Misfortune is a Cookie Named Zeke

July 31, 2015

THESE ARE THE END TIMES…of my birthday month, that is. So let me toss in some email dialogs and finish with a delightful sci-fi fable in the fashion of Stanislaw Lem.


Date: Tue, 28 Jul 2015 11:20:10
Subject:
This will put San Francisco on the Intergalactic Map
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: My E-frenz

“I am not going to stand here and act falsely humble!” – Gay Zombie Jesus speaking atop Twin Peaks to the gathering rabble on day 1 of his return.


Date: Tue, 28 Jul 2015 11:28:09
Subject:
Errata
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: My E-frenz

Change “gathering rabble” to “surly rabble”.

PS: Barbara, my brother does /not/ have cancer, thank deity. He does a lot of charity work and left a msg. on my ans. machine that sounded to me, like: “I’m running around like a chicken with its head cut off [blah blah blah] cancer diagnosis.” So I told him yesterday that my prayers for him shall be redirected to all good souls with cancer. I had a /fantastic/ first conversation with you, BTW. Minneapolis is so fortunate to have your kind presence.


Date: Tue, 28 Jul 2015 12:03:44
Subject:
Let’s welcome Barbara Lodermeier to our group!
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: My E-frenz

By “group” I mean email list, which now totals a whopping…[drumroll now]…FIVE!

But soon I’m gonna burst on the world scene like a thieving kidney stone in the night. At which point my emailbox, Twitter account, Facebook page, WordPress blog, and gay-bible.org web site will get so rapidly flooded by fans and enemies alike, it will bring down the entire Interwebs.

Barbara is the same age as This Queer Miscreant (2,015 years, give or take a few months), and hails from Minneapolis. So lucky to live in a town with a statue of Mary Tyler Moore! I can barely contain my envy.

Minneapolis, you have a bright angel in your midst!

– Zeke Krahlin (Jehovah’s Queerest Witness Of All)


Date: Thu, 30 Jul 2015 11:02:02
Subject:
New Rule #4
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Eleanor Cooney

This latest New Rule shall be mailed to the 4 bars Larkin used to frequent (till I got him kicked out), as well as Moby Dick:


NEW RULE #4: Be kind to Larkin Kelsey, yet do not allow him to disappear from my world, geographically, socially or consciously. This includes watching over him, that he does not hurt himself (unlikely, but better safe than sorry). Know that whatever outcome is my lot with Mr. Kelsey, reflects directly upon the S.F. LGBT community at large.

It occurred to me just moments ago (as I exited Muni Metro at Embarcadero Station on my way to Posh Bagel):

There shall be /ten/ New Rules in toto. Mimicking Moses’ Commandments.

It /also/ occurred to me (2-3 days ago) that Larkin intentionally suckered the SF Queer Family into despising me, that I may eventually blackmail them into fulfilling my dreams. For the shame they’d otherwise suffer would be insurmountable…hence eviscerate all our achievements thus far, against a homophobic reality. And all sexual minorities would be wiped off the planet…and erased from The Book Of Life.

They now have no other choice but to honor me in every way possible. And I owe it all to Larkin, who must play a little while longer, my backstabber.

– Zeke



MISFORTUNE IS A COOKIE NAMED ZEKE

By Ezekiel J. Krahlin

Date: 25 Glaucus 50,970 A.Z.A. (After Zeke’s Awakening)
Subject:
How My Cookies Conquered the World and Beyond
To: My Loyal Reptilian Subjects from Andromeda
From: Master Thaumaturge Ezekiel Joseph Krahlin (Eminent Overseer of Sector 357, Quadrant B)

There is no way to explain how I became the most powerful sentient being in the entire Milky Way Galaxy plus 14 neighboring clusters, based solely on cookie sales, without believing in the supernatural. I do not dabble in The Black Arts, nor have I in any other way consciously sought This Impossible Destiny. The cookies just fell into my lap (so to speak), one thing led to another until 50,970 years after my first cookie tumbled off the assembly line, and *voila* here I am.

It all started quite innocently on the 29th day of July, 2015 A.D., with a frivolous email exchange between myself and The Osmium Empress (a.k.a. Eleanor Cooney). Who as you all know so well from your brain-implant history classes, