agent will contact you shortly. 

YOU SPIN ME RIGHT ROUND (part ducks)

Did you hear about Jimmy, man?

No, why?

You didn't hear about fucking Jimmy! Dude! He shat all over himself - this is at the senior dance, too, right, everyone looking right at him as he gets covered in this mess of butt pudding - and he screamed along to the lyrics YOU SPIN ME RIGHT ROUND BABY RIGHT ROUND, I mean every word, screaming along and then-

You're really freaking me out.

You should have fucking been there. Jimmy shat himself, and projectile vomited the whole way to the window, and you're telling me about freaking? At the window he screamed YOU'LL NEVER TAKE ME ALIVE and then? Took a header for the concrete.

It's only two stories.

Fine, then you jump out the window face first and tell me-

-Whatever. So is that why he wasn't in Gym today?

Uh, yeah. Dude. He's fucking dead.

Hm. Guess I don't have to give back his PSP, then.

Yeah. Anyway, fucked up about Jimmy, huh?

I guess. Come on, let's get out of here.

To Mend The Severed...

Gentlemen;

It is in great optimism that I write to you. Attached is a portrait of my left wrist as it is today, the source of unspeakable grief in my life.

It was manipulated to its current state by a salvage operation performed in October 95 by Dr. Hozan of the Temple Sports Medicine Center; an attempt to rectify a malunion resulting from a closed set of a break in late when I was involved in a sport that has since been outlawed in 48 states. The frustration resulting from this handicap has waxed consistently since then, not to mention my frustration, considering that I was an incredibly talented in the writing.

And I now feel that it presents an unacceptable hindrance to my quality of life, as well as the myriad of other things that I enjoy doing with my wrists and joints. You can’t imagine how much it has damaged my income. I lie awake at night, staring at my wrist. I cry out to Allah: “WHY?! WHY HAVE YOU DONE THIS TO ME?!” Doctors repeatedly advise me to submit to the joint’s mediocre performance, and that complete rectification is an impossibility; but I assure you, sirs, my body says otherwise! Please know that I refuse to compromise, that I love my wrist, and that i have not a doubt that my body will be delivered again to it’s natural state.

It Is Learned By Walking

"Nothing on the face of this earth—and I do mean nothing—is half so dangerous as a children’s story that happens to be real, and you and I are wandering blindfolded through a myth devised by a maniac."

— Master Li Kao (T’ang Dynasty)

My first waking impression this morning was a hazy glance through frostbitten glass at an overturned trash can. The sound of a dog rummaging through the garbage. The gentle pattering of sleet on the roof. Doppler shift as a car turns on slick asphalt. Sentence fragments, thoughts bisected in a 3 x 3 set of windowpanes on the far wall. If you’re really intent on a decent reproduction of the event, lie down and close your eyes. Imagine a chill sensation, a hazy image of a toe with overgrown toenails sticking out of the bed covers, and then a camera pan to the rusty trash can outside. Not a dramatic opening for a book, but it’s all this day has given me.

The Bedtime Stories With The Antichrist Show

Episode 1

Episode 2

Where in the world is Agent 156?

must remember to write it down...

ok so standing their in front of some shapeshifting reptiles at least i think they were they told me they were when they talked to me, because i found them outside my aunt's house in florida in what used to be her back porch and bedroom but now was a wasteland of raw sewage and talking alligators, and several of these reptilian beings say 'hey, well hello there.' and i say, 'oh, i didn't know you guys can really talk,' and so they say 'welllll we can, when you get high enough' and they all start laughing at me and then they glow and shimmer with light, and then they are like 'hey you gotta write this shit down man, it'll make you appear all cool and edgy and with it for that joinmycult.net shit you write on'...

It's just a ride...

"Overwhelmed, as One would be,

Placed in my position.

Such a heavy burden now, to be The One,

Born to bear, and bring to all

The details of our ending.

To write it down for all the world to see."

-Lost Keys (Blame Hoffman)/Rosetta Stoned

for Astarte.

I was wandering around aimlessly through a painting by Hieronymus Bosch.

No, really. That is not an exaggeration.

900 micrograms of the most visually mindblowing, showstopping LSD I have ever taken, a bit of ketamine and MDMA, wandering through a crowd of about a thousand people wearing woolen hippie hoodies, octopus hats and tie dyed t-shirts. Psychedelic Americana Kitsch, but somehow slyly self-aware of this. It was like something out of Andy Warhol's back catalog, or a complex self-referential viral marketing hoax perpetuated by the Church of the Subgenius.

Lately, I have taken to spreading memetic thought viruses to large groups of people. Outside of the internet, the festival environment seems most ideal for this. Congregating with those who are particularly susceptible to ideas that most of society considers to be deviant or dangerous is a way to plant your seeds, one by one, and not get caught. You don't tell them this, of course. Then they realize what you are really doing and the whole game is up. Shit, I just broke the fourth wall. Woops.

Just remember, I am emphatically *not* the Buddha. Please don't kill me.

You Spin Me Right Round part Tumeric

I spent the whole night wishing I could get closer to her. Excuses to brush by, to look just a moment more. I did't want to be creepy. I didn't want to own her. Nothing like that.

I just want to be able to get closer to her. I want to be her friend.

I was at the high school dance. Shitty waste of an evening. I mean, I wouldn't have even considered going to something like this. It was embarassing. But I knew she'd be there.






And then the song started. You know the one. "You spin me right round baby, right round."

Cheesy shit but we can all dance "ironically" to it. That makes it safer somehow.

Yeah I, I got to know your name. Well and I, could trace your private number baby. Amber. That was her name. Different hair color every week it seemed. Different piercings and tattoos. Same eyes. Nothing could change them. I wanted to.

So I stood in the corner. Gibberish numbers were bouncing around in my head, blocking everything else out. They seemed to come from the music but compound themselves, a feedback loop of infinite proportions. 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, ...

She turned to look at me when the words "Watch out, here I come" seemed to blow my eardrums out of my cheap skull.

21, 34... ACTIVATE.

the dangers of literal thinking

the box... you opened it. we came.

metaphors are lies. metaphors are not lies. metaphors are truths. the truths behind metaphors can only be comprehended by way of analogy, much like any other linguistic structure invented by a linear monkey mind. the statement "metaphors are lies" is itself a metaphor. "this statement is false."

why is it so difficult for human beings to grasp allegorical concepts? all language eats itself. the argument is circular. consciousness itself seems to be a chain reaction, wherein the last brick is the first and the first is the last. it goes nowhere, comes from nowhere, returns to nowhere. as george harrison once said, 'if you do not know where you are going, any road will get you there.' serpent eating tail. i am the one eye perceiving itself in infinite permutations of its own holiness... i am getting ahead of myself.

Godlike: THE ABOMINATION.

"Jesus didn't die for your sins (what does that mean, anyway?), he died to first gain empathy with humans but mainly to justify his future tyranny. Yeah that's right, he's a fuckin tyrant, he's gonna make Hitler look like Pee Wee Herman. The man ain't floatin down from a cloud folks he's gonna incarnate just like Jesus except he's gonna have ALL the karma Jesus generated to DEAL WITH!. That means he's gonna have to deal with millions of idiot christians and their idiot leaders who think humility is getting up on stage and bragging about their humility; if I brag about my megalomania at least I'm being consistant (sic)..."

From "Godlike: THE ABOMINATION", by Adaluncatif Melchizidek

it came from the stars....

IT CAME FROM THE STARS

LOOKING FOR A SYMBIOTE

IT FOUND ME

I NEVER ASKED WHY

IT CALLED FROM THE FUTURE

IT NEEDED A HOST

A DOOR INTO OUR WORLD

I OPENED ITS HEART

IT OPENED MY HEAD

MY REALITY ALTERED

"I AM WHAT YOU SEEK"

MY THIRD EYE EXTENDED

ENVELOPING ALL

IT GIVES ME STRENGTH

EXPANDING PERSPECTIVE

TENTACLES SPREADING

FEELING ECSTATIC

WHAT IS ITS PURPOSE?

"YOU HAVE BEEN CHOSEN"

MUST FIND THE OTHERS

ILLUMINATION BECKONS

NO TURNING BACK

INFINITE SPACE

"COME. I LOVE YOU"

ARE YOU AN ANGEL?

ARE YOU A DEMON?

ARE YOU GOD?

ARE YOU GAIA?

JESUS?

LUCIFER?

METATRON?

CTHULHU?

QUETZALCOATL?

IS ANYTHING REAL?

"NOT ANYMORE

YOU'VE STEPPED THROUGH THE DOOR"

THEN IT IS ALL CLAY

I MOLD IT AT WILL

THIS WORLD IS A CANVAS

SO EASILY CHANGED

ALL OBSTACLES FALLING

DISSOLVING AWAY

THE POWER IS MINE

BUT DO I HAVE COURAGE

TO FIND WISDOM?

IT CAME FROM THE STARS

"AND I AM YOU"

been reading the same newspaper over and over again for clues...

Dreaming of fifth generational warfare through weaponized social media-social media follows you everywhere now, even reflecting sunlight deep into the bowels of the military industrial entertainment holodeck airplane tank and gun lobby Tom Robbins liberals, heavily armed.

Sleeping, remember twilight selves, chaos agents, order of the hidden path types: when you throw a dildo into your neighbor's yard, you throw it into the yard of

hyperdimensional merovignian bees

Everything is a goddamn crap shoot. We are meaning-making machines, but it’s all a farce. Let me give you an example. It’s a funny story- the story of how I met a rock star or convict-on-the-run, and simultaneously contracted an incurable disease. I know how that sounds, but look. Had nothing to do with “pants off” games, either. They just happened to happen at the same time.

Correlation, causation, right? Not linked. So get your mind out of the gutter.

My mind was, of course, wallowing in the filth as I drifted in and out of sleep, my head rolling into improbably painful positions, my mouth ringed with a thin patina of shame. Or drool. (Same difference). In that meandering state between sleep and dream, nothing is quite real, nothing is quite dream. They call that a liminal state, right?

I was thinking about this one look. It was a look a lover had given me once. They'd reached that point where their restrictions had been peeled off like a layer of paint. Nothing in the world can ever compete with that look of starved depravity, a mixture of pleading, supplication, and oddly, dominance.

I played it again and again in my mind. It had been years, but that one moment remained etched in my memory as if in some indelible marker, as all other times, places and faces were slowly worn away. A clicking, rattling, whirring sound in the cabin snapped me out of that eternal moment. I didn’t know what it was, and for a while I could keep it out of mind. I was replaying those moments, the delicious moments before everything turned to shit. Yet the moment was slowly losing out. I could feel scratchy things, hungry things, scuttling around in the machinery of the bus. It wasn't sexy hungry. It was, rather, cold, empty insect hunger. I could feel them inside there. Lurking. Waiting.

The air started to smell, I don’t know. It just smelled off. A chemical smell, like DMT or magic markers. I gave up. There were no more "eager mouths," or "nubile mounds" or anything like that. Just a beehive buzzing, mechanical bees, razor sharp bees. Growing, choking out the air, blotting out the sun. I opened my eyes.

This was the first I noticed that someone was seated beside me. Kind of weather-worn looking guy, he had a young face but was also covered in a pattern of wrinkles like kidskin.

“Do you smell that?”I asked him.

“Huh? Smell what?” he asked. He seemed distracted by something else, but I was still mostly fixated on the chemical smell and what sounded like Einsturzende Neubauten trapped inside the air ventilation system.

“Nevermind,” I said. I saw a sign drift past. 300 miles to New Orleans. Loooong ride ahead. “So where you from?” I asked.

