“Bob” and “Me”

See it working through the digestive system? It’ll be shit in no time.

Remember kids, your life story is a barium meal!

A long, long time ago when I was, oh, about ten years old, I spent a sermon writing the word ‘cheese’ over and over again in tiny print, covering both sides of a church donation envelope. My parents showed it to the priest, perhaps in an attempt to shame me out of my meditative practices, but I just thought he was a weirdo in a stupid costume. I’d rather be watching cartoons, and I felt like I was getting one over on God.

Later on, in my early twenties, I replaced my hopeful agnosticism with Pantheism and was introduced to Sufism. Sufists are to Islam what Unitarian Universalists are to Christianity, but that doesn’t do Sufism justice. I got hopped up mainlining a hard dose of Rumi and Hazrat Inayat Kahn after a love-epiphany gone horribly wrong, and it’s a wonder the whole thing didn’t swallow me. I’d be eating out of garbage (which is actually an ascetic aesthetic pleasure in this freaked out world) and doing some kind of phony healing ceremonies while my earnings funneled up the local Sufist hierarchy to an unlicensed psychiatrist guru who was strapped for cash because she fell for some new-age ponzi scheme. Fuck that.

Bitterness and near-death experiences drove me into isolation, and the general feeling that everyone thought I was insane drove me to Anonymous. Crazy fucks who think the whole world should be remade in their image are a magnet for crazy fucks who think the whole world should be remade in their image. From my previous experience, I knew it was all madness. I played the game for laughs and got them. The apogee of my career as a “phony” (can such a thing exist?) spokesperson for Anonymous was a viral (76k views) and prophetic (Sabu was a snitch) “Emergency Christmas Anonymous Press Release,” but it was essentially just like every other “fake” press release I wrote. There was no greater pleasure than turning dogma in on itself and watching this process work its way through so many people. But it was a trap! The subtle hordes of the menacing Anonymous sockpuppet conspiracy were on to me.

That place was a known wasteland, yet after the failings of Sufism it was nice to spend so much time as an obstreperous and effective heretic. I needed to dial up the irony, supplement my heresy, and fill the hole that punking Anonymous couldn’t anymore. A page into the Book of the SubGenius and I’d found what I’d been looking for. “Bob” was everything that was wrong with church, everything that was wrong with Sufism, and everything that was wrong with Anonymous. Everything that was wrong with everybody! Later, I’d read some Nietzsche and realize he’d said everything that’s in the Book of the SubGenius without all the neologisms (overman?) and irony ((meh)), but it was funny! It nudged me, or perhaps FORCED ME, to be more ambitious as a writer (and as a reader). I chose several of my landmark blogposts and press releases about Anonymous and wrote out a kind of theory behind the madness, the Anti-Leader’s Handbook. It is currently the definitive piece on Anti-Leaders, at least according to Google. How successful it is as a piece of literature isn’t clear to me, but it played better for people who’d followed the doings of Anonymous.

X-Day (The yearly SubGenius eschaton) drew nigh, and my SubGenius friend Magdalen invited me. She also suggested I post the Anti-Leader handbook to a secretive inner sanctum of SubGenuses (sic) who sat around and chatted with Ivan Stang about his phallic microscope obsession. I assented to both requests gladly, and walked face-first into a paranoia nightmare. Rejected by the SubGenus (but of course not by Magdalen)! The Anti-Leader handbook was an imitation of Stang, a cheap knockoff! Stang banned me because “I didn’t take criticism well,” and maybe I didn’t, but there’s nothing in that fuckin’ book about that, and his criticism was BASE! Shallow! From my reading of “Orthodoxy is the only Heresy” and “If they can’t take a joke, fuck ’em,” I figured they’d be a little more open to counter-criticism. Again, I was let down. All the shit about divine all-inclusive excuses, the light-hearted and playful heresies, and everything else was as much bullshit as the Sufists and their rubbish about God and love. At its heart, it was a fan club for Stang strokers and a not-so-ironic moneymachine fameworship hatehole. So be it!

So close but so far away! I had to get it right. And shit if I hadn’t hijacked my own deity, Inglip, months earlier and begun the work of hashing out a cosmogony, a path to enlightenment, and all the epic archetypal myths that such things consist of. Now it took a deadly serious light-hearted nature–the imperative to “outdo” Stang took control of me. I distributed over 9,000 (really) SubGenius-ish-ish pamphlets in the course of a few months. You see, they used to troll for dollar bills, but I was doing it for internet hits. If you’re going to be a hack and a poser, you better do it RIGHT! The Social Media freaks like me were crying out for a new metaphysics, and I gave them a taste! But the Anonymous paranoia was transferred onto a SubGenius conspiracy, and I sank into that same sockpuppet abyss where everyone on the Internet was a part of a SubGenius-guided plan to drive me insane.

In a single week, the following events set me on the path of renunciation, which Hindus regard as a natural step beyond the acquiring of money, power, and influence. An ex-girlfriend threw herself at me, telling me I was the greatest writer of our time AND a demi-god. She claimed to have read everything I ever wrote. Friends of mine got in on the Inglip joke, we even had baptisms! It wasn’t just an Internet thing. We were burning the holy Octothorpe and worshiping Inglip in real life. My boss took a quick look at one of my screeds and said “We’ve had this for thirty years.” Shit! 

I quit the Chronicle, I resigned as Anonymous spokesperson, and I revealed that the cult of Inglip had been a sham “from the very beginning,” just like The Wave. All of the sudden, the sockpuppets (in my mind) laid off. I ignored the Internet for a few days, and enlightenment fell on me “the easy way.” I suppose I did put a lot of thought and a certain brand of meditation into the whole process, but it wasn’t exactly a lifetime of devotion to the teachings of a Zen master. Sure, maybe it was just Pseudonirvana, but that’s only two steps away from Nirvana.

The SubGenius knew they fucked up and they don’t want to admit to it. Stang mimicked my renunciation and “quit” the Church of the SubGenius days after I gave up at the Chronicle to, in his presumed words, “tease some chronic haters.” This is metatrolling at its best. The prefix meta- originally meant “beyond,” but it’s more commonly used to mean “under,” even by hallowed prophets like Neal Stephenson (metaverse?). In a sense, I’m both getting one over on Stang and having him pull a fast one on me. At any rate, Cory Doctorow (hysterical surveillance paranoid) is the idiot who really got punked, so it all turned out great for the both of us. On the Hour of Slack (mp3), some guy named Legume read out a moral of this story that boiled down to “we’re threatened by your presence, you’re banging our groupies, and we can’t have you around grindin’ yo feet in our couch.” He also wrote a parody of the Cat in the Hat (Tiny Penis SubGenius) that seems to imply that the posting of the Anti-Leader’s handbook somehow fucked shit up for Stang, but whatever. It couldn’t have been about me because I was, in fact, invited. I barely believe this all happened, myself, even though it all “hangs together quite nicely.”

I never hated the SubGenius, and was only angry at them after realizing that all this was some kind pathetic attempt to make amends for how shitty (humorlessly) they’d treated me.

Now that I’m a Zen master who’s attained Nirvana, I’m using my prophetic scifi skills to work on a novel about all this and much much more, which I intend to publish as subversively as possible. There’s no fucking need for publishers when we’ve got social media (to abuse) and ebooks (for hipsters), so I do intend to self-publish as I always have. However, I still desperately need an excellent editor, as that’s a vital component of a good novel. If you’re on the following list, please contact me and I will have the manuscript I’m feverishly working on ready for you sometime next year. I know I promised to have the whole thing ready by December 21st, 2012, people, but that just ain’t happening.

  1. Neal Stephenson
  2. Bruce Sterling
  3. William Gibson
  4. Cory Doctorow
  5. Ivan Stang (last restort)
This is ordered by preference, and I’m sorry if I have to let you all go for ‘ol Neal. In the highly unlikely event that none of these prophets decide to help me on my shamanic path to oracular scifi glory, I’ll have to fall back on the help of friends, who will probably just say everything is good and fix a few “grammar errors.” Eugh.

Mitt Romney Draws Cute Picture of Islam Prophet Muhammed

Mitt Romney Draws Cute Picture of Islam Prophet Muhammad
Using sharpie and posterboard, Mitt Romney discovered a new way to shit on Obama supporters.

“Google is the largest purveyor in existence of sacrosanct images depicting Prophet Muhammad,” Romney said. “And nobody bombs them. But maybe they should.”

