They sat in the lounge of the hunting lodge. The detective pushed a Styrofoam cup of coffee across the metal table towards Darth Cheney and rocked back in his chair to try and stave off the tension. He got word from his deputy the Feds were due to show up any minute. It won’t be long now, the lawman thought. They would no doubt whisk the Veep away in a black dragon convoy of heavily armored SUVs, but not before reading him the riot act. The insane cannibal shit he saw go down, permanently wiped off the record. What BULLSHIT, he said to himself, his eyes trained on the pathetic figure of the CRYPTO-FASCIST-ZOMBIE-SHITPANTS opposite him, the slime-bag’s grim green-gray face and white shirt smeared with human blood. The heads of giant elk, black bears, mountain lions — you name it, it was there — decorated the tall walls. “Every kind of animal you wanted to kill had its head mounted on a plaque,” the lawman ironically noted. In some places the hunting trophies were hung four or five high. “Every kind of animal you would want to kill,” he said to himself, and measured the SHITPANTS in front of him, “Except the kind of monster you WISH you could kill.” Darth Cheney's statement was at best perfunctory and opaque: “Dark, nefarious, underworld forces are at work,” was all the villainous BASTARD initially offered as explanation for the half eaten body out back. What had he said exactly? The detective wanted to remember every word that came out of the living corpse’s jackal mouth. Oh yes, the phrase came back to him. “The tireless enemy is everywhere among us all the time.” George E. Turner and Michael H. Price anchor The Human Monster: The Bizarre Psychology of Movie Villains with “The Villains Still Pursue Me” in which Vincent Price lovingly describes some of his all-time favorite scoundrels. “Aristotle,” the actor writes, “had a theory of drama. Now, this sounds like I’m digressing. And it’s the story of my life; I digress. But part of Aristotle’s theory of drama was that the villain, the man who must pay for his sins at the end of the drama, should not be a drab man. He should not be a skulking man. He should not be an ugly man. He needn’t be the Hunchback of Notre Dame. He needn’t be that kind of man. Actually, according to Aristotle, the villain should be a man of great nobility, of high birth, of wealth, of education, because Aristotle felt if that man has to pay for his sins — this educated, beautiful, noble human being — if he must pay for his sins, then, you and I, the hoi polloi, know that we must pay for ours.” To conjure his sense of the successful villain Vincent Price quotes a passage from the Devil’s part in George Bernard Shaw’s Man and Superman: “I know that beauty is good to look at, that music is good to hear, that love is good to feel. I know that to be well exercised in these sensations is to be a refined and cultivated being. And, I also know, Don Juan, that whatever they say about me, the Devil, in churches on earth, it is universally conceded in good society that the Prince of Darkness is a gentleman.” Less appealing to Price are the villains born with what he calls “a demon in their view.” He cites as ready examples the likes of Hitler and Charles Manson, but could just as easily have thrown Darth Cheney and the Bushreich Administration as whole on the list. After a while the ZOMBIE-COCKSUCKER leaned forward with a knowing look so no one but the lawman opposite could hear him, already relieved by the confession he was about to make, “I think it must be some kind of mind-control!” Mind-control? Imagine that! These CRYPTO-FASCIST-SHITPANTS in the White House are so GODDAMN incompetent they even screw up the villain role!
August 12, 2008 07:44 PM
Long needles obsessed Cordwainer Smith. Or, more accurately, long pointed needles that pierced deep into the brain. In “No, No, Not Rogov!” the Soviet scientist sticks a syringe into his cranium in order to hook himself up to a spy contraption that’s supposed to make him capable of mentally transporting himself into the mind of anyone and everyone the world over, especially Soviet State enemies. In Rogov’s case the needle is actually stuck into the optical nerve behind the eye, so he can see what his enemies see. Spy SHIT. The kind of paranoid fantasy you get when your job is to second-guess someone who you know is equally intent on outsmarting you. So much time spent trying to outwit an invisible enemy, Smith knew all too well, eventually drove many of his head honcho spooks crazy. How many friends had he lost? Solipsism, no matter how integral to philosophy, in the hands of the military, invariably brings about mental distress and often brings about ultimate total psychological dysfunction. Rogov goes insane from a golden vision of a future too beautiful for his mind to comprehend. In “Mother Hitton’s Littul Kittons” the bad guy does it to a little boy twice in the opening beach scene. First he sticks a needle into the boy’s head filled with truth serum to get him to give up Norstrilia’s secret weapon. The second time the needle goes in it is to kill little Johnny. Smith’s antagonist only discovers the true nature of Nostrilia’s defense shield after it is too late. The Kittons of Smith’s twisted fabrication were thousands of mutated minks. “Generations of them,” he writes, “had been bread psychotic to the bone. These were the Kittons of Nostrilia. Animals in whom fear, rage, hunger and sex were utterly intermixed.” The way the secret weapon worked was that Mother Hitton would awaken the mutated minks from their drug induced pathological dreams. “They would plunge into life with hunger, with hate, with rage, and with sex; plunge against their straps; strive to kill each other, their young, themselves, her. They would fight everything and everywhere, and do everything they could to keep going.” Smith describes all this murderous blind feral hatred amplified through a special “tuner” of his diabolical literary creation: “The rage, the hate, the hunger, the sex were all carried far beyond the limits of the tolerable, and then all were thereupon amplified. And then the waveband on which this telepathic control went out was amplified, right there beyond the studio, on the high towers that swept the mountain ridge, up and beyond the valley in which the laboratory lay. And Mother Hitton’s moon, spinning geometrically, bounced the relay into a hollow englobement.” From there Smith aimed it by satellite relays directly into his antagonist’s brain. The man never knew what hit him. Astride the stars in his spacecraft the full affect of all those rabid minks telepathically screaming into his unconscious ear was like a nightmare of a million poison-filled needles tearing his mind to shreds. “The synapses of his brain,” wrote