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Showing posts with label role. Show all posts
Showing posts with label role. Show all posts

Saturday, December 16, 2023

* Some of My 'Shark Tank' Ideas!!!



• Dog lipstick!  - dog nose bleaching!
• Cat nail polish!
• Feather curling /  waves & bobs / perms!
• Pig tanning booth, home spray-tan service! Treats vitiligo!   - Also pig electrolysis, expandable to other household pets! 
• Fishtank dye! (colored water)!
• Tail ribbons for ALL domestic, wild and feral animals!  - also nose-rings  - human adaptable!

            !!!

• Hyena meat - steaks, burgers, dogs, cutlets, briquette, loaf, shish kabob, bouillabaisse, tartar, bacon, jerky, etc.!  Exotic!  Trending (potentially)!  Perfect for the Foodie!
-- Food truck, cart, stand, online, mail order, retail, franchise, promotional give-away, licensable!

             !!!

• "Pedi-Kyur"!  Foot sanitizer (guaranteed to not sanitize hands)!
•  "Knobs 'n' Homs"!  Knee & elbow sanitizer (front & back!) (likewise, guaranteed NO hand sanitizing!)!

            !!!

Amazing board game!  "The Filasufer King!"  Based on Aristotle's "Nicomachean Ethics"!  Provided: attractive corrugated cardboard playing surface; nine dodecahedral dice (a perfect solid!); ruler and colored pencil.   The only rule is, there are no rules?  Not here!  Over ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY fantastic rules ... plus that ruler, for a ruler!  Makes a great drinking game!  Ages 18 and over!

            !!!

"On-the-Go"!  Defecation prosthetic, facilitates STANDING defecation!  Enhances the experience!  Great exercise!  Gender inclusive!  (Not intended for 'sitters')!  (WARNING - not to be used more than once per week!  Side effects include varicose veins, liver & renal failure, colon perforation and septicemia, rectal hypertrophy, anal leakage, restless leg syndrome)!

            !!!

Alternative energy source!  NOT solar! NOT wind! NOT tidal! NOT geothermal!  NOT magnetic!  NOT gravitational! NOT superconductors!  NOT coriolis!  NOT zero-point!  NOT dilithium!  NOT homeopathic!  NOT aurora borealis! NOT St Elmo's fire/ ball/sheet lightning! NOT pyramids/ crystals!  NOT Maxwell's Demon!  To learn and exploit the powerful secret of ??? now, invest NOW!

            !!!

The Genderfix Bible - all "binary" gender errors corrected!   Sample (copyright):  "For Gox so loved the world that xe gave xers only begotten donx..."

Also available:  the Quranx, the Book of Mormonx, Dianetix, the Bhagavad Gitax, I Chinx / Lao Tsex, The Origin of Speciex, The Communix Manifestox, How to Win Frienx and Influence Peoplex!

Ongoing correction projects: Moby Dix, Fifty Shades of Grex, The Cax in the Hat, The Wizarx of Oz,  Alixe in Wonderland, Huckleberry Finx, Winnie the Poox!

Future projects: GI Jox, Barbix, Mx Potatox Head, sHex-wManx Miastrerxx of the Universex

Partnered with FaxeBoox!   

            !!!

A patent-pending device for when your left testicle and the tip of your penis keep falling asleep!

            !!! 

"Docoloxovoi"™!  A high-connectivity online platform access that synergistically enhances all interpersonal, financial, intellectual, emotional, spiritual, volitional interfacing experiences eternally!  Facilitated by a discreet & stylish cerebral implant owned and operated by the industry-leading Maitreya Corps™!  Our motto: "You will not be able to regret it!"


J
3 21

Wednesday, November 15, 2023

*What My True Name Might Be


I've taken pains to keep my actual identity private, as my many frustrated admirers frequently complain via email. Oh Jack H, please tell us more about yourself, like your full name and where you live. But I have good reason to attempt to preserve my anonymity. As far as I've been able to find, my name appears on the internet only once, and just recently, in its complete and true form. It was rather distressing to find even this single slip. I am, you see, a hunted man.

It's a long story. Once, back in the 1930s, I was lynched by a mob of racists. I was a Negro woman in those days, and I spilled boiling water on a white baby farmed out to me. It was an accident, but no matter. They hanged me naked from an old elm tree. There's no record of it. It was a backwoods affair. I've hardly ever been important. Anyhow it's behind me. I miss my own little babies, though. They're all dead now too.

Then the next time, as a teenager in the fifties, I was abducted by sexual sadists -- my body was buried off an interstate highway. It's never been found. What was I, boy or girl? It hardly matters. Sometime I make the trip out into that desert and weep for myself over my bones.

This time, in these current decades, I've had a longer life than in the past several hundred years. Nearly everyone has died young, though, if you average it all together. This time I've passed the half-century mark. Maybe I'll make it to a subsequent decade. Odd, how we cling. We'd clutch even at razors, lest we fall. I usually die violently. I've never killed myself. It seems some instinct instructs us that life is better than death -- even if life waits on the other side. I do not trouble myself with paradoxes, anymore.

I don't know what dharmic violation I committed, but it's been this way for millennia. I don't go in for this past-life regression nonsense -- just a bunch of flakes as far as I can see -- but I personally really do remember it all, and not as some mere intuition, however powerful. My memory precedes the pyramids. Why? Why? I have not been told. No higher being, if there be such things, has ever revealed a truth to me. If the gods have voices, they do not speak to me. I believe in a higher order only through inductive reasoning.

I do know I was involved in the destruction of Atlantis, but there was no court of condemnation to make it clear that this was a crime and I was condemned. I simply started remembering. I never did it on purpose, that unloosing of such primal forces -- but the Wheel of Incarnation rolls inexorably along, and those caught up in its treads must suffer the indignity of continuing if intermittent existence. So inductive reasoning informs me.

It isn't my own deaths that bother me so, as much as those of the ones I love. Sometimes I've tried to love no one, to have no family. But we're born into families. And even when I did not start my own, I couldn't help but love, even strangers. How many lifetimes I have spent in the wilderness -- not lost, simply dreading the bonds that attach to us when we touch each other.

Being old is hardest, and I watch them all drop away -- my parents, my wives and husbands, even my children. I've had so many, by now. I've never counted. It must be thousands, many thousands. What a massacre, and no less terrifying because it stretches across the eons. I've seen towers built of skulls. I've seen rivers of blood. No place you can put your foot, that isn't an unmarked grave.

I don't recognize them again, my lost loved ones. Sometimes a smile or a tilt of the head in one generation reminds me of some soul I knew in a century past. The baby in Troy is like that maiden in Rome, who is like a boy in Gaul. But it blurs together, and it's as if the resemblances are only family traits. I never know if this one now is the same as that one from ancient days. I just know that these days too will someday be ancient. And those I love now will return into the earth, and emerge, if they do, unrecognized. That's the cruelest punishment of all, that the Lords of Karma have pronounced on me. I remember, and everyone else forgets.

Maybe I’m unique, though. Maybe I’m like beloved John was thought to be, to live until the Lord’s return – or like the Wandering Jew, cursed Ahasuerus, likewise bound to life, cursed for cursing the Lord in His Passion. Perhaps like the shade of Samuel, released from Sheol to pronounce one final judgment, upon Saul, I too eternally slip the chains of Hades and rise somnambular to take on other chains, of flesh. And all humanity slumbers on one or the other side of a great abyss, biding time until a harsher disposition, or one of mercy. While I alone tread some middle way, dividing the difference by partaking both of life and of death. Perhaps. I do not know. I speak sometimes of faith, but I think in terms of theory. Some traditions seem less suited to my case than others.

How weary my soul has grown. Hardly anything remains of that haughty prince who delved too deeply into the secret underpinnings of reality. How long before I am forgiven? What fire might I find, to match those that burned my world down, and now might burn away the last of my pride, my crime? I don't know. I trudge on toward an ever-receding goal, every myth of damnation woven into my shadow, weighing as much as eternity and its substance. I've seen the ice roll in and I've seen the sun grow hot, forests supplant plains and cities return to clay. The ages mount up on me like a sexual sadist, and I am buried and I return to the grave time and again only to mourn.