He got this 1000 mile stare, like a guy that’d been in the trenches too long. “All over,” he said. “I was in Babylon.”



“Hm, the band that’s been in the news?”
"Everyone's dead now," he said, giving me a look I'd never seen.

And that’s about when the hyperdimensional merovignian bees started crawling out of the ventilation system.

High Tide #2 (2032)

I'm told our parents celebrated 9/11 like it was some kind of holiday. Fly a plane into a building, years later they'll be having Macy's sales around it. I imagine that if scientists announced that a meteor was hurtling towards the Earth, a whole industry would spring out of it. Pharmeceutical profits would skyrocket. Meteor pills would be all the rage. And the parties. Holy fuck, the parties.

That's now how it happened though. High tide just came on coming, a little each year. We worked our way around it. When the subways flooded, we made barges. Marketplaces moved from street level to the second floor. We banded into groups. I've farmed on rooftops, built windmills out of metal scrap. Not everyone, of course. The transitional generation got it the worst.Unprepared and generally worthless, a lot of them withered away to nothing in the darkness over skinned knees and bruised prides.

I guess we were lucky to be born amongst the garbage and scrap cities. We banded together. We improvised, or we died. I was seven when the news media started reporting the 404 Attacks. Eight when the ever encroaching sea was half-jokingly called High Tide. Fifteen when I decided to be a joiner, changed my name to a number (79, if you're wondering), and started pranking corporations.

And I was twenty one when I met my first demigod. That will take a little explanation though, huh? It started when I met a runaway along the side of the road. The rest I'll piece together from what she told me, and what little imagination I have. Grant this old man some poetic license and come along with me, I've got one bottle of old Scotch left, ...

The sizzle of a match sparking to life momentarily mingled with cricket-song in the swampy air. A large, calloused hand guided it towards a hurricane lantern in the dark, its nails split from work and grimy to the quick.
“Bad smells, lil’ Missy,” a voice said, coming from a hulking form still mostly cloaked in shadow. “Fiyah. An’ pisssss.”

The wick of the hurricane candle borrowed life from the match, which expired with a wet sizzle in the palm of the other seemingly disembodied hand. The sweet pork and sulfur smell of burnt flesh filled the room with the growing light, revealing shelves of yellowed bottles holding dried herbs in front of a mildewed Confederate flag.

404 Attacks (2013)

Art: P. Emerson Williams

Don hadn’t been to an airport in the past year. It wasn’t an experience he much missed. He wondered how they managed to combine the feeling of a checkout line at a supermarket, a doctor’s office, and a gulag. It was well executed, though to what end was never entirely clear.

For better or worse his mission had been accomplished. He had a nice little chunk of change set aside for himself, so long as he could get out of dodge before someone found out that without his aid, all the social viruses that were biting the establishment in the ass now would have starved themselves to death long ago. It was time for him to find a nice plot of land to lie low in for the next millennium. Thailand seemed ideal. No questions, no pesky laws if you bought off the right cartels.

Lines of people shifted, clutching briefcases close to their bodies. Cordial, preemptive cavity searches had become standard. So had random DNA testing and crosschecking. Cotton swab brushed quickly across the tender inner cheek was all it took, and they could trace almost anything, if the system determined there was cause for a full query.

The group brusquely wading through the crowd was far more troubling.

A Fleet of Shards.

Gabrael,

I’m in the hospital now, writing down the closing chapter of this story. While I do this, I look back upon the project you asked me to undertake, exploring what led me to you, but I feel that I’ve only provided a veneer.

You asked for a concise record of my probation and instead I give you a jigsaw puzzle of my parts which, if put in the proper order, like the permutations of the name of God in Sefer Yetzirah, will make me whole again.

I feel an overwhelming compulsion to schematize my experience. I have digested and regurgitated these events countless times. They are jumbled and rearranged, reinterpreted, and recontextualized by events running both directions in my timeline. In the process, these disparate events become me, my alpha and my omega.