Smith, “re-formed to conjure up might-have-beens, terrible things that never happened to any man. Then his knowing mind whited out in an overload of stress.” There was evidence that enemy intelligence was still trying to develop such a device. Soviets had tried to weaponise radio waves and magnetic fields. Stories perennially kicked around Pentagon water-coolers about giant ray guns were the inspiration for “No, No, Not Rogov!” But the US was never able to prove the Kremlin pulled it off. There was, on the other hand, some good intelligence the Nazis had managed to construct such a weapon. George Piccard postulates a dark picture of Fascist Occult advanced technologies in Liquid Conspiracy: JFK, LSD, the CIA, Area 51 & UFOs (1999). Everyone knows about the Nazi rocket scientist Wernher von Braun, the sociopath responsible for the death and murder of thousands of Jewish slave laborers who were forced to toil at gunpoint without sleep or food round the clock at his secret underground German missile factory before he was subsequently spirited to the United States, and heroicised by military industrial complex propagandists like Time Magazine CRYPTO-FASCISTS and the anti-Semite Nazi CORPSFUCKER, Walt Disney, as the smiling All-American mug of the Cold War. Piccard’s intention in Liquid Conspiracy is to chronicle the many tentacles of the MKULTRA conspiracy, the conspiracy of conspiracies. It’s a mixed bag. Totalizing theories tend to claim everything is connected, and originary myths are always looking for the biggest baddest bogie behind all the other big bad bogies. And, among conspiracy theorists, it gets tired real quick — because it’s always THE JEWS! Piccard isn’t as blatant as some of his ilk. After reading Craig Heimbichner’s Blood on the Alter: The Secret History of the World’s Most Dangerous Secret Societies, for example, or Michael A. Hoffman II’s Secret Societies and Psychological Warfare your average reader will no doubt feel so dirty they will have to take a shower. About every ten pages or so, like clockwork, both writers inexplicably explode into a vitriolic anti-Semitic rant. Piccard isn’t nearly as bad. He tends to stay on point and to Smith’s great pleasure devoted a number of chapters in his book to Nazi occult science which go way past simply describing the towering insanity inducing telepathic ray gun in question. They get into all kinds of other areas too: including the Nazi belief they descended from an extraterrestrial race called The Thule; The Hollow World Theory; and German attempts to recreate the flying saucer fabled in their sinister mythology. The passage that Smith latched onto had to do with Admiral Byrd’s expedition to Antarctica. A little background first: “The Thules, the Aryan ancestors,” Piccard claims, “flew to Earth from Aldebaran on Vrylias, or flying saucers;” This race existed in a vast civilization holed up inside the Earth; the Nazis successfully reproduced the Vril Drive, an implosion mechanism, and experimented with numerous saucers culminating in the Hauenub II (there is ample documentation of sightings of these foo-fighters); and, similar technology lead to experimentation on what Piccard calls the “Death Ray” gun designed for “electromagnetic mind control.” According to Piccard, after the collapse of The Third Reich, the Nazis flew their Death Ray down to a subterranean Thule base in Antarctica on Hauenub foo-fighters. “When you ask most people how many times nuclear weapons have been used,” writes Piccard, “most will answer twice — in Nagasaki and Hiroshima. The truth is that there was a third nuclear attack during the cold war era that has never been written of in the history of books. In 1958 Admiral Byrd returned to Neuschwabenland with a larger allied naval force. They detonated two nuclear devices and destroyed the Antarctic secret base. This event is now public information, and verifiable through DEO records.” So what did Admiral Byrd discover on his first mission to Antarctica? “According to Jan van Helsing,” Piccard writes, “the Third Reich had assembled an army of 6,000,000 soldiers and 22,000 vrylias for a planned final invasion of the Earth.” Piccard also points to the warlike makeup of Byrd’s original 1947 expedition: “He took with him some 4,000 soldiers, a man-of-war, and a fully equipped air craft carrier.” No shortage of cryptic statements came from Byrd himself after-the-fact. The Admiral’s reason for truncating the mission from eight months to eight weeks: heavy aircraft losses? He is on record, saying: “It is the bitter reality that in the case of a new war one had to expect attacks by planes that could fly from Pole to Pole,” a statement Piccard finds bizarre. Smith believed Byrd had seen first hand the underground Thule base of Neuschwabenland, and what he believed Byrd witnessed was an army of zombie Hitler clones who stood at attention before a cadre of thin translucent skinned young extraterrestrial Thule children who looked like they were straight out of Ira Levin’s The Boys from Brazil (1978). The infants were apparently sticking long needles into the skulls of the clone Reichs Fuhrer army and injecting their brains with a serum that contained their final orders. Smith believed the second Byrd expedition nuked an abandoned base. The mission was not to destroy an enemy. It was to destroy any evidence that could later come back to haunt them. The Thule army was already dispersed the world over, most of whom would reconnoiter years later in the CRYPTO-FASCIST-ZOMBIE-SHITPANTS Bushreich Administration.
ROVE: The more recent versions of Snow White and Sleeping Beauty are way cleaned up compared to their necrophiliac history.
RUMMY: Ask any pre-pubescent girl and it’s a white-night story about ever-lasting love. Not about fucking dead girls!
ROVE: It’s an old story that goes back thousands of years.
RUMMY: In the Disney versions, she’s not dead, just sleeping.
ROVE: The Grimms Brothers toned it WAY down! Take Giambattista Basile’s “Sun, Moon and Talia.” The version of the Snow White story is from a few hundred years earlier. I quote: “When the king beheld Talia, who seemed to be enchanted, he believed she was asleep, and he called her, but she remained unconscious. Crying aloud, he beheld her charms and felt his blood course through his veins. He lifted her in his arms, and carried her towards his bed, where he gathered the first fruits of love.”
RUMMY: Incestuous bastard!
ROVE: It doesn’t end there. In Sleeping Beauty there’s another good quote: “There rained all over a fruitful silence; the image of death everywhere showed itself, and there was nothing to be seen but stretched out bodies of animals, all seeming to be dead.” It wasn’t just Sleeping Beauty who was dead, I mean EVERYONE was DEAD!