What is my true name? Well, I've had so many. H is for Happy, and H is for Hell. It is for Hunter and for Hatred, for Hubris and for Humility. H is for Holiday and Horror, for sacred and profane. It is for compassion and rage and desperation and forgiveness. H is for a man who wants to love and to be loved. He wants to love himself, but an unremembered crime, some unwitting sin has made him Eternity's vagabond and what invocation can turn aside the pursuing Furies? It must be this way for everyone. Not everyone is aware of it though. Forgetting is how forgiveness shows itself.

What is my name? I suppose it's the same as yours. H is for Human.


J

Friday, June 2, 2023

*PupLite

Oh hi there!  I'm Poopee!  Poopee P O'Happeenappee!  I'm the new corporate face of Grinder's Babyfood Soda!  Wheeee!  I love babies so much!  In fact I am one!  Tee hee!  Babies are fun!  Your baby is fun! They can be whatever we say they is!  We're so over those silly pink and blue rules!  Rules are for fools!  Tee hee!  Boys are for pedos!  Did I say that?!  Wheeee!  Celebrate!  Pretty!  Tee hee, yeah!  I like boys!  I want to be a girl!  So I am!  So are you!  Drink PupLite!


Wheee!  Hiiiii!  I'm Poopee!  Poopee P O'Happeenappee!  I'm the corporate face of Grinder's Babyfood Soda!  It's not for babies!  Little children too!  And everyone!  I love little children!  Tee hee!  In fact I am one!  In fact I'm two!  A Boy and a Girl!  And I'm a Qween!  And a Liger!  Tee hee!  Pretty!  Wheee!  I'm gender and genus fluid!  Liger Girl Boy Qween MINUS!  Cuz I minus my age, so I'm a little LGBQT cutey!  Tee hee!  A cutey!  Celebrate me!  Celebrape me!  Tee hee!  Let me play with your children!  Wheee!  Everyone is a princess!  Like me!  Drink PupLite!


Hey there hi there ho there!  We're qweer as qweer can be!  I'm Poopee!  Poopee P O'Happeenappee!  Can you count how many pees there are in my name!?  You're just the right age!  My favorite!  Pee is my favorite letter!  Wheee!  Let me babysit your kids!  I love kids!  I want to adopt!  The judges say it's fun!  Tee hee!  I'm a mommy and a daddy!  And a baby and a little boy and girl!  I wear diapers and boas!  I don't have to shave my head!  Look at me glitter!  Celebrate!  I'm pretty!  So is your little boy!  They's a yob!  I like to play naked!  Wheeee!  Drink PupLite!


Hey ho!  I'm Poopee!  Poopee P O'Happeenappee!  This is my TacTic channel!  This is where I get naked!  You like what you see!  Wheeee!  I wear makeup!  This is my bulge!  Now I don't have one!  Peeqapoo!  Tee hee!  Yes!  No!  Show me to your kids!  Leave us alone!  Me being me!  Look at my thing!  Wheeee!  Teenee peenee yummee beenee!  I do me!  God don't make no mistakes!  I am god!  I'm a goddess!  These are my boobies!  Tee hee!  I want your children!  Leave the room!  The judges are on our side!  Children are pretty!  We got them while you were sleeping!  Oh, happy nap!  Wheee!  So pretty!  Drink PupLite!


J

Monday, May 22, 2023

*Polytranzperverse

You remember this candid shot

of champion women's female swimming superstar Mz Lia Thomas.  She currently dominatrixes that particular ladies' sports ... but I misspoke myself, reverted to my less Evolved youth, when we male chauvinist pigs hatefully dehumanized "women" by calling them ladies.  Persons who produce uteruses, I think that's what they've instructed us to say and believe.  I would never call Lia Thomas a lady swimmer. 

And, is "dominatrix" the correct, the received locution nowadays?  I just want to keep everyone happy with my dicktion.  Are we trying to be more observant about public displays of sexuality? -- or less?  Just let me know.  I will comply.  We all will.  

So there's Lia, moving her dick around as I noted when last I noticed Lia.  No, not her dick -- I was trying to be funny.  Her clitoris.  As I've said, penile relocation can be an issue for men (I don't mean like my tranzanal idea -- still trying to find a clinic, on that project), and for the ladies too, specifically not to mention Lia's, um, meatus.  Does a clitoris have an actual "shaft"?  I'll Ask Jeeves [actually, yes -- avg. 1 in. long, then "legs".  So Lia is considerably more endowed than your average woman; I don't know if the ladies care about that the way us masculine male men and also gay 'size-queens' always do so much].  But no need to beat that particular dead horse any more, for now. 

As we all know, women by definition do not have penises. Come on, people, be logical.  She's a woman.  Women do not and cannot give birth through a penis.  Penises have a urethra.  Do women give birth through the clitoris ... well, urethra?  No duh.  Nor is a vagina a urethra.  All this anatomy is confusing me.  But no hater hating hateful hatespeak allowed.  

Is it really male chauvinist pig?  An obsolete term, current in my youth, like women's lib, but is it really women's lib?  How do we dare to presume.  I don't even dare to eat a peach or walking upon the beach, or hear merpersons singing each to each (I quote myself).  All those James Bonds and James T Kirks and James Wests and James Rockfords and Archie Bunkers -- hypermascs, hyper masks.  Robert Blake, OJ Simpson, hiding behind their lack of makeup.  They could absolutely have been women.  It's so obvious now.  How was a lonely young boy supposed to know who he really was.  No wonder Nixon resigned.

[Woke chauvinist pigs!  You heard it here first!  And the obvious Tranz' Lib.]

But I got that wrong.  How was a boy supposed to know who SHE was.  Duh.  Identity is a virus, Olduvai Gorge in origin, a very dry market indeed.  Cured after all these millennia by brilliant Critical Gender Theorists.  Thanks a million.

What's old is new again.  Brings me to myself, inevitably -- I'm coming out as tranz-chonological.  I am now 26 years old, like Bruce.  Also, as a self-identified neometaFreudian, I'm polytranzperverse, which means I can be anything at any time.  

To quote myselve, "I am vast, I contain multitudes".  Because I am polytranz, I can be anyone at any time -- eg, as you know, I am John Galt.  Quoting myselve, "You may say weun's a dreamer, but weun's not the only one."  And again, to quote myselve, "I am whatever weuns says fish am -- if weunsn't why would I say fish am?"  Quoting myselve, "You might very well think that; I couldn't possible comment, except I am commenting, but also not, because I am tranzvast, and I will exalt my throne above the stars."

By now you will have memorized my pronouns.  I haven't bothered to, but consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds, to quote myself. 

I haven't written here much in the past few weeks, so this urge to display could get out of hand.  I'll oppress myself, like the tranziarch I am.  Because I'm all about courtesy, and don't want to impose.  It is not I who have been neglectful.  It's you.  My polyqualities are not appreciated. Watch out, because tranzfriend can be a thing.  It's just a matter of what I decide, and you've seen the quality of my thinking.  
 

J

Wednesday, May 3, 2023

*Tranz Alimentary

YT

I was born into the wrong body.  Everyone familiar with the mind behind these pages will agree that clarity and precision are important.  [That was a wordy sentence.]  I value clarity, and I have at last discovered a major source of my quotidian dysphoria. [I'm tired of using "existential".]  It's my anus.  I was born with the wrong anus.  I have a woman's anus.  My anus is a female anus. Also, it's in the wrong place.  

What I want is my anus to be repositioned to its correct place, under the public bone, and my penus -- but it's really about my urethra -- aimed back and under my tailbone (which I will thence identify as my public bone, and versa visa).  I'm thinking my nuts can stay where they are, but maybe they'll need to be rotated.  Not sure if right needs to be left and left right -- maybe each just gets a one-eighty.  The doctors can figure that out.  

So I'm investigating corrective surgery.  This has never been done, or even imagined, not even by Hieronymus Bosch.  Whatever.  I just want to be happy, and this is the answer.  I'll check out a gender reassignment clinic.  Those assholes will do anything. 

I've told this to a few people, but they're just haters.  One hater said I got it wrong, and should switch my anus and my mouth.  That's ridiculous.  How would I eat?  Peristaltic movement goes one-way, almost always.  It's just ignorant.  ...  Yeah, no,  it's, it's ... ig ... hm.  Actually...