And it was the most well spoken thing Romney ever said.

Billie Joe Armstrong Kills Rock and Roll

The deviant smashed a guitar and cursed on stage.

Rock ‘n Roll DYSTOPIA–Billie Joe Armstrong, famed pop punk rock teen idol, cursed at the audience and smashed his guitar in a totally inappropriate meltdown which threw the band’s public relations agents into a tizzy. The other members apologized on behalf of Armstrong, who is currently in ‘rehab’.

“I can’t believe he said the f word. He was scary,” said one twelve year old fan.

“The violence was just too much. Breaking things? That’s a no-no. I took my daughters home immediately,” said a concerned mother. “I’m glad he’s getting help, but that’s the last time we go to any more Green Day concerts.”

Promoters no longer allow slam dancing at Green Day concerts, and all stage dives are a total sham. Each show, Billie Joe coerces one audience member to jump into a ready group of stage-hands who are all properly insured and trained for catching stage divers.

“It used to be smashing guitars and cursing at the audience was rehab. The token trip to ‘rehab’ is a sham and everyone knows it,” said Iggy Pop, who is no longer allowed to smear peanut butter on himself and the audience because of insurance concerns about severe allergies.

Billie Joe failed to break the guitar with a single blow.

 

I Am America – A Herman Cain Fanfic

ATLANTA, GA. – “Hey, she’s a dame. What do ya say, Hermie? We pick her up and show her a good time, give her the presidential treatment?”

Two pairs of eyes met in agreement on the rearview mirror. As it slowed to a stop, the campaign van brakes cried out in protest.

“I’ll introduce myself.”

The man in the backseat watched through tinted windows. “Yes, what is it?” the woman inquired of the driver, who approached her on foot now. He was a stocky white gentleman wearing a sportcoat, stylish prescription glasses, and a stained yellow mustache that matched his teeth.

“You want to meet a celebrity?”

“What are you doing?” she asked as he got closer. Her face changed, although an expression of politeness remained. “Now, wait just a second, what do you want? Back! Hey, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” The driver had grabbed her by the wrist, but when she pulled away, he slapped her across the face and took her by her curly brown hair, leading her into the side door of their idling press wagon. She noticed it now, out of the corner of her eye: 2012.

Perhaps you’ve seen him on TV. He’s bringing jobs back to America. He believes we can take this country back. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be here today. His marriage fell to ruin in the wake of a series of sexual harassment scandals that surfaced as researchers snuffled for anything that might drop him out of the running. The hours were getting short; the days, much darker. It was only a matter of time now.

With their fly in tow, our two spiders drove around back of a warehouse not far from where they acquired a thirst for young flesh. Once inside, they removed her blindfold. The building was stacked to the tits with beer koozies, picket signs, boxes labeled “flair,” cardboard figures and T-shirts in every color and size ranging from small to medium to large, extra large, extra extra large, and the unthinkable XXXL. With no small degree of confusion, she absorbed her surroundings, forgetting for a moment the two dark figures just ten feet behind her. She struggled for breath at the sheer immensity of wall-to-wall fascism, lights shining on American flags, and in her eyes, too. She squinted to ascertain the meanings of slogans and effigies. America never looked so cheap. That is, until a red crowbar wedged itself between her right eye and the inner socket, hooking itself on her temple. The pain was insurmountable. She could not scream, and collapsed instantaneously under shock. Dull sensations of otherness were shooting off at random locations around her body. The pain was unfathomable. Reality ceased. A voice gave instructions. She followed them, without question, without understanding, with no intellectual capacity whatsoever to guide her through this terrible nightmare. She was no longer human.

The young woman – a skinny waitress in her thirties – with her fist in her mouth, put the other hand down to her gingham skirt. Her broken hand was gnarled into a claw, but using that claw, she tugged upward at her skirt with pathetic incapability, in a bid to satiate the verbose bloodlust of her attacker, candidate for the U.S. Republican Party presidential nomination, Herman Cain – a Georgia Tea Party activist.

The hairs on Herman’s neck bristled with anticipation. In the dark, he could not see it, but a flash of recognition darted through the young lady’s body as she made out the face of a man she once knew. A man who, before, had told her what to do in a more professional setting. She worked in one of his restaurants. Her boss. The owner.