RUMMY: Pretty bleak stuff, I’ll give you that.
ROVE: There’s more. I’ve been reading them all day. Take the story “Gold-Tree and Silver-Tree.” The quote is: “When the prince came home and found Gold-Tree dead, he was in a great sorrow, and when he saw how beautiful she was, he did not bury her at all, but he locked her in a room where nobody could get to her.” And Maria, in “The Wicked Stepmother, and the Seven Robbers”, had this to say: “She looked through the keyhole, and when she saw her son was kneeling next to a corpse, she had the door broken down.”
RUMMY: Those randy Italian CORPSEFUCKERS!
ROVE: In “The Crystal Casket”, also Italian by the way, we get a real sense of the living dead zombie aspect of the myth. “So they broke open the door and saw the poor girl with the beautiful dress on, but she was dead… The chambermaids fell on their knees before him saying the doll smelled so badly that they could not stay in the palace, and were obliged to bury her.”
RUMMY: Are you saying Walt Disney was fucking little dead girls?
ROVE: Disney is way creepier than Lewis Carroll. The ANTI-SEMITE NAZI CORPSFUCKER’s major animated films are all about necrophilia!
RUMMY: Any stories in there about fucking dead boys?
“$11.50,” the black transvestite cashier at Star Liquor said. The CRYPTO-FASCIST-COCKSUCKER-
ZOMBIE-SHITPANTS Karl Rove recognized her, even through the one inch Plexiglas he could see her ass was unreal, like a cartoon ass, like a twisted adolescent fantasy ass, like an eleven-year-old would want to stick his dick all the way to the hilt into that sweet black ass. She was a regular at The Blacklight, the transvestite bar he and Rummy frequented when they weren’t hanging out at The Gem, the Filipino-Transsexual-Karaoke bar around the corner, a slightly livelier venue with a blinding refracted light décor of silver CDs like hundreds of plastic fish scales on the wall, enough to make your head spin with all kinds of sexual confusion. Rove whipped out his wallet, and held out cash. “$11.00 even, then,” the transvestite gruffly corrected herself, “I thought you were going to use your ATM as per usual.” Rove thought the she-male knew him maybe a little too well. “You’re like my second brain,” the CORPSEFUCKER mumbled suspiciously, “My good brain!” he let out, and clutched the paper bag just handed to him close to his chest.
White House Chief Legal Council Roberto Gonzalez called in to a KLOS radio advertisement for free room and board at a Los Vegas casino. The question was: What city did the rock band The Beatles first play a show in Germany. Was it: A) Paris? B) London? Or, C) Hamburg? “The answer is Paris,” the SHITPANTS-ZOMBIE said with all the authority of the United States Federal Government. “No,” the telephone operator said, “Try again.” The undead Gonzalez wasn’t swayed. “London,” the living corpse came back with immediately. “No, that’s not it either, want to give it another shot?” Now Gonzalez wanted these tickets badly, so he wasn’t backing down. “Berlin,” he said, naming the only city he knew in Germany. “Sorry sir,” the operator said, “That’s not even one of the answers. Give it another try.” At this point Gonzalez became mad, he was more adamant than ever and tried to search his rotten cerebelum. “Hold on,” he said, trying to act normal. “Let me think.” The operator whose job it was to get folks to buy into the advertising campaign no matter what said, “Sure. Fine. Whatever, sir. Of course.” No matter how hard Gonzalez tried, it was useless, he could not make his dead brain work. David Addington, he was sure would know the answer. Addington knew the answer to everything sinister and evil. But Darth Cheney's top henchman scared the CRAP outta the little SHITPANTS ZOMBIE. He decided to call the Decider-in-Crook instead. The Oval Office phone rang and rang and rang next door. Finally, Dubya answered. “It would be a great thing you done, Mr. President,” he said carefully, “If you could tell me the answer.” Dead silence. “Mr. President?” he asked again. “Fuck if I know!” came the answer. “But what should I say?” implored Gonzalez. All he got back from the CRYPTO-FASCIST SHITPANTS ZOMBIE President was the usual broken recording: “Executive Privilege! Executive Privilege! Executive Privilege!” So that’s what he said to the sad-sack switchboard operator on the other line. To quote exactly: “I got Executive Privilege, so give me those GODDAMN tickets NOW or I’ll fry your GODDAMN balls off!” The operator collected himself: “What was your official answer, again?” Gonzalez was just about to have the guy castrated and tortured, but forgot his plan at the last minute. “London,” the ZOMBIE SHITPANTS said instead and put a little extra oomph in his answer. “That’s exactly right,” said the operator. “The first city in Germany the Beatles ever played was London, England. Enjoy your stay in Los Vegas!”
July 23, 2008 07:58 PM
If you asked John Ashcroft, he was lured against his will into a darkly lit space that was half rustic wood shed, half seedy porn fantasy. The redhead heifer whose pimp had sent her to him approached without the least bit of grace or common courtesy and asked him how he wanted it. Ashcroft had three basic choices: fully clothed, tits out, or naked. Nothing good as far as he could see could come from her complete nudity. On the other hand, he did want to stick his face into those two soft pink flesh pillows of hers, so he split the difference. What Ashcroft remembered was her crudely grinding her ass into his crotch to no avail. Besides, the last thing he wanted to do was cum in his shorts. The sheen of erotic physical sweat on her exposed chest was what got Ashcroft going. But it wasn’t just the smell of BBQ’d pork sandwiches and sliced watermelon that made her special. More importantly, it was the strong waft of bad perfume, nicotine, alcohol, and more bad perfume mixed in with the other sensual smells the body gives off when it’s turned on that finally got him hard.