So I'll have to get back to you.  I mean, it would be ridiculous and pathetic if I got the wrong tranz surgery.  I was thinking I was tranzanal.  But I really don't see why the entire digestive tract, lips to anus, couldn't be flipped around. They'd jerry-rig a voice box, and I couldn't eat while sitting or walking ... and I'd have to lose my jaw ... my mouth-anus would go vertical instead of horizontal, swallowing would be a sort of Kegal movement ... and I'm not sure which end I'd breathe through, both maybe -- or they could switch nose and weener -- a penose ... huh ...  Interesting.  

Very interesting.  

And just thinking about it makes me feel, feel so, intrigued.  Hopeful.  


J

Tuesday, May 2, 2023

*I am John Galt

I really am, really, but people refuse to acknowledge this.  They keep calling me Jack H.  You can't believe how hurtful that is, mis-proper-nouning me.  Hurtful and hateful.  We're talking about my identity, my very soul!  It's WHO I AM!  

They're not confused.  They know exactly what I mean, who I mean -- John Galt.  Yes, there's a book about me, 

and that's me, it's all real, it really happened.  It's happening now, because of me.  I have revealed myself here, at this John Galt blog, and I am John Galt.  Why won't you believe me. You're all crazy.

No, I don't know who this "Jack H" is.  Some guy on the internet that has nothing to do with me.  We're nothing alike.  Completely different.  He's some tall lanky blond, and I'm nothing like that.  My hair is very light, like ashes.  I'm lean and well above average in stature.  He has a face like a fist.  My face has planes and angles.  His eyes are blue, mine have a different color, cerulean, completely different. 

The distress your hatred causes me is catastrophic.  You're trying to negate my personhood.  You're worse than, um, what, FDR?  Whatever, you're the worst!

So we're banding together, all of us, all the John Galts with all the Napoleons and Jesuses that the birth-name supremacist tranzpropernounophobes are trying to exterminate.  We will not be silenced. We're here and we will be heard!  We are not invisible!  Our GALT is not a FAULT!  Hey-hey, ho-ho, Galt-deniers have got to go!  Proud, loud, on the assault, we are Galt!  Hatred is bad for Galt-children and other living things!  Your hate is Galt genocide!

...

[And it goes on like this for another ... yeah, 2600 words.]


J (G)

Sunday, April 30, 2023

Two Spaces

That's what I've been talking about.  The way other people make friends, I make these posts.  They just happen.  Of course I proofread, but they are essentially first drafts, self-organized because I am a poet and my soul does the work, mostly.  The craftsman, or is it artisan, steps in and switches out some words, say scratching for clawing, and I may come back and add a sentence, for clarity (if you can believe it) or because it makes me laugh.  

I give attention to punctuation -- some of this can be complex, and I don't want to lose you.  I don't care if you have to work at it.  As I leave it, it can be followed.  That's punctuation -- the X that marks the spot.  Because (if you are still lazy and want it spelled out) these are treasure maps.  Coded, secret writing, moonlit.  

No, of course not.  I'm just a guy playing with words, jiggling meaning and giggling meanly.  

There you are, tied naked to a tree trunk, your arms bowed back in a reverse embrace, your legs also pulled back, feet off the ground -- four limbs immobilized, by wire because it's more cruel.  Your head is immobilized.  You look like a dancer's leap, frozen, suspended.  The moon is full.

I approach, smiling benignly, as angelic as a face like mine can be.  I carry a small satchel, pull out a syringe.  "This is to keep you from going into shock," I explain conversationally.  "Boop, just a little prick."  You make pleading sounds through the gag.  I smile reassuringly, and take out a second syringe.  "This one is for the pain."  Your eyes grow even rounder, and roll like a horse's.  This amuses me, and I chuckle -- it is not a giggle.  "Yes.  For the pain.  To make it worse," and I laugh again good-naturedly.  

I take a scalpel from the satchel, and explain helpfully, "When they're sharp enough, there's really no pain to speak of for a moment."  The bright moon reflects off the blade.  "I don't prefer rough cuts, gashes.  Clean slices absorb the chemicals faster.  It's a common fallacy -- people think it's skin that hurts.  Skin is just a way to get deeper."

It's important to be courteous, because resentment is not a passive emotion.  It's patient. But we get better at the things we practice.  Take typing.  Two spaces after a period, period. Practice and it's a habit.  The convention changed with the rise of the machines.  The computer geeks had to teach themselves how to type, and they didn't learn the rules.  So now it's one space.  Like they said dot instead of period, 'dot' com.  They didn't know any better, and they think they know what they're talking about.  But it's like when everyone eats garlic, and they don't notice the stink.  

One young authority, no more a fool than any other, said two spaces looked like a whole lot of white on the, well, screen.  Your screen is not white.  It wasn't an intelligent observation, but that is the nature of opinion.  The second space carries meaning, creates a logical and easily processed visual field.  Two spaces aid understanding.  Single spaces separate words, double spaces separate sentences -- because there's a difference between words and sentences.  The way lines separate paragraphs, not sentences.  Easy, stupid.  

I am now wrong and obsolete, but I'll change only for money.  I wouldn't argue about it, because it's self-evident, and being too right creates resentment.  I want the world to be more harmonious, and beautiful.
Funny, what makes us laugh.


J

Sunday, April 9, 2023

Simplifying

Alright, I have to admit that it wasn't very workable, my insistence on people centering their entire lives and speech patterns around me -- my demand that every-body use my pronouns.  This is still important, but I went too far.  I've matured since then, and I under-stand now that while I wanted my pronouns capitalized, if that's what I wanted -- I forget -- I shouldn't try to change every-one else's pronouns too.  Same thing goes for verbs.  

Just me, what I want for my-self.  That's what america is all about.  And by just me, I mean just you too, from your point of view.  We're all here for just our-selves.  That's clear to me now.  Maturity.  You'd be wrong about that, since it's me who's important, not you.  But I can't make you be right.  And I'm okay with that.  You're not even stupid.  Just human.  

I can only say what I want, and trust that you have the human decency to honor that.  It wouldn't cost you any-thing, to use my pronouns for me.  I'm not making any-thing up, no new words to memorize and learn how to pronounce.  There's no-thing about you calling your-self or other people other things.  What could be more reasonable that that?  Live and let live.  It's all about uniting! -- not dividing.

So here are my pronouns, simplified:
In-stead of he/him/his, please use thhey/to thhis/ours. (Proper usage of the objective case: in-stead of "We want him to come", it is We want to thhis to come; in-stead of "This pronoun applies to him", it is This pronoun applies to to thhis.)

Also, when I am referring to my-self, I/me/my/mine will hence-forth be Usns/you/hher/ours.

And when Usns am included in plural pronouns, please replace we/us/our/ours with wewe/thhe dudes/weuns/i.  (No need for caps.)

Oh, and for my own purposes of personal fulfillment, I will be replacing thhey/thhem/thheir/thheirs, along with it/it/its/its and for simplicity all equivalents, eg, thhat/thhose and thhis/thhese, with fish/fish/fish's/fish's.  Obviously I would not require you to adopt this practice.  It would be unreasonable for me to expect the world to reshape it-self around me and my self-actualization.  

Usns'll have pamphlets printed up to hand out -- you can help -- clarifying this.  And laminated cards, for wallets and to hang from your neck on a lanyard.  The new Harriet Tubman $20 bill will be out in 2030, in Kamala's first term, and Usns'll be lobbying fish hher pronouns be printed on the back.  Discretely of course, because not every-thing is about you.  [Okay.  So "that" etc will not be "fish" unless acting as a sort of pronoun.]

For clarity, Usns won't be lobbying discretely -- Usns'll be very persistent and forceful about fish!  Hher friends at Antifa 
and BLM 
are on-board, and wewe will be loud and proud.  Usns don't have close ties to NARAL
Fight Back for Reproductive Freedom Postcard Party & Luncheon in SF w/ NARAL  CA : Indybay
and NAMBLA 
New England Mountain Bike Association New England Mountain Bike Association
will not be welcome.

Usns'll be wanting hher pronouns to be printed discretely.  Not printed discretely, like by the printing press of a small company that does no advertising.  Usns mean that on the bills, the letters that spell out the words will be discrete, like with a small font-size.  Fish will all be in good taste.

You can see that Usns do not tolerate that typically bad academic writing style Usns mentioned not long ago.  Clarity!  Precision!  Fish is why you return to fish pages ... no, these pages -- you can rely on hher.  Oh, hee hee, I mean you can rely on, uh hher? you? ...  no, Usns mean me no you can rely on you -- or do I mean hher, I mean Usns mean Usns mean...  Well Usns'm confused.  But you know what Usns mean. 