Your God is Power. You have no shame.

“Rape victims are sluts who produce their own birth control. But you’re no victim,” declared Mr. Cain, a former deputy chairman of the Federal Reserve Bank of Kansas City. “You like this. I’m going to teach you to like me.” As he pumped, and huffed, and breathed scotch into his victim’s mouth, his eyes glazed over and fixated on the corner of the room, where he imagined a younger, better looking rape victim. And briefly, he pictured his wife. “Now secrete it!”

Herman Cain crouched down over the woman, who was now bloody, disheveled and used, and he asked her politely if he might take her out to dinner sometime, and if he can get that phone number.

Black dots patterned across his vision, bubblewrapping the terrible scene beneath him, the product of his undoing. One last passenger aboard the Cain train. As he struggled to breathe with that thin, tobacco-stained breath of his, Herman’s blood flowed like sand.

“She’s done for, Herman. Now let’s be on our way.” Chief of Staff Mark Block, Herman’s driver, sucked the last trace of life from his cigarette. He could not take his eyes off the scene. Her ripped white underwear with blue trim, bloody at the crotch.

“I– I thought her body was supposed to shut down to keep this from happening.” Cain withdrew an unlabeled bottle of blood pressure medication and took four tiny white pills.

“If she gets pregnant, then it means she liked it. Who can blame her? We’ve run a campaign like nobody’s ever seen. But then, America’s never seen a candidate like Herman Cain.”

A smile bled from the open corners of Herman’s mouth, from which sprung twin puffs of gaseous hate that twisted up his thin, dark mustache, and moved in a vapor around his furrowed brows, tracing the restaurant manager’s gray, receding hairline. Sister demons danced a double helix in the midnight air, assuming the form of matching parallel negative impressions, shaped like dervishes with forked tongues slithering, their writhing agitations, spied ever so slightly amid the shifting breeze in Block’s polluted exhalation. Graciously, they pulled his mouth wide into a devilish smile.

Trollman Cain

This story is part 2 in a 2 part series entitled “What was the deal with Herman Cain?

Sent from my iPhone

Rapist Speaks Out In Support Of A Delusional Barrett Brown

“We are the pee-pool,” says Tiessen.

Internet legend John Tiessen spoke in defiance of IRC bans and IRL double trouble Barrett “The Wild One” Brown Monday. During his Internet podcast, Tiessen once again decried the rats amongst us, referring to undercover agents at Occupy meetings, and outlined the divide and conquer mentality of government opposition, referencing Sun Tzu’s Art of War.

Barrett Brown is in police custody after threatening the children of federal agents.

Tiessen quietly yelled to his audience of no one, “We’re rootin’ for Barrett Brown to get out of jail, and we’re fuckin’ protesting against that. They say they’re protestin’ against them but they’re not – they’re tryin’ to stop it. They’re tryin’ to stop the movement and they’re winning. They’re winning and people are listening to ’em. We are the pee-pool! We are the pee-pool!”

As something resembling emotions rose up within him, Tiessen got carried away with himself and, remembering why Brown, on whose behalf Tiessen is speaking, was arrested, corrected himself midstream: “We have our minds and we’re going to do what we want to do. If we want to take down the feds– if there’s five people that want to take down the feds . . . they’re gonna do it, leave ’em alone!”

Tiessen concluded by encouraging his presumably sleeping audience to “wake the fuck up.”

The following is funnier than anything we could possibly write ourselves

The Innocence Of Muslims–A Landmark In Filmmaking

The Innocence of Muslims has spread wildly throughout the Middle East and is one of the most critically-acclaimed popular films since The Passion of The Christ. A new landmark in American Cinematography, the wondrous shots of the barbaric setting for desert people transport audiences to a fantasy land where nothing makes sense and buildings are set on fire simply because they are inhabited by Christians.

Culturally speaking, this is a landmark for American film that could have only been shot by a highly-acclaimed pornographic filmmaker. Muhammed’s depiction as a bisexual who likes both submissive and dominant acts of sodomy had me laughing at all the sodomite homosexual submissive Muslims in the world. The poignant tale of Islam’s founder and his dynamic struggle for a sexual identity dropped a bomb on my misconceptions. No longer do I think of Muslims as serious practitioners of a religion, but now I see they are just innocent heathens led to destructive and violent acts by crazed Imams who follow in the tradition of Muhammed. No wonder they don’t like it when people depict him!

