August 13, 2008

Living Dead (Fifteen)

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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!

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August 12, 2008

Living Dead (Fourteen)

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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.

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August 04, 2008

Living Dead (Thirteen)

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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?

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Living Dead (Twelve)

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“$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.

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August 03, 2008

Living Dead (Eleven)

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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!”

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