If you asked The Decider-in-Crook what happened that night: Anne Colture walked down the stairs and made a mime of knocking on a door. It was the signal the meeting was on. The only problem was she kept miming the same movements all night long. In fact, according to the Decider everyone at the bar seemed to go through the same motions over and over again. To Dubya, the whole evening at the strip club was like a spastic version of a cocktail party. Everything happened rhythmically in straight time, but for some reason everyone’s movements and actions seemed to be off-key and out of synch. Wherever the President looked it was as if he watched a disjointed mini-play. The speaker on the podium said, “I wish to turn my thoughts to a favorite topic: The Supernatural Occult Influence of the Dark Side.” A distinguished looking older gentleman whispered to his companion, “Germs can pass through the telephone.” His friend nodded in agreement, “That’s how I got sick. I answered the phone.” The whole thing was like the dream sequence right out of Brian de Palma’s movie from a year before Phantom of the Paradise, called Sisters (1973). Margot Kidder plays the Siamese twins Danielle Breton and Dominique Blanchion. Heavily drugged, hypnotized and made to remember her childhood in an experimental mental hospital, she painfully recalls her drug-induced visions from that time: Three men in white jumpsuits stood side-by-side and danced a little jig; beside them some nuns in Dutch habits played cricket; four devout rabbis in black frocks who adamantly discussed theology behind them; reporters walked about with microphones extended and camera people flashed pictures.
Now if you happened to ask Darth Cheney what happened that night, his experience was even more difficult to believe. He described a futuristic police-state in which star NBA athletes were made to fight to the death in a game not unlike the one in which Inca gladiators had to shove a ball into the narrow hole on the opposing team’s end of the court in order to survive certain death. The fate of the losing team was written in stone, but The Vice President had the power to decide who on each side could live in the meantime. Rules varied: even minor fowls could warrant harsh punishments. Right away Cheney killed off all the team role-players. Then he started executing the major players. When he was done with basketball players, he started asking for the heads of well-known NFL athletes. Nothing could stop him. In the end he was holding football league MVP quarterback Tom Brady’s bleeding severed head by the hair, and berating the kneeling New England Patriot coach Bill Belichick for the cut-off sleeves on his “raggedy-ass” hoody. In the future distopian fantasy of Darth Cheney, stadium seats rose high above the court and each one was filled with an enthusiastic audience spectator. Every time Cheney made a deadly ruling on the floor the crowd went wild. He could simply do no wrong. No matter what he decided, they stamped their feet on the metal bleachers and cheered: “Blood on the wall, blood on the wall! U-S-A! U-S-A!” They absolutely adored him! And at the end of the game when only one warrior still showed any signs of life, and the Vice President finished him off with a sharp dagger blow to the heart, Darth Cheney was showered, like a self-satisfied god, with thousands of multi-colored synthetic flower petals.
July 23, 2008 06:47 PM
Every night Cordwainer Smith wished the cycle of total- and self-destruction would finally end. Every morning he would start the cycle up anew. Leonard Cohen’s laconic way of seeing the good in everything from disaster to love wasn’t far from his thinking. There’s a quote from “Master Song” which comes close to Cordwainer’s truth: “He was starving in some deep mystery / Like a man who is sure what is true.” Cordwainer Smith’s trailer was decked out based on another quote. This one from Tim O’Brien’s short story “Sweetheart of the Song Tra Bong” in The Things They Carried: “Across the room a dozen candles were burning on the floor near the open window. The place seemed to echo with a weird deep-wilderness sound — tribal music — bamboo flutes and drums and chimes. But what hit you first, Rat said, was the smell. Two kinds of smell. There was a topmost scent of joss sticks and incense, like the fumes of some exotic smokehouse, but beneath the smoke lay a deeper and much more powerful stench. Impossible to describe, Rat said. It paralyzed your lungs. Thick and numbing, like an animal den, a mix of blood and scorched hair and excrement and the sweet-sour odor of moldering flesh — the stink of the kill. But that wasn’t all. On a post at the rear of the hutch was the decayed head of a large black leopard; strips of yellow-brown skin dangled from the overhead rafters. And bones. Stacks of bones — all kinds. To one side, propped up against the wall, stood a poster with neat black lettering: ASSEMBLE YOUR OWN GOOK!! FREE SAMPLE!! The images came in a swirl, Rat said, and there was no way you could process it all.” Outside of his own trailer Cordwainer Smith stabbed his meatloaf and potatoes nervously, like some kinda hick redneck. One of his favorite writer pals, Thomas M. Disch, (probably best known for Camp Concentration), had just shot himself in the head. It was on Independence Day. Disch was 68. Cordwainer Smith definitely didn’t want to go out like that. It was another Cohen quote that kept him going: “It’s hard to hold the hand for anyone / who is reaching for the sky just to surrender.” Maybe Disch had too many voices in his head? Smith sure as hell knew he had too many GOD DAMN voices kicking around in his head — too many voices, too many DAMN quotes!