I have never seen a film which better facilitates masturbation. The sex scenes in this movie aroused me sensually and made me want to violate the Sweet Virgin Mary. I spilt my seed when Muhammed told his followers to rape the children of the conquered, because that has always been a dream of mine. Perhaps I will join the Army so I can get back at the Muslims for all their horrific war crimes through history. My only problem was that there were no graphic depictions of genitalia, and we did not actually get to see Muhammed having sex. That would have greatly improved my enjoyment of the furious masturbation.

It was hilarious how at certain points during the movie the actors lines were overdubbed with all the really incendiary lines about Muhammed, and that none of the actors were actually conscious they were participating in such a controversial movie. Not only has the entire Muslim world been fooled like the sad innocent child-like people they are, but the actors were also similarly fooled! The film all came together in the end, and the “Great Prophet” was depicted as a crazed sword-wielding maniac covered in blood, just as everyone in America has always imagined. Surely, this is the work of America’s greatest filmmaker. It was an intellectual tour-de-force that had me thinking, laughing, crying, and cumming in my pants all at the same time.

I’ve heard that its reception in the Middle East has been fairly negative, but that’s sad! If you can’t laugh at God, who can you laugh at?

Barrett Brown, The Wild One

“What are you rebelling against, Johnny?”, he answers “Whaddaya got?”

Every prominent arrested Anonymous figure becomes the instant object of Photoshop transposition with heroic figures. In the case of the “Fuck Sabu” poster taken from freebarrettbrown.org, we see Brown’s face transplanted onto Johnny (Marlon Brando) from The Wild One, a stereotypical rebel biker without a cause. Our link to Brown is mediated through this character, and the qualities of the biker hero completely and utterly replace those of Brown. Similarly, Sabu’s identity is superseded by the role of a subordinate police officer who stands behind Brown, grinning victoriously. In the far background, the solemn parents watch the scene, powerless and blinded.

“Inasmuch as photography is an ellipse of language and a condensation of an ‘ineffable’ social whole, it constitutes an anti-intellectual weapon and tends to spirit away ‘politics’ (that is to say a body of problems and solutions) to the advantage of a ‘manner of being’, a socio-moral status … Photography is therefore above all the acknowledgement of something deep and irrational co-extensive with politics.” ~ Barthes, Mythologies

The ‘original’ image.

The faces of Brown and Sabu are such poor fits they indicate the mask of this myth with flagrant, blatant, and comedic effect. Sabu’s face is crisp, yet his body is blurry, as if he is seen but as yet partially unresolved. The beaten, remorseful face of Johnny is here covered with Brown’s bovine glance, which like Sabu’s is fixed knowingly towards the camera. These two are foils: Sabu smirking, self-satisfied, smug, contemptible, completely despicable, his head bizarrely enlarged, and Brown determined, resolute, now subtly smiling, now angered, his expression shifting with each glance like the Mona Lisa, the perfect image of a trickster, the cat with the canary. Brown wanted to be arrested, he has done something right to be in such a position. He’s been plunged into this quaint, inverted, black-and-white fantasy of yore where nothing is fair and the only figure unmolested by the Photoshopper is that of authority. The angered old sheriff, completely impotent without Sabu, castigates Brown before certain punishment; the powerless public stands by but cannot watch because their eyes are blacked out.

“SOLIDARITY WITH ALL ARREST ANONS” also appears to dispense with the mythical mask, perhaps in an attempt to show contempt for the slick, well-disguised myths propagated by the ‘opposition’. Yet such labeling is overt misdirection. The image denies Sabu, a former Anon, with solidarity only to contrast the glory and heroism of Brown. The subtitle, “Fuck Sabu,” delivers this denial again with a cursive flourish.

Solidarity is only denied to Anons after the fact, even in the face of solid evidence of wrong-doing and cooperation with law enforcement. Gabriella Coleman, academia’s most prominent media expert on Anonymous, said in regards to Sabu, “I knew he’d been arrested. But of course, I couldn’t tell anyone. And that was really hard.” She’s right, of course, as all who sounded the alarm about Sabu, including myself, were met with derision from the Solidarity police in Anonymous.