My no dang hher usage here is copy-right but not trade-marked.  Feel free to adopt fish for your-self, and share fish.  Social Media could spread fish like wild-fire!  Wouldn't fish be great!?!

You can see Usns've adopted a pleasing humility.  When would Usns ever have admitted Usns was confused, before.  Fish is the hard-won lessons of maturity.  If there are any other small points of confusion remaining in your mind, please feel free to inquire about fish.  Usns'm only here to help, and you can help too.  Fish is the least wewe can do.


J

Friday, March 17, 2023

*Pronoun Rules for Radicals

YT

I now identify as plural. Of course I am Thhey and Thhem, always in capitals, because orthography is part of my identity, including hyphens.  I will, no, um, I shall accept the pronoun "you",  capitalized, "You", as in Usted.  I shall correct Spanish later.  I believe English also capitalizes some pronoun, but I don't remember which.  

Hmm.  Let's see. Have I left anything out?  Oh.  Oh!  Heh heh.  We.  Of course I am We.  

But it's really the verbs We am talking about.  Not just pronouns -- all thheir verbs.  No, all verbs, We shall get to all verbs, but all pronoun verbs for now.

When u refer to Us, u shall use only the verbs We lists at some point in OUr future.  Yes, OUR -- I accidentally pressed the caps lock and I like what I see.  We possibly mean verb cases, but We am getting confused.  We hasn't workouted OUR identity yet about that.  

We shall refer to OURselves ... or rather, but ... We did forgotted what We was goed to say.

When We includes other people in OUR Self references, We shall say Wewe.  Wewe is to be used exclusively by Us.  You, when not referring to Us, is never to be capitalized, and is replaced by u ... so it doesn't even exist.  Except historically, which Wewe will no shall correct later -- history, that is.  "u" no longer refers to the plural -- there is now only singular in this regard.  There is no need for Us to distinguish between people. sentences shall no longer start with capitals, to avoid confusion with regard to OUR pronouns.

u may use i/me and my/mine, but we/our and ours/ours are no longer permissible.  u shall replace "them", when plural -- them singular is also to be replaced -- with "those people excluding the person who is speaking".  excluding people is no longer permitted.  "who" is permissible, as it is unnecessary in reference to OURselves.  it is impossible that anyone (permitted) should ask "who is that?" when referring to OURselves.  

We doesn't need to be comprehensive here.  people should just know what We wants. 

later We shall inform u as to what We has decided about Time.  


J

Sunday, March 12, 2023

*How Can You Save Daylight?


I don't know -- it's like I've lost some time, somewhere. Everyone keeps telling me I'm an hour off. Maybe I gained some time.  I can't tell. But that's just crazy. How can time change? I mean, of course it changes, but it doesn't skip around. Like, first it's now, then it's an hour ago?  I'm not buying it.  Welcome to 1923! Yippee!   

So I've formulated a few theories. First, I'm thinking that ... well, this is kind of obvious, but I have to say it. Space aliens have rayed the Planet Earth with a space ray that steals -- or maybe donates -- time. Like they feed on temporal energy, and have to take it from moderately industrialized planets. Or maybe their temporoplasmatic hyperengines generate polluting catatachirays, and they dump it on Earth. Like we're this toxic dump for Cryptovenusians. And, like, I'm the only one who noticed it, and so they're after me to get me. But I'm too powerful and mysterious for them to find me. So that's one theory. 

Or maybe like I fell into a time warp and was projected an hour into the future. Or the past? And my biostatic chronorhythms are desyched? So like I'm out of phase, and can pass through solid matter. Only I can't. And why wouldn't I just sink through the ground to the molten mostly iron and nickel core of the Planet? And if I was outphase with time I'd be outphase with gravity and light. And what would I eat? But it would explain these horrible headaches that I keep having, and I have these weird bumps on the bottoms of my feet. Like, time pustules. From the radiation of passing through the micro-wormhole that projected me into the future, or the past. Can you be projected into the past? Reject into the past.  So that might have happened.

Or maybe I'm this mutant, with secret superpowers that I'm just finding out about at this late age. And I'm a timeskipper, who can leap the moment like hopping from stone to stone in a stream -- reaching out from each smallest particle of time to the next, and pulling myself along. Like climbing a ladder, a one-way ladder, only I can skip rungs. Or like I'm aging backwards, one hour at a time, and this is only the first step into an infinite regress. Or maybe I'm aging forwards, but at a superslow rate, which would explain how youthful I am. People are always just amazed that I'm so old, because I look so young. Like I'm a lost child of the supersecret Atlantean megarace that disappeared into a dead icevolcano in the Gobi Desert and I'm the product of ten thousand years of selective breeding to be the Lord of Time, and it was prophesied that I'd be called Dzhaaq-haietshe, which translates from the ancient tongue as He of the Piercing Blue Eyes Like Lightning in the Clear Sky, and this is the sign by which all shall recognize me
and I'm just now coming into my heritage, and I have to decide whether I'll be good or evil.

Or maybe I slipped into a parallel universe where everything is exactly the same only it's an hour off. And I'll have to find my way back to EARTHprime or the entire multiverse will be destroyed because of the imbalance in virtual metareality. And I have to invent an android that will take my place in this other universe so that the newly created vibronic cascade won't collapse in on itself before I rescue Laura. It's a plausible possibility.

Or maybe I'm being attacked by the demon Azraequoleon and he has this giant bloodruby talisman that was the third eye of Nebuchadnezzar's giant golden idol and it's a timelaser and generates chaosrays aimed at me, but I'm too powerful and can't be destroyed but there's this side effect of my power which is that the whole world is being thrown out of harmony with the spacetime continuum and I have to solve the problem or Satan will rule all the souls of creation eternally from Hell.

Or maybe the paragovernment of the Luminous Shadow League -- a cabal of multinational bankers, military historians, one-world globalists and islamo-tranz-industrialists -- have developed a giganto-666-computer that has become self-aware and heuristic and can manipulate the mass of the solar system so that time flows at variable rates because it was programmed to maximize profits and calculated that compound interest yields optimal results when time is regionally accelerated. But I noticed a slight anomaly when I was analyzing a bunch of data and deduced the whole scheme and how to thwart it, and now I'm being targeted with maximum prejudice and I have to form an underground Resistance and lead the world into the glorious sunshine of freedom once more.

Well, I could go on. But you see my dilemma. When confronted with the impossible we must answer with the inexplicable. If only there were some simple explanation, in which the whole world wasn't being threatened. But somehow, I do like the drama of it all. I think that even if there were some easy answer, I'd reject it. I feel so important, right now. Like I matter. Like I have a purpose. Like people care about me, and need me. Yes, all things considered, I will limit the choices to those I've listed here. Any other would make me feel small. I'm not small. I'm large. I matter.


J

Thursday, December 29, 2022

*Tacos or Starbucks


Some of my pals go together and get tacos, no, let's say Starbucks together all the time. I've never been to Starbucks or a taco place, maybe a truck. I wonder what it's like. I wish I could go. It must be great. I don't eat meat.  What do people do at Starbucks? I bet it's full of cool people and they laugh like on tv, but I don't watch tv anymore. And someone will make a remark, and I'll come up with a snappy comeback, and they'll all be laughing at how funny I am, and they'll be laughing and I'll be all popular and smiling. But then I'll go "Ach. I think I just swallowed a bug. Starbucks has bugs? That's not very hygienic. That's why I don't drink coffee. I usually just have water." But then they'll say, "No, Jack H, it wasn't a bug. We spiked your cuppa brew with a Micky Finn ... no, with an herbal capsule for Male Enhancement!" And I'll be like, "Dudes, that's totally whack! I knew something like this would happen." But then they'll say, "Oh no Jack H, we would never really do a thing like that. We were just joking about that capsule in your joe. It was just a harmless prank on you." And I'll say, "Well what was it then, that lump in my piping hot java?" And they'll say, "Dude, it was just a coffee bean or something. Coffee beans are very nutritious. They include them for roughage." And I'll believe them and then I'll laugh and it will be okay. And then there will be a lull in the conversation, and someone will say, "Let's make up haikus!" And I'll say, "Okay, I'll start! My muse is speaking!" And then just then on the spot I'll make up this really good haiku! 