Lame, Erect, and Proud

Looking at my own warped and knobby image in the faucet of the bathtub, I realize that I am not only “Handsome” Jim Manitoba, Pugilist Extraordinaire. I am also Hephaestus, club foot. I am proud of my deformity, my dissimilitude, my difference defines, clarifies… Every room of the house is a metaphor of a place inside myself. Or does the place inside myself mirror how the house is made? Another toke, relax a little more into the murky, steaming water. There is nothing real in my living room, nothing aesthetic in my bedroom, yet in the small, confined space of my bathroom, I may be free, I may be Hephaestus without shame, without lie or facade. My chaotic self-energy is formed by the feminine hands of my environment, and I am not angry at what it has made me. The language of my inner dialogue forms my house, I am a product of it, a servant of the Mother Bee, my home, my society, free to be as I am, Hephaestus, Club Foot—a bivalent builder of forms, molded by those forms I make—lame, erect, and proud!

Azoth:The Alchemical Jihad

Elder_Godspawn:You're being reactivated, old son.

NinetySixand2: I was never *deactivated*

Elder_Godspawn: Your name is on the books. Red File to Black.

NinetySixand2: Hold on there, I was just a bloody consultant. You can't simply just flip me like a switch.

Elder_Godspawn: We can, and we have. You're an asset now. What you do with it is up to you, but you're back in the game, #693.

NinetySixand2: Seriously?

Elder_Godspawn: Deadly. Go looking for MHB. It's of interest. And lose the implants.

NinetySixand2:...shit.

Elder_Godspawn: Indeed. BCNU.

Elder_Godspawn has signed off at 03:33

NinetySixand2: ...Be seeing you too...dick.

- Chat logs recovered from a laptop found in a burned out car, Liverpool, England - 17^th May.

“We find ourselves often wondering where things start, when the truth is, they never do.” Thus spoke Richard Latimer, back when I was someone else entirely. We were in an anonymous Starbucks, somewhere in Manchester. It was September 12^th, 2001.

Secret Masters

I cannot experience your experience.

You cannot experience my experience.

We are both invisible men. All men are invisible to one another.







Transmissions are now beginning.

Y Transmission

FoolishPeople.Weaponized.Cast012 by agent139

commencement

they finally released me, still don't know who i am & not sure i care, wandering wet city streets. this feels familiar. jumbled thoughts. nightmares continue. ambiguous barely discernible fragments. hiding under muck, not want to be found. smoking again. sleeping during the day, coming out at night to use computers at library. nobody looks at me in the face & i am glad. searching for something. needing some kind of fix. will tell you more when i get a clue. and more coherent.

Pennhurst

005 - ref

High Tide in the South (2032)

Mary, Jessika Kaos

Agatha, Andres Malkine

The 404 Documents, Installment One.

(Read all 404 Documents)

"Hustlers of the world, there is one mark you cannot beat: The mark inside."

-William S. Burroughs

Artwork by Spoony Boomer.

A “friend” once said to me, “If you want to get press attention- don't write a good book. Blow up a mall.”

It's sad that he was right. Not that I blew up that mall, mind you. I mean, I didn't set the charges. I wouldn't have any clue how to do that kind of thing. I was always zoning out in science class, staring at the dingy floor, eyes unfocused, thinking instead about the broken thermostat in our culture. There was clearly no self regulation. Or maybe that’s where The Buyer comes in.

I'm getting off topic, right? Because you probably want to know more about the mall my friends tried to blow up and less about the systemic dynamics of a culture. But that's just how my mind works. Everything is numbers and patterns to me. Say you're wearing a plaid shirt, right? And you notice I can't pay attention to a word that you're saying. That's not because I'm addle-minded, though a lot of people think so. It's because I'm thinking about the mathematical topology of the patches on your shirt, their surface area, the possible relation of numerological and linguistic categorization systems and those deformed surfaces. Your plaid shirt can teach you the theory of relativity, see? But you're not thinking about that. You're thinking about the news stories, the broken glass, the wall of shrieking housewives. We live in different worlds, you and I. I just thought I'd let you know that, if you want to really understand what happened. It wasn't about politics. It was about physics and fate.

