June 19, 2008

Living Dead (Two)


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!”

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June 01, 2008

Secretary Gates’s Dream


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.

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