I like my java. 
It makes me feel so happy. 
Hot. Foamy. Starbucks. 
 
And they'll think that's so good, but I wonder if coffee is really foamy, but then someone will say, "Oh Jack H, can you make up a limerick too? We bet you can!" And I'll say, "Sure, fellas! Just you listen!" And then right then I'll make this up: 

At Starbucks some guys of jiu jitsu 
Were pining to know whether it's true: 
"Perhaps we should quit 
The Art of the Jit -- 
Cuz whenever Jack wants, he just gits you."
 
And they'll all be amazed at how good my haikus and limericks are, but they know by my ironic tone I'm just kidding about gitting them -- maybe like a question, "he just gits you?"  But they're all amazed and that will be the psychological moment for me to leave, so then I'll stand up and look each of my friends in the eye as I shake their hands goodbye. And at the door I'll turn and raise my hand like Caesar saluting his legions, and I'll say, "Gentlemen, farewell." Then I'll turn one last time and pass through the door into the brisk breezes of the bright winter night. And as I drive home I'll be filled with peace, and later, in my home, when it's time to set aside the cares of the day, I'll lay myself down in the swaddling embrace of my sheets, and I will sleep the restful sleep of a man whose fondest dreams come true. 


 J

Friday, March 12, 2010

Just Below the Surface

The country needs me. I'm indispensable. So, to finally dispel the confusion, yes, I will accept the nomination and assume the office of the presidency when elected. Frankly it astounds me that this hasn't happened already. Just goes to prove how stupid you people are. When I at last have the power I deserve, believe you me things will change, big time.

First, everyone needs to shave their bodies. I hate body hair. It's so animalistic, like monkeys, bowlegged hobbling purple-assed monkeys. And I like this thing with New York, where they're thinking about banning salt in restaurants. Sodium chloride. That's a really good idea. I'll have government security checks and roadblocks where people get mandatory chlorine shots to make hydrochloric stomach acid. Or maybe I'll have it put in the drinking water. More, I mean. Or not the chlorine, the acid. Cut out the middle man. That's another thing I'm against now, capitalism. I'll have my scientists look into it. And I've changed my position again on medical marijuana. At the moment I can't remember what my new position is, but everyone will like it, like my positions on free healthcare and abortion. And gay marriage. These things should be compulsory. Usually I wouldn't think so, but now that I'm going to be president, a whole new world of possibilities has opened up to me. I just can't get rid of this erection. But that's what power is about -- arousal and relief. It will be mandatory.

I like it when a word says what it means. Government. To govern. It's about control. No longer just of criminals and the irresponsible. Everyone. Like in Europe and South America and the rest of the world. It's always been this way, whether from priests or from kings. Someone owns the land, and it's not the people living on it. They owe, not own. Some nouns are verbs. When we say govern, we mean over other people.

I'll have all sorts of interns, 20 years old, and they will service me. Snorkel. A noun and a verb.

Some time ago I wrote the end of the story. Saved it as a draft. It just occurred to me that I could post it. Looked at it again earlier today. The emotional chokehold it had over me is gone. Almost gone. I may still find myself ranting, but it's a habit of thought. Isn't that strange? Time and intermittent sunlight fade even the brightest colors to sepia.

Once I do, I wonder if there will be any reason at all left, for FP. Just a place to be silly?


J

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Cpt SC

I discovered tonight that there is a pretender to the title of LowCholesterol Man. Doesn't surprise me in the least, envied as I know myself to be. In fact I know who it is. I won't reveal his civilian identity, but he is my former sidekick. I should say my old sidekick, since he is technically a senior citizen. Nothing wrong with that, as long as he knows his place. But he doesn't.

When he worked with me he was known as Captain Skinlesschicken. The dude was such a cliche. He wore a rubber chicken costume -- you know, featherless. So predictable. And a derby, monocle and cane. A real Mr. Peanut. It was embarrassing. His catchphrase was, "I say old top, let's wax 'em, what?" Just lame. Then he'd spill some oil on the ground and hope the villains would slip. Pathetic. His nemesis Colon Boy loved oil. He used to scatter fiber around and slurp up the goo. It augmented his strength. Captain Skinlesschicken never figured that out. A little Alzheimeric. No blame, but it sort of argued against this whole health thing, which is sort of the point about my supermission.

So now Skinlesschicken is pretending to be me. Apparently he's going to health fairs and cholesterol screenings demanding that his blood be tested, and then he crows about how low his TC is. Of course his LDL is measurable, which mine is not, and his triglycerides aren't all that impressive, but the guy is stuck in the Fifties. Read a book, man. It's not about the total score -- it's ratios. Not a hard concept. But he never could change his ideas, or admit when he was wrong. Hence, former sidekick.

I don't suppose I really mind. Nobody mistakes him for me. Nobody who knows me -- as LowCholesterol Man that is. I'm much taller than he is. And I don't always say, "I say old top, let's wax 'em, what?" But it's annoying, because I've spent a lot of time building up this identity, and LwchlstrlMn has a lot of cachet in the superhero community. I'm not like the prop comic Gallagher, who franchises out his character to just any stringy bald guy. (Watermelons are very healthful.) So that's a bother. I'll just overlook it. Because I know where he lives, and it would be so easy for me tip off Colon Boy, now Dark Lumen, about how to find him. Old bugger deserves it. But that's just not me.

It is incidentally true that Skinlesschicken has lower cholesterol than I do. My ratios are much better though. And my superpowers are far more impressive. What's such a big deal about splashing oil all over the place? It was omega 6 oil anyway. Heart UNhealthy. He was hopeless. I convince people all the time to give up their unhealthful habits. I've saved countless lives as LCM. And I'm environmentally friendly. Old Nestor drives a '64 Galaxy, for crying in the soup. Nestor Gould, of 5676 Fairfax Ave, near Wilshire. Hopeless. He deserves what he gets.


J

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Horse Trading

Which do you hate more, blame or hypocrisy? Because Obama is attempting to rehabilitate Carter, and we expect emulation will follow adulation. We do want, eventually, something more than self-confidence in those who push themselves forward claiming to have a vision. Marx had a vision. More than mysticism, we should opt for actual reality.

What are we to make of the man who clings steadfastly to his course, regardless of opposition or setbacks? Is it high character? Is it willfulness and delusion? If he turns out to be right, was it wisdom, or just coincidence -- the way a gambler keeps rolling the dice? Was he right to do so, or just lucky, if despite the odds he did get lucky.

In Obama's case, he is admirable in his self-assurance. It's his common sense that's the problem. The government, which cannot manage its own finances or departments, is set to absorb another huge segment of the economy? And this will be paid for by raising taxes? -- in a time of profound uncertainty? The government, which produces nothing, will take resources from the most productive citizens to underwrite the healthcare of those who, statistically, don't have the brains to take basic preventative measures? We should subsidize sickness? -- pay for it, so we can get more of it? As I say, it is a measure of common sense.

It is a silly thing to criticize oddities of style. That Obama is lauded as a master orator is inevitable after the inarticulate Bush years. Almost anyone would have been better, at speaking. The fact that Obama is not a great speaker, but rather a gifted speech giver -- well, in our entertainment-centered culture it takes only a few well-rehearsed performances to make a reputation. The ums and uhs are no less inelegant than the Bush malaprops and neologs, but Obama says the right things, and style is so much more important than substance, we'll all agree. In this case, the style is about the words, health and care. Who could be against such good words? They'd have to be monsters.

The good news is that abortion will be free. Oh, didn't you know? Yes, how could it not be, if health care is paid for by taxes. So that's good. I'm a bit worried about the favoritism toward women -- I mean, what comparable procedure could men have? Penis enlargements? How many times can I have that done? A woman can have an abortion every few months. That's unequal treatment, and I will not stand for it. Okay, here's the deal, I'll go for the abortion thing if they give me some more free penis enlargements, a scrotal tuck because I'm not so young anymore, a boatload of Viagra or its generic equivalent -- I'm not greedy -- and open ended roundtrip airfair to Costa Rica. And I want a tattoo removed from my face. For this I'll trade you unlimited abortions, a boob job, lip enhancement, which I will want too, and a pedicure for your poodle. And later, if the mood is right, perhaps over a carafe of chilled Chianti and some free government cheese, we'll discuss the anus bleaching.