“There’s that scene in Terry Southern’s Blue Movie when the starlet Angela Sterling comes on set, but the director (loosely modeled on Stanley Kubrick to whom the book is dedicated and who at one time seriously considered making it into a picture) won’t FUCK her,” George Tenet spit out with his usual lisping, morbid rasp, as if the words had withered and dried up before they could escape his mouth and were still stuck on his desiccated and shriveled tongue. “The scriptwriter character is worried that if Angie doesn’t get laid, and fast, something bad is going to happen, so he tries to reason with his friend. His argument goes something like: She’s got a HOLE between her legs, doesn’t she? Well girls get very nervous when they don’t have something in their HOLE!” The RAT-PRICK CIA director had followed Rummy, Karl Rove, and Darth Cheney down to the morgue like a ghoulish little schoolboy trying to gain favors from senior class bullies and unconvincingly tried to puff out his chest when he delivered the punch line. The attempt at an aggressive posturing was, however, ill advised. His beef jerky zombie flesh was so cracked and full of gaping holes the air escaped instantly the moment he took his breath in and the end effect was more pathetic than anything else, as the air weakly billowed through the disintegrating fabric of his filth stained torn shirt and caused him to choke on the stink from his own decomposed rotten lungs. More dead soldier cadavers had just come in from overseas, and the Defense Secretary liked to have a go with the bodies personally before the official military autopsy. (This was before the Bushreich Administration's run-up to Iraq, before Abu Ghraib, torture, warrant-less wiretaps, economic collapse, etc., etc., blah, blah, blah, and no one, not a single sharper, had noticed all the flies in the window of the Oval Office, and the deathlike putrid stink generally coming out of the White House). “Fucking Sid Krassman’s punch line right outta the gate, at the very top of the first fucking page,” Rummy leeringly rejoined: “Cracks me up every time. Get this: Who do I have to fuck to get off this picture?!?!” He said it again, more to himself than to anyone else, his attention now trained on the neat rows of body bags before him. They still had not been put in the refrigerators. Rummy unzipped a couple of the ones closest to where he was standing, pinched the sides of the first bag between his thumbs and forefingers like it was the thin neck of a wineglass he was holding in each hand (QUEERPANTS-fashion), peeled back the black vinyl plastic with gruesome anticipation, and peered inside. “But the best part,” Karl Rove said, “was when the head studio exec comes out to check on the picture and gets one of the studio hands to make arrangements with the local undertaker — strictly on the QT — to let the CORPSEFUCKER have at it with a couple of recently deceased local young girls!” Rummy and Rove looked at each other and together let out an uncharacteristic lusty diabolical laugh. There’s scary and there's SCARY! Few things are, for example, harder to watch than your favorite rock’n’rollers growing old. Legend has it back in the day The Rolling Stones optioned the movie rights to Dave Walles’s 1964 Only Lovers Left Alive. It’s one of those stories where the old fogies all suicide and roving bands of kids are left to run the world on their own; lots of gang fights, sex, and motorcycle action, a fine vehicle for a young fresh-faced Mick Jagger and the boys. Imagine if they made the picture today! The long-haired prune-faced geriatrics hobbling around the British countryside in gypsy spandex, all aches and pains. How scary is that?!? Well, let me tell you straight out, it pales in comparison to how frightening these CRYPTO-FASCITS-ZOMBIE-COCKSUCKERS looked going about their sordid business down in the Pentagon Morgue. All four of them looked like the late Keith Ledger’s version of Frank Miller’s Dark Night Joker, like their tortured hate-filled clown maniac faces were slowly melting off. “My favorite Terry Southern character is Old Hack, the old-school publisher and editor-in-chief in ‘Blood of the Wig,’” Darth Cheney said, now focused on the BLOODLESS squirming RAT-PRICK CIA Director. Rove and Rummy were otherwise busy elsewhere among the corpses. “When Old Hack throws out an idea at an editorial board meeting he likes to say, ‘Let’s stroke it a while and see if it gets stiff,’ AND,” Darth Cheney continued, “when the old man is pushing an idea he really likes he says, ‘Let’s stroke it a while and see if we get any jism.’ Get my meaning?!?” Darth Cheney had a way of standing at an angle to you when he told a story, braced and hunched over, like he was standing at the ready at the start line of a 10K, and when he wanted to punctuate a thought, he would rear up and face you, as if he was brushing aside an invisible black cape. “Or do I need to spell it out for you? S-a-d-d-a-m I-n-s-a-n-e!” he let off with his usual upward swing of the shoulders that revealed his serpent smile, and malevolently poked the zombie Tenet in his protruding exposed ribs so hard the miscreant RAT-BASTARD actually coughed up a chunk of moldy lung.
“You spend the first half of your life trying to get into your head,” Cordwainer Smith thought, “and the whole rest of your life trying to get back out again.”
July 06, 2008 06:14 PM
DARTH CHENEY: “Hitler was a CUNT!”
RUMMY: “The Eleventh-century Pope Joannes Anglicus was a chick. It’s not like it never happened before. The charade was only discovered after she got pregnant and when she fell off her horse she gave birth. Pope Joan, they call her now. They stoned her to death, but afterwards legend has it that the Papacy instigated a ceremony whereby the Pope-in-waiting would have to sit on a special chair with a round hole cut in the seat so one of the chosen cardinals could reach up and feel his hairy nuts.
DARTH CHENEY: “There’s that Angry Samoans song called ‘They Saved Hitler’s Cock’, but I think they got it wrong. The lyrics should have been ‘Hitler’s Cunt’, ‘They Saved Hitler’s Cunt’.”
RUMMY: “Bruno Ganz does such a great job as Hitler in Downfall (2004), but my favorite was Eva Braun’s bunker fever scene when she decides they should have a party and everyone goes upstairs to the ballroom and gets smashed on caviar and Champaign while the Russians blast away at the palace with heavy artillery. There’s the sequence when Eva is dancing on a banquet table and they take a direct hit!
DARTH CHENEY: “The Angry Samoans sing ‘If Hitler’s cock could choose its mate / It would choose Sharon Tate”, but I think the lyrics should be: ‘If Hitler’s CUNT could choose it’s mate / it would choose Pope Benedict the XVI’.
KARL ROVE: “The Nazi Pope!"
RUMMY: "Someone's gotta lick the crack of the New World pussy.”
GENERAL BETRAYUS: “But it doesn’t even rhyme.”
DARTH CHENEY: “Who cares. It’s TRUE. Ratzinger was in the SS and we know SOMEONE at the Vatican felt his balls.”
RUMMY: “When asked, ‘What’s the best gift a fan has ever given you?’ filmmaker Quentin Tarantino recently said: ‘Pussy!’”
GENERAL BETRAYUS: “He said, ‘It’s a gift that doesn’t stop giving: There’s pussy, and there’s the memory of pussy.’ I read the same quote.”