Amerikkkas Favorite Softdrink (tm)!

From the upcoming soundtrack to the audio book "Fallen Nation: Party at the World's End", www.joinmycult.org proudly presents "Amerikkka's Favorite Softdrink".

From the album "subQtaneous: Some Still Despair In a Prozac Nation".

For more, go to http://partyattheworldsend.bandcamp.com

What "is" Mother Hive Brain?

Mother Hive Brain is not a newage self-help movement.

It is not "newage".

It is not a pyramid marketing scheme.

(Although we will probably try to sell you things you don't need.)

Got Reptilian?

Cue theremin musick...

Be a Doctor of Teeth.

“What were you thinking about?” Jesus asked him a moment later.

“Well, if you really must know. I was thinking… A biologist with a history of tooth decay invents a symbiotic microbe which lives in the human mouth and feeds by cleaning our teeth. It secreted calcium, which is poisonous to it, controlling its growth and preventing it from eating the teeth themselves.

"So this guy, he wants to spread the thing to the world, but it’d never fly, FDA and human squeamishness and all, so he becomes a party animal. He throws wild parties at the lab, kisses female grad students, whores, babies. He backwashes in sodas left on tables. He bums drags off cigarettes. He grants humanity eternally clean and healthy teeth but dies of a terrible cocktail of STDs.”Another beat.

“Wait isn’t that kind of what Mother Hive Brain is? I mean… memetically… An evolutionary virus…” Agent 139 asked.

“Damnit man, can’t just one thing… just one thing… be taken purely literally? Just for what it is?” Agent 506 threw his cigarette out the window with a sharp flick of his wrist and then looked dead ahead. Jesus guffawed so hard he almost drove into a blue civic in the other lane.“This conversation is over,” Agent 506 said, icily.

CONSUME

Super Happy Funtime Hourrrruuuu!! (tm)

Episode One

What follows is episode one of "Rusty & Spoony's Super Happy Funtime Hourrruuu!! (tm)". Brought to you by a "psychedelic conglomerate of multi-media enthusiasts who-may-or-may-not-be-but-probably-are-cephalopods", the following shows are to be published semi-regularly and utilize spoken word, conversations and banter along with music designed to re-wire your brain... Episode one was captured live at a festival in Virginia on a multitude of chemicals. High weirdness.

Hosted by Rusty Shackleford & Spoony Boomer. All music by Bradley the Buyer. Take the red pill...

Click on the words "Episode One" to begin auditory entrainment...

Special thanks to our angel investors, the CIA.

(THE MANUFACTURER AND SUPPLIER OF THIS PRODUCT MAKES NO WARRANTIES, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ABOUT THIS PRODUCT, ITS EFFECTS, ITS SAFETY, IT MERCHANTABILITY, OR ITS FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE AND THE SUPPLIER EXPRESSLY EXCLUDES AND DISCLAIMS ANY AND ALL SUCH WARRANTIES. THIS PRODUCT IS NOT TO BE INSERTED ORALLY OR ANALLY. THE USER OF THIS PRODUCT WAVES ANY AND ALL CLAIMS RELATING TO HIS OR HER USE AND CONSUMPTION OF THIS PRODUCT OR ANY PRODUCTS PRODUCED BY THE MANUFACTURER.)

Dr. Spaulding's Notes

Shock to trance energy patterns can be programmed but should you?

In other words do not strap yourself down and watch They Live, The Thing, and Videodrome on a repeating loop with nothing but saltines coated in lsd for a snack

Step back a bit. Not sure this is helping, reviewed


http://cyberbullyinghelp.com/2011/08/15/bullying-in-schools-guide-for-parents-and-teachers/


seems a bit innocent - wide eyed - ignorant as to the larger context (where did he get a grenade?) - individuals are being inoculated by the "mother hive brain".

"We are becoming immune."