I just can't wait to show off my gigantic penis and tiny scrotum, which funnily enough is what the tattoo on my face is. I'll be a veritable genital Ivan, all hyperdeveloped where it counts. Yeah!

What, I'm vulgar? No, hijacking 20% of the economy is vulgar. Hijacking so they can drive it off a cliff. Obscene.


J

Thursday, April 2, 2009

Reassurance

I hasten to assure my vast and secret reading public that any theoretical reference either to an adult expression of human sexuality, or to any more adolescent habit of self-abuse, that might have appeared in these pages would have been advanced purely as an aid to didactic expression, poetic flourish or technical explication.

Why just this very evening someone referenced in my presence the erotic appeal of a certain former paramour (from oh so very long ago -- another decade, another century, another millennium), one "Gwen" by designation, to whose sexual magnetism he alluded with a suggestion of self-gratification attached. I felt it was my duty to inform him, in the interest of full-disclosure, that a very thorough if tragically tardy exploration of the full topography of Gwen's anatomy had revealed the disturbing fact that she possessed a full if bloodless and rather crushed set of male external genitalia. Upon hearing this distressing revelation, my interlocutor expressed a certain insecurity, and after I splashed some pink zinfandel in his face to calm him down I told him to just own it and move on. He'd polluted himself, you see, to Gwen's image. Yes, that makes him gay.

By now it should be clear that within these pages, onanism, as any other form of sodomy, is held in the severest disapprobation and its practice is roundly deplored by your humble author and the Editorial Staff here at the Forgotten Prophets Internet Web-Log and Moral Uplift Society of Latidutinally Central North America Website.

Speaking for myself, I have no interest whatsoever in any of the various forms of sexual manifestation. I personally have not been capable of achieving what is termed, in medical circles, an "erection" for well over twenty years. I may have inadvertently mislead certain impressionable readers in this regard, with references to hot babes who are after me with their booty calls, but this would be meant in a purely allegorical sense. In actuality, my genitalia are so thoroughly atrophied that they have the dimensions and coloration of a hatchling hummingbird. I do have to admit, perhaps in seeming self-contradiction, that I like to play at being the Big Man, so of course I would never admit to any of this publicly, but I am confident that my secrets are safe when confided to these hermetic pages.

Thus no one will ever uncover the shameful secret of my hairless and almost perfectly hemispherical groinal area, as featureless as a windless snowfield. Indeed, I've recently purchased a pair of artificial gonads and accompanying life-like crepe-latex sac from a prosthetic supply house, along with a convincing replica, if memory serves, of the male sexual member. I've displayed this assemblage in situ in the YMCA locker room (men's, I believe) on a number of occasions now, and I'm quite pleased that no one is any the wiser, so artful is its craftsmanship and animated its movement -- due to the patented BatterySac Action ® -- I splurged on that little perk, and believe you me brother, it was the best seventeen fifty I ever spent! I've noted many startled glances directed my way, but that would be due to admiration or envy, I am certain. My next purchase will be a luxurious woolly merkin. I haven't decided, from the catalog photos, on the hair distribution pattern -- anywhere from the Wild Bushman to the Languid Librarian. Something understated, I think ... perhaps the Yellow Brick Road. I am inherently conservative, and there is a no-return policy.

Also, in an attempt to more convincingly feign an interest in the opposite sex -- although which of the four or five identified genders would be opposite to me has yet to be determined -- I have been conducting research into the verbal aspects of the human mating ritual. Terms like "Sup biatch" and "Boinkity tata" and "Prittie kittie" seem to be popular with the youngsters. These are preliminary observations, however, and I've had disappointing results when using them to address the young sidewalk women, as I call them. For example, just this afternoon I said to one likely lass standing in line at Starbucks, "Kazaa mama, Ah'mo fold you over like a mudpie!" Very surprising response. I must be misusing the terms somehow. Perhaps there are tonalities I'm missing. But I shall persevere.

On a related note, the clamor for more info about my dog has been overwhelming. But it would be too much of a good thing. And, sadly, Yoda has passed away in the years since Gwen took her leave, finally. Too bad she couldn't take her strain of pernicious scrofula with her -- I've been suffering with it for years. Anyway, I am an animal lover, admiring their innate nobility and natural beauty, so I'll share a few portraits, if you'll indulge me, that I had done by a professional -- I was thinking of publishing a coffee table book.

This was Rosie, named after a popular comedienne and talkshow hostess.
She got into a fight with a pigeon and died of her injuries. Vicious, filthy vermin. Flying rats is what they are.


Here's Bambi. He was sucked through the intake nozzle of an industrial wheatgrass juicemaker at Whole Foods. He was allowed into the store because I was pretending to be blind at the time. Don't ask.
Sometimes in the still predawn hours I think I hear her scratching at the cellar door. It breaks my heart.


Batman had been neglected as a puppy, and never was quite normal. But we have to love even those who are hard to love. There was some speculation that she was part possum, but that of course is impossible. She did have a pouch though. Very odd.
My theory is that they tremble so much because they know how unnatural they are. It's an existential dilemma to be so self-contradictory ... like Michael Jackson.

Donovan was a card. More personality than a Yugo salesman. You can probably see he had a little skin condition. Turns out he was allergic to dogs. Strange world.


That's all I wanted to say. Share a little more of myself, and give a reassurance to our secret fellowship that all is perfectly normal here, and I will continue to display the excellent good taste and prudent sensibilities that you have always enjoyed, here at your haven of sanity and decorum.

Next week's password is ... well, let's make it prosthetic gonads -- it will be our little inside joke.


J

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

My Photo Album

Here's the house I grew up in, on Holly Drive up by the Hollywood reservoir. My father still lives there.

A lot of stairs.


This is my old psycho girl friend Gwen. I am so over her. Some wisenheimers say she's a man, but that's just ignorant. Can't they recognized a vagina when they see one?

She totally cut up my comic book collection from the 70s with pinking sheers. I had a Komandi first edition. Skank.


This is my dog Yoda. He cost $1700.

That's Gwen holding him. Before she got totally fat. She said it was a glandular problem. Yeah, if a spoon is a gland. Dumb broad was always eating my rocky road ice cream. Where can you hide ice cream.


Here's Ursula, my latest girlfriend. Got a booty call from her last night.

Babe is HOT! But I am all man, and she can't keep up with me. Yeah, that's right, you better believe it. All mine, she's all for me, and you can just sit facing the corner with your hands in your lap if you get what I mean. Cuz she's too much woman for an epicene little babbit like you to even dream about. Those are childbearing hips, pal. I'm thinking of starting a race of supermen.


This is my workout buddy. He's something big in the entertainment industry -- I don't want to drop any names, but you have definitely heard of him.



Here's me. Pretty good for nearly 50, huh? Thank you. I'm a bit unsatisfied with my right latissimus dorsi, it seems a little puny compared to the left, but it may be the lighting. It feels symmetrical, what I can reach of it.

Hey! -- I'm up here! Eyes up, buster. Gawd. A little privacy? You have to stare? I wear these trunks so you don't have to stare. And I don't shave my armpits. It's just that my thick lustrous blond hair doesn't photograph all that well -- it comes out pink, which is the best color to be.

I have many such interesting photos of myself and my life. If you would like to see more, on my private subscription website, email me and I will send you an application form. Believe you me, you will not be sorry.


J

Monday, January 12, 2009

My Crimes

Most of what people call crimes are nothing at all. I won't bother with them. Of course I've, uh, "committed" them. So what. Theft is just petty. Property is a mere convenience, and a matter for lawyers and politicians. In other words, nothing. In the cost-benefit analysis of whether or not I should steal, the idea of moral guilt never enters into the consideration. What an amusing idea. How childish. It's just a question of whether the brutality and ignorance of society as a whole might be brought against me, to punish me for what it imagines is my wrongdoing. I do have to take this into account. Because punishment is just a gradation of torture, and I prefer to be the one who does the torturing.

No, the crimes, the real crimes, that I agree are heinous, are those against persons. I am aware of their magnitude. I just don't care. Before I get into specifics, allow me to observe that it is, all of it, about emotion. However cold and rational I, or you, appear to be, it's just ice over the river. I do it because it pleases me, and it excites me, and it relieves a stress that would otherwise be turned against myself. You must have noticed it by now. Someone has to suffer. I want it to be you, rather than me. Is that cowardice? Some would say so. Selfish? Manifestly. But such conceits are moralistic and social in their origin, and I don't care about that, any more than I'd care about voodoo dolls or the lip plates of savages. We make our own way, or we are slaves. Even that isn't it though. It isn't what I do in relation to you -- it's what I do, because it pleases me.