Cordwainer Smith was cruising the men’s room at the Minneapolis Airport on his way back East. Sometimes you have to visit the scene of a crime for yourself. He was trying to get a better sense of what happened to Sen. Larry Craig just before he was snared in the sting by the under cover cops. When CRYPTO-FASCISTS go out in public it usually gets ugly fast. Agent Smith liked to inspect the premises himself, get a real feel for the little things. He wanted to breathe in the mix of urine, feces, and pine scented industrial strength antiseptic bleach cleaner. If you’re game, you can even count the bathroom tiles from the floor to the ceiling, or from the door to where Sen. Craig’s head must have been. Afterwards, these details only help you remember better what happened. You can linger on the parts you liked best as if you were fondling a trophy you are particularly fond of. Your memory will come back to you anytime you want it to with a velvety, finely nuanced grain of clarity. Smith took some pictures to throw in the incidental file, made some notes on his hand-held electronic device, and reread the police transcript from the sting in a loud theatrical voice to get a feel for what Sen. Craig’s whimpered pleading sounded like delivered in the merciless echo of a cold, metal toilet stall. Smith was careful not to spend to much time on this last bit of reasearch. He knew he was out of his element and didn't want to draw the attention of the local heat. When he wasn’t a government spook, Cordwainer was an accomplished writer of both fiction and non-fiction. Under various pseudonyms he had already amassed a number of well respected volumes, including the preeminent black-ops manual Psychological Warfare: International Propaganda and Communications still used by the Pentagon and the CIA. He held the degrees of A.B., M.A., Ph.D., Certificate in Psychiatry (Applied), and Litt.D., but, like his father, he had cut his teeth in the Foreign Service, and what he knew best about human nature he had learned on the killing fields of Cambodia and Vietnam. In fact, the strange, brutal, and beautiful world of his imagination was probably better known in the Far East. (To the familiar eye, there are no shortage of cryptic references to his science fantasy stories like “Mother Hitton’s Littul Kittons” and “The Dead Lady of Clown Town” in Manga comics and Anime like Neon Genesis Evangelion, and the Serial Experiments Lain series). The detail he brought to his writing came directly from his work in the field. That was why he took such meticulous notes in the men’s room stall. Smith wrote Science Fiction, but the lines between fantasy and reality were becoming more and more blurred to him. He was having a harder and harder time telling fact from fiction, keeping his lived-life separate from his imagined one — Cordwainer Smith the agent, from Corwainer Smith the author of weird, beautiful, terrifying stories of the far future. In his mind's eye the graceful birdlike ships that plied the spaceways, human-alien hybrid mutant slave creatures who toiled in deep dark mine shafts on asteroids, and superhuman galactic absolute rulers had become hopelessly and irredeemably confused with those CRYPTO-FASCIST-ZOMBIE-SHITPANTS in the White House.
July 05, 2008 07:35 PM
Robert Harris’s novel Fatherland, from 1992, considers a world in which The Third Reich won the Second World War. There are a number of books that take on the same subject, not least of all, The Man in the High Castle. In Phil Dick’s book the United States is split down the middle. The West is under Japanese rule, and the East is Nazi territory. The main character comes to realize that these divisions are a false consciousness. We are all living a surreal existence, blindly accepting of symbolic authoritarian suggestions, but in reality we have not lost the war. We take on face value that the rules by which we are governed are ascribed to the hateful ideologies of our enemies, when they are only a convenient smoke screen our own government has contrived to secretly carry out its repressive policies. Fatherland is far less cerebral. The Nazi victors guard a terrible secret. In the years that followed German victory the brutal reality of the Holocaust has been totally repressed by the Nazi Government. The world has no idea about the atrocities Germany committed during the war. It is a guarded State Secret. Most of the documents have been carefully destroyed. Only a hand full of Hitler’s innermost circle knows the truth, and they are starting to die off under suspicious circumstances. The story begins innocently enough: a drowning is caught by a dogged SS officer who starts to have serious doubts about the official explanation of suicide. All it takes is some little thing like that, some unexpected event that comes out of nowhere, to fell the empire. The cover-ups come one after another, cover-ups to cover-up the cover-ups in quickening succession, and before you know it the conspirators come unglued, indisputable facts emerge, and the game is up. Even under the best conditions there’s no way to stop it, but with this COCKSUCKING Administration of ours all you had were a bunch of mindless zombies. Take the Chief of Staff. He groped around his office in a daze of anger and confusion, and usually ended up cowering in a corner, shades drawn, wearing sunglasses in the dark. If you walked in on him unannounced he would cover his face with one arm, and should the unwelcome interloper turn on the light in the room by mistake, the CRYPTO-FASCIST-ZOMBIE-CORPSFUCKER swiped at the air and hissed loudly. The Chief of Staff, like everyone else at the White House, was incapable of any expression other than the most cynical parody of human behavior, and even under the best of circumstances that usually amounted to nothing more than a blank, hungry, stare, one eye rolled up in its socket, as he clawed and scraped along the wall of his office to turn the light back off before anyone could see the nasty sore that had developed on his cheek. It was becoming more difficult to conceal his increasing incontinence. It wasn’t so much that he had what Mark Shields famously called a single-minded “pathological hatred” of “democratic government.” The undead are totally unconscious that there exists any such thing as law, or love, or anything remotely resembling them. It was the zombie version of the Wild West at the White House. Undead men in the Administration groped around their offices with shit in their pants and the women were all whores! As Executive Producer and Creator of the revisionist Western Deadwood, David Milch pointed out that “reason” was in the neighborhood of 17th on his list of motivating psychological factors that drove the story of the show, and if it were up to him it would have been even lower on the list. Milch might as well have been talking to the Chief of Staff. There is nothing less rational than a bunch of zombies who’ve all shit themselves and are running the United States of America! Milch defends the use of gutter language in Deadwood as in some kind of symbiotic accord with fancy talk. Speech was all there was in the absence of law in the territories. It had two functions, according to Milch. As an expression of civilization, on the one hand, and of the crudeness that was the undeniable reality of the situation. The difference is that most of the time the Chief of Staff SHITPANTS growled and moaned with absolutely no discernible meaning. Language had no greater purpose for him than as a convenient way to clear the black phlegm from his rotten throat, which invariably ended up dripping from his chin. “The light hurts my eyes,” the sick zombie SHITPANTS managed to cough out when the room was dark again and he was back behind his gore stained desk, totally unaware of the ghastly impression he made. You never fully appreciated how stupid and vicious these Administration officials were until you got stuck in a room alone with one of them.
John Polidori’s villainous vampire, Lord Ruthven, was the basic archetype for the BLOODSUCKER administration as a whole, the lousy COCKSUCKERS! But Darth Cheney in particular took the cake. He was furnished with every one of the SCUMBAG’s most outlandish evil attributes. Totally distracted, he didn’t speak to you as much as he made statements, and if you were stupid enough to answer, you invariably ended up talking to the back of his head. The Democrats were hushed when he entered the room, like some forgotten tropical parasite wrapped around their spines after an eternity of dormant sleep had just awakened and constricted with fear. “Those who felt this sensation of awe,” Polidori wrote of Ruthven, “Could not explain whence it arose: some attributed it to the dead gray eyes, which, fixing upon the object’s face did not seem to penetrate, and at one glance to pierce through to the inner workings of the heart; but fell upon the cheek with a leaden ray that weighed upon the skin it could not pass.” Ruthven was: “A man entirely absorbed in himself, who gave few other examples of his observation of other objects, than a tacit acceptance of their existence, implied by the avoidance of their contact.” And exactly the same could be said for Darth Cheney. They even shared the same caprice of cruelty. Polidori’s vampire is a man of misbegotten means who the needy constantly beg for alms, but he goes out of his way to scorn and embarrass those with the best intentions, or the most earnest need for the money, while he lavishes his gold coins on the most odious unrepentant common criminals. No subtlety of interiority got in the way of nastiness. Like Ruthven, the Vice President was dead to affection, and, to borrow a couple more phrases from Polidori, as “unconscious to pain,” as he was to “objects around him,” and nothing but gore and murder raged in his SICK COCKSUCKER brain when he entered the House Speaker’s chamber like some rabid automaton. For a moment they just looked at each other, then Nancy Pelosi’s white hand was finally mechanically extended to him. You could see the SCUMBAG shake with wild maniac frenzy as he reached his arms out and grabbed the Congresswoman by the throat! But that wasn’t nearly the worst part. No, the worst part was the mocking shriek let out by the House Speaker. “He grabbed me, he grabbed at me, and tore at me, he tore at my clothes!” she sarcastically screamed, just like the shocked and hysterical Barbara who has just seen her brother eaten alive by zombies in George Romero’s classic Night of the Living Dead (1968). Then she went as still as the Vice President, like someone had mistakenly pulled the plug on both of them. That’s when the Senate Majority Leader came into the picture, like some kind’a PINKO-COMMIE-FAIRY, dressed in little girl drag, the FREAK hummed some Tubeway Army song under his breath. Darth Cheney lunged for Pelosi again, his hands clutching her thin neck in a looped deadly embrace that always ended with her crying, “He grabbed me, he grabbed at me, and tore at me, he tore at my clothes,” and, after a short pause, start right up again from the beginning, like the busted electronic mind behind the whole GOD DAMN thing got hopelessly stuck and could only repeat the same IDEOTIC fragmented sequence over and over again. “Can you see her little eyes?” the Majority Leader sang more loudly then and fixed his wig. “Can you see her little hands? Don’t you think she looks just like me? Can you hear her little scream? Can you hear her little cry? Don’t you think she sounds just like me?”
Remember little Anthony from the 1961 Twilight Zone, “It’s A Good Life”? The original episode has a small town in a mid-Western fly-by state tormented by the whims of a six-year-old kid. The child is as cute and all-American as they come, and even though he was born with incredible superpowers, he still acts like any other boy his age. When we see him for the first time he is sitting in a puddle of mud in his overalls, proudly showing off his latest invention — a three-headed gofer. He can rearrange other living beings and people into horrifying never-before-witnessed deformities and mutations just by willing it to happen. He can mix and match human and animal limbs and appendages to create any atrocity he wishes, but the kid is emotionally unstable. He is not always in such a happy-go-lucky creative mood. Anthony has an even darker side. The next thing he likes best is to make those things he likes worst disappear forever, and kids at that age can come up with some pretty bizarre idiosyncratic criteria for lashing out. Even more than those folks who annoy him, which is just about everyone, for some reason Anthony particularly dislikes electricity, automobiles, barking dogs, and singing songs. Needless to say, he has already wished almost all those things that have anything resembling those characteristics well out of existence. Everyone is death scared of him. As far as they know, he has already banished the rest of the world into oblivion. The town, itself, is a toothy relic, just about entirely decimated. The wind whistles through the chalk-dry ribs of ruined barns, and the dusty landscape is littered with the bone-like hulks of broken down industrial farm equipment. Those who have not been mutilated or have not already magically vanished into the ether, the lucky ones that live among the skulls and tumbleweed of their former existance, silently hope that it is somehow possible for the monster to realize the error of his ways before it’s too late. They are hardworking people who maintain their convictions no matter what. Faith is all they have. It is the only thing that has got them through hard times before. If the boy stays happy, they inwardly pray, the same act of divine power that spawned the monster might intervene on their behalf, and maybe all the terrible things that plague them will finally stop happening. It’s a foolish prayer, but their friends and their land are all destroyed. They hope it is only a stage in the boy’s development, and desperately hold onto the idea that it is still possible to turn him into a good son. So what do they do? They fawn and scrape around him, complement him no matter how heinous the crime against nature, or humanity, mostly because they are mortified by what the insane maniac might do next. But what if no one ever stopped little Anthony? What if he grew up? I wish it was an idle question, but it’s not. Our culture produces many such monsters. Not that the Decider is a product of the heartland. He is just another semi-retarded super rich kid out-of-control. They don’t have super-human powers. They can’t will physical deformities onto their enemies or mix and match them in new and never before seen humanoid grotesques, nor can they wish those they don’t like away, along with everything else they don’t like, into the “cornfield” — although they are born into positions of power and they can and do have their enemies ruined and murdered. On “It’s a Good Life” everyone had to always tell Anthony, “That’s a real good thing you done, a real good thing you done.” And that is exactly how the cabinet had to answer the President. No matter what The Decider did his senior advisors had to say, “That’s a real good thing you done, Dubya, a real good thing.” However preposterous the Decider’s mandate, they said it for fear of severe retribution. But this time when the chorus of cabinet members chimed, “It’s a real good thing you done,” although it came out right on queue as always, The Decider couldn’t help but notice there wasn’t any sympathy and remorse mixed up with the fear and paranoia in their voices. Anthony’s parents, who were just as petrified of the little horror as everyone else, still managed to address their child with real feeling no matter how grave the circumstances. Dubya couldn’t help think it was the least the cabinet could do, so he pounded his fist on the desk, to get their attention. He wanted them to say it again. “Only this time,” The Decider demanded, “Say it with some REAL heart!”
June 01, 2008 06:53 PM
Night after night these exotic beauties would come to War Secretary Robert Gates. They’d both go at it in some public place. Last time it was in a shallow shopping-mall fountain pool. There was never any full-blown penetration. He pulled her pants off her skinny suntan ass, licked her tiny tits, and fingered her bald pussy. Sometimes the hook-ups were with total strangers. Sometimes he recognized them. There was an ex-girlfriend who really knew how to get it off. They’d go at it hot-and-heavy the way they used to, but at the last minute his unit would malfunction. Everything else about him was pretty normal. Gates was neither too dumb nor too smart, neither an athletic cripple nor an outstanding physical achiever, neither burdened by an over-active interiority nor without psychology altogether; the perfect mouthpiece for the most fascist government in the history of the United States of America; master of everything but his own dreams, Gates started losing sleep. What bothered him most was that these women who were having intercourse with him in his dreams were somehow telepathically projecting their desires onto him. Every time he encountered one of them he recognized outside of his dream-state he felt at a distinct disadvantage. “Did she know what they had done together the night before,” he wondered. “Did she know he was impotent? Did all of them know about his male sexual dysfunction? Is that why they came to him at night? Was it a conspiracy to torment him in his own sleep?” Other things started to go wrong — little things, nothing to worry about at first. His legs would lock up mid-step, his fingers would cramp like some stricken bug, he would lose power in his limbs at exactly the moment he needed them most, they would start twitching at the most inopportune moment, and, in the midst of his romantic seduction, his DAMNED crotch began to emit a strange embarrassing whirring noise like gears grinding to a halt. The Cold-War Right Wing paranoid nightmare was that everyone EXCEPT the protagonist was turning into some kind of alien inhuman monster — everyone BUT the protagonist. Conservative war hawks weren’t supposed to grow an eleventh hour conscience, they weren’t supposed to start worrying the monster was actually already inside them, but that was exactly the fear that came over Gates at the moment of penetration. He started to worry if the torment these sexually liberated women visited upon him wasn’t his own mind playing tricks on him, inventing these frustrated erotic interludes in order to reveal something, something buried in his memory, something about himself he had long ago repressed. Over the next few nights the encounters started heating up. Even though he couldn’t satisfy even one of these ladies, the beauties came to him now two-three-four at a time. Gates grew desperate with his own inadequacy and decided to lay a trap for them. If he could only expose them, maybe he could somehow save his own fragile male ego. The War Secretary carefully laid the bait where he knew they would find it, and heeding the advice of his boss Darth Cheney, furtively hid himself, in anticipation of their nightly arrival, in the dark “shadows”. It took a while for the first one to spot it. Gates sat perfectly still and said: “Go on now, tell your FUCKING friends.” He said it quietly, under his breath, he didn’t want to waste the trap on just one of them. At first he only saw her hourglass silhouette as she came in from the light. Gates couldn’t believe how fantastic she looked. “Man,” he sucked his breath in, “How FREEKIN’ gorgeous is that!” He couldn’t get over her silky hair, big round eyes, small mouth, and little perfect teeth. The blinding white light behind her made her pert round breasts, smoothly rounded pelvis, and rounded mound of pleasure amply visible through the translucent pattern of her flower dress. As he tightened his grip on his foam gun, Gates almost lost his nerve. He wanted to yell out: “Put down the shiny bauble!” It was like an obsession with them, it was like they couldn’t think straight when they were around the glittering crystal. “Put down the shiny bauble,” he wanted to say, “And step aside,” but it was useless. The beautiful creatures with their peacock feathers and golden painted sexual organs were now stepping out of the light in numbers he could not have possibly imagined. They passed the jewel around modeling it on their necks, breasts, fingers and ears for each other, oblivious to the grinding gyroscope noises Gates’s seized foam pump was making. He tried to muffle the sound, desperately hoping the beautiful women wouldn’t notice there was something seriously wrong with his pump, like maybe his little spray gun was jammed. Man, how he wished the dream would end right then and there before all these fantastic exotic women realized he was some kind of Right Wing android-replicant-robot-FREAK. Synthetic sweat poured from his brow as his limbs began to spaz out, knocked things over, and in general caused a major commotion. Gates was understandably mortified by his lack of self-control. After an excruciatingly long time flailing about behind a curtain, one of the beautiful creatures put down the sparkling gem, came over, gave his pathetic ass a once over and, quoting a Bank of America advertisement, said: “Do we let the sun shine wherever it wants; do we let the wind blow in any direction it pleases; do we let rivers flow freely? No! This is America. We put them to work!” Another one came over to him and said: "Scientists have invented a flavor that makes room temperature soda taste like it's freezing cold!" Together they both said: "We are fembots!" So there you have it. It wasn't just him. The beautiful women were robots, too. Everyone in his dream was a GODDAM robot! And they all lived happily ever after in a New World Order where perpetual wars are waged to ensure that petroleum-based replacement parts, like foam pumps and plastic tits, remaine always and forever plentiful.