Yes, it is emotional. If my crimes, and they are crimes, violate you to the deepest part of your soul, well, it pleases me to do so. Is that sick? Yes, I think so. But it's not me who is sick. Or rather, my sickness is just part of a universal disease that always ends in death. It's called life. I smile. I am, you see, a sort of cure. That I add a bit more pain to the sum of anguish in the world -- it is a small cost, all things told, and it pleases me for some reason.

True, my tone is inconsistent. It is emotion and it isn't. Pain is good and bad. Crime is not crime. But it's because I'm not bound up in meanings. That's what I mean when I say emotional. It is what ever it happens to be. After I've relieved myself, in semen and blood, in cyanotic skintones and the round mouth of horror or the dead grimace of pain -- after that personal ecstasy for myself and agony for her or him, then I feel some other emotion. Calm, say, or revulsion. It hardly matters.

I don't feel as if I'm communicating it though. I won't detail my practices. Just to say that the bodies are not found, and wouldn't be recognized as human if they were, mostly. Ah, here it is. I do it because people matter. Their pain and horror and despair matter. The words hardly convey my real meaning. Pain. Such a small word. Why do people matter? I've given it a lot of thought. I think they are mirrors in which I can see myself. I like that.

Children? They are my favorite.

I am a monster. Of course I am. I like the fact. I will die someday, although I will never be caught. You are too stupid. But death will catch me, transforming me into its victim. After that? I know there is a God, and I know there is a hell. How can that frighten me? I know that I will be judged, as I myself judge. That's probably a big part of why I do what I do. Preparation. Don't you see? God is like me.


J

Sunday, October 19, 2008

Testimonials

Xanadu, CA
Oct 18, 2008


Dear Sir or Madame:


Show the enclosed paper to others, make copies if you like.

I am 49, a Certified Genius per the National Institute of Genius Identification and Skullbump Technology, Ltd., a Master of Science, 6'4", 185 lbs, blondhair, blue eyes, and have been clinically depressed for my entire adult life.

I was born in Whittier and live with my mother. I have many friends, but I cannot find them anymore, although I do hear them.

It is a lie that I spent 3 years in the No. Dak. State Hospital and had 50 insulin coma shock treatments. I believe they don't even do that anymore I think. I also never escaped with a car and butcher knife and was nearly killed by the Police.

I have never stolen, raped, or killed. A psychiatrist, Dr. Viktor Freeze, said it was a miracle. Well I did steal erasers when I was in fourth grade.

I do not like nor will I eat mooshy food such as bananas. I do not eat beans that come out of a can.

I have had sex with over 211 women, all of them prostitutes, many of whom were so charmed by my pleasant demeanor and winning ways that they charged me only a minimal fee -- what they called the "virgin boy rate." It is very flattering.

I am a very handsome and charming Virgo, same as Alexander the Great, Ivan the Terrible, John Wilkes Booth, Scott Baio, Robert Blake, Jesse James, Admiral Bligh, Billy Ray Cyrus, Emperor Augustus, Cesare Borgia, Cardinal Richelieu, Marquis de Lafayette, Regis Philbin, Van Johnson, von Wallenstein, General John J. "Black Jack" Pershing, Macaulay Culkin, Louis XIV, Joseph Kennedy Sr, Richard the Lionhearted, Jimmy the Greek, River Phoenix, Downtown Julie Brown, Lyndon Johnson, Michael Jackson, Sean Connery, Mother Teresa, Yasser Arafat, Freidrich Hegal, George Wallace, Mickey Mouse (fictional), Beyonce, Maeterlinkck, Queen Lili'uokalani, and Todd Palin. I am very masculine, and like women.

In 2005, I received a batch of letters from Wyoming second graders, saying that my Billy the Kid song called Yippee Ya Hoo, was their favorite song and was sung in class every day.

According to neurologists, I have suffered far more than any human being who has ever lived, because when I was insane, I had the power to twist the bloodvessels in my brain, as is found in Goulds Medical Dictionary.

According to all psychologists and other experts, I am the smartest man ever to walk on the face of the planet Earth.

I would like to personally impregnate hundreds of highly bright single or divorced but hot women of any age in order to produce a crop of Great Geniuses to improve the world and the general tenor therein.

Thank you for disseminating this information.


With Utmost and Humble Sincerity,

Jack H


------


[Feel free to duplicate via mimeograph or the World Wide Web, and disseminate freely. No copyright.]

"He had an unusual kind of visual imagery that penetrated his thought process. He could actually see his concepts. He did more to advance science by the sheer power of thought alone, than any scientist who ever lived. " -- Said of Albert Einstein, Scientist

"Your imagination is unusual, Jack H. You picture Spiritual, Materialistic, and Philosophical pictures, and also have the ability to retain the pictures too. Whew!!" -- Said of Jack H, by Olive Grape, a Certified Handwriting Expert, in 1987, on or near the Campus of a Major University

"There's a horrible amount of intelligence here going to waste." -- of Jack H, by Arthur M. Hellerd, Psychologist

"You are a highly disturbing man." -- of Jack H, by Gwen Yama.

In Sept 2007, Q. Peter Bruno, the psychologist at the County Free Clinic in Pacoima, told me that I am "probably the smartest human ever born in the world. You have an IQ that is out of this world." A missionary, Aldritch Gunn, told me he said it [emphasis added for emphasis].

"With your amazing mind, you could conquer the world." -- of Jack H, by Kenneth Laviers, night manager of the International Magazine Rack, corner of Forsyth and Victory, North Hollywood.

"No one who ever lived here on this crazy planet we call the Earth, has ever suffered as much as you have, or could. You are an inspiration to us all, living or dead." -- Said of Jack H, by Dr. Marto A. Ruona Killings, Psy.D., famous neurologist.

"How are we going to put your great intellect to work to benefit mankind? How are we going to turn it loose? If you don't use your mind, it will be a great loss to the world, humanity and the planet Earth." Said of Jack H, by Dr. Wllm G. Goldenrodd, Psychologist and national champion fly fisherman.

"You aren't normal, Jack H. ...tremendous minds like yours are only found in insane asylums." -- Said of Jack H, by Rev. Hubert C. Robinson

My intellect is gigantic, monstrous, terrifying.

Here is a sampling of some of my many countless scientific discoveries:

-- "Temperature is everywhere. It can be negative or highly positive, but it influences and pervades everything. It is the secret of life, and highly necessary. " Quoted from the treatise by Jack H, Stratigraphical Observations Of The Devonian Hellespont, c. 1983

-- "Gravity, if memory serves, and I have not bothered to check the facts but feel sure my recollection is accurate, is a sort of electricity according to Albert Eisenstien, the great physicalist who invented e equals mc squared. In this he is correct, but he did not delve deeply enough into the mysteries. Gravity is, in actuality, both a DC phenomenon, and an element of only the black, or negative circuit wire." Quoted from the tractate authored by Jack H, Six Weeks Among The Nkilik Aboriginals Of The Maliqaiwila Peninsula, c. 1983.

-- "I have written many beautiful songs, which I sing with a lilting melancholy unmatched since the Angels first announced the First Dawn!" -- From a Brief Autobiographical Notes On The Life To Date of Jack H, Influential Internet Celebrity, c. 1983.

-- "The Planet is actually an immeasurable drop of water covered with space dust. Lava therefore is just dirty mudwater, caused to erupt from the broken crust of the Earth by the weight of too many humans. Overpopulation is the cause of all vulcanism. It is of urgent import that all Scientists gather to formulate a plan to enclose the Planet within a cube or sphere of glass so that further water comprising the substance of all matter and the Planet may not evaporate additionally into space with its infinite void of emptiness. More water in more people means less in the Oceans and Ponds of the surface, which means the Planet is smaller and closer to the center of the Earth, which is hot, which is the True Cause of Global Warming!!!" -- From the extended pamphlet authored by Jack H, Orthography And Lunar Eclipses In The Light Of Marxist-Leninism, c. 1983.


This should give you a sampling of the magnificent might of my unmatched cerebral powers of ratiocination.


J

Saturday, May 3, 2008

Empire of Dirt

Someone I know plays a Johnny Cash song once in a while. Hurt. It's mawkish and full of obvious rhymes, but his voice. Every ache, every fear, every regret, every betrayal committed or suffered -- it's a bit of a scream from hell.

Why can't we let go of pain?

So here are a couple of things I wrote just over a year ago. Sort of a set piece. I go through these moods. And it seems like the time to remind myself of how I am.

-----

object

Stripped of sarcasm, of humor. Stripped of sentimentality or sincerity, of compassion or rage. Stripped of ego and emotion and intellect and eloquence. Stripped of honor and of pain. Stripped. Naked, then. And he stands solely to be examined.

Well. We see him simply as a specimen of mankind. We consult our expectations and find he has not lied. He is a man. Standing slack as he is, as if a dead body propped up, we find no nobility in him. A sleeping animal, or entranced, or stunned, bare and dusted lightly with hair. Pale. Lean, like an older lion who still must hunt. We can see the years he has referenced as stiffness when he moves.

There is an asymmetry to his features, that must have come with the years. Time has twisted him more than burned -- he will end as shreds rather than ashes. A face surprisingly unlined. A sullenness of lips. Some creping about the eyes. They are too deep, and expressionless during this experiment, but we may please ourselves to think that they give some hint of character. Perhaps it is simply weariness -- his or perhaps ours -- but we think we see something in them. Compassion and fear look too much alike though, in the eyes. Long of bone he is, and they show through his skin. Broad and rawboned. Covered by muscle like thick leather.

He is a not displeasing specimen, but exceptional only because so few of his kind have taken similar care. Not pretty, certainly. Perhaps not handsome, although that is so much a matter of preference. We can see how some have thought him pleasing. We can just as well see the other point of view -- we do however feel that such a view would have been formed under some prejudice.

He looks tired. It may be age. We are weary too. He gave us quite a chase, this old lion, and he was not subdued with ease. We took him unawares. He did not think he could be found in his deepest hiding place. But we understand that no place is secure.

He seemed to come quietly, seemed resigned to this inevitability. But then something in him must have snapped and he strained against the bonds as if to break his bones. This he did for much longer than intelligence would warrant. First it was amusing, then sad. We felt pity for him. Finally, after far too long, he realized the futility and despaired. There is no escape. And the lion became the lamb.

We have his body now. We do not know where he has gone. He must have found some deeper hiding place. But we will not stop our search, and when we find him we will pull him out and examine his heart as we have his body. He thinks he is safe. We understand that there is no safe place.


------

h

Someone must have been watching H, because without having done anything unusual, he found himself examined and in peril of his life. That someone, those someones who have been watching -- they do have power over him, of which he is unaware or unwilling to acknowledge.



H, you understand why you have been called here?

I don't know what you're talking about. I don't understand any of this. What's going on here?

It is natural to be confused. The concern is over some troubling things that you have produced.

What do you mean, produced?

Some of the things you have posted.

Yeah? What about them?

Take this recent example. You describe ... here it is: "The first one is of the Prophet Mohammad, PBUH, buried under a huge splattering of monkey feces." Do you have any sense of how offensive this is?

It doesn't offend me.

Don't be jejune. You are not unaware of the fact that Muslims will use actual violence to protect the holiness of their faith. Yet you use the very most vulgar images to insult them.

That is not the very most vulgar thing I could have said. Believe me.

Perhaps you are referring to this, where you have the Prophet sodomized by a rhinoceros. You describe such an image as "funny." Do you really think it was funny, H? And before you answer, please consider the gravity of your reply. Very much indeed depends on it.

Well first of all, I would hope you understand the concept of satire.

We are well aware of the concept, H.

Good. Then maybe you can understand that my message is not contained solely in the black-letter meaning of the words or images. I have something deeper in mind.

There is no need to instruct us, H. Yours is the tiresome excuse of every adolescent who masquerades his cynicism and mediocrity as art.

Why are we even having a discussion, then, since you know all the answers?

This is not a discussion.

An inquisition then. And you are? What, the Masters of CyberSpace? The Blog Lords?

You begin to understand. Is that all you have to say in your defense?

Yeah, Skeletor, just what am I defending myself against? You don't like my blog? Don't read it. It's not like abortion, idiot. It's not a life or death issue.

Yet you know that it is. You would be beaten to death, in the streets of Ramallah.

Good thing I'm not in Ramallah then. Or on the dark side of the moon. Or in hell. Or in your anus.

You are playing at being obtuse. The point, as you know, is that your words would arouse murderous passions.

My words for the day are "self" and "control".

And you have no part in the matter? You make a poor Pilate, with your dirty hands.

You're the ones playing at being the judge. And isn't it my dirty mouth that's the problem? Don't mix your metaphors.

You pretend to take it all as a joke. Why then do you bring such passion to it? -- your jottings here?

Golly, your questions are so probing and thought-provoking. Thank you for taking such an interest in my personal private inner life. Let me respond in kind. Which hand to you wipe your ass with?

The question was about your passion, H. Even your absurd efforts usually deteriorate into some bathetic plea for sympathy. You turn the bulk of your outward wrath upon the Muslims. Yet you claim to be compassionate.

You know, that doesn't even make sense. Why don't you slow down and try to organize your thoughts. I'll wait. But a little hint -- don't try to pronounce words that are too big for your mouth. I do not fucking believe you. With all the incredible filth and insanity on the internet, you're worried about me? Hey genius, nobody reads me. Get it? Just how stupid are you, anyway.

Your insolence is noted.

Yeah, well, note this.

Moving on, we have observed your antagonistic references to God.

Oh, this is an Ecclesiastical Court? Your pardon I pray, your Eminences. I took your black robes for evening gowns.

More foolishness. You have been warned about your impertinence.

Or what? Who the hell are you to question me. It's my blog, I'm responsible for it, and I'll stand behind it. If you don't get it that's just your problem. Go look at some porn site and good riddance. You wouldn't recognize genius if it stood before you like it is right now. Idiots.

Yes -- your preoccupation with porn and your own self-proclaimed genius.

Glad I could give you a few seconds of vicarious pleasure. And how flattering! You know how high my IQ is. Which one was that in? The one about I'm Smarter Than You ... that would be because I'm smarter than you. One of my best, that one is. But they're all one of my best.

Wasn't it satire?

True things can also be satire.

So you say. We do not concern ourselves either with satire or with self-serving testimony about genius. Genius, as you should know, is not a number, but a result.

Gasp! Such insight! And I'm desperately contrite about referring to it. After you did, I mean. Sorry if my true testimony also happens to be self-serving. Sounds like you'd prefer that it harm me. Hardly a fairminded attitude, is it.

H, we do not concern ourselves here with what is fair. This is not a court of justice. Did you make that mistake?

I never expect justice anymore.

We have noted as much. And we warn you that you are making a poor showing for yourself.

I live to please you. Will it help if I confess that I'm very unhappy and don't see any prospect for a change? You'd like that, right?

H, that you don't like yourself will not excuse you.

Well fuck you all to hell. I don't need your excuse, cupcake.

Which brings us to the final issue. Do you think anyone likes you, H?

It's none of your business what I think.

Do you think anyone likes you?

Yes, asshole, I do think people like me.

Really? Do you really?

Yes. Really. Honestly and truly, and golly, for reals too!

Yes, you think so. Do you feel so?

Fuck you.

Do you feel liked?

Fuck you.

Do you?

...

No, you don't. You understand. You can interpret the objective evidence and conclude that there are some people who "like" you, whatever that is worth. But you cannot accept that intellectual conclusion as true in a meaningful way. You feel unloved, unliked, disliked. You feel worthless. You feel stupid. You feel meaningless.

You're very fucking wise.

And you are not wrong, H. Your life is meaningless. You are not liked. You are a joke that no one finds funny. You are alone, and will remain alone. Unloved, untouched, consumed with insecurity, defending yourself from phantoms, grieving the sunlight and dreading the night. You will spit poison at shadows and find your soul more bitter with every wasted moment. God has turned his face from you. You are a waste.

Then why don't you just take me into an alley and shoot me in the head like a dog?

We will, H. We will.



One morning H awoke and found he had metamorphosed sometime during the night into a large and monstrous insect. No one noticed, or if they did, no one cared. Not even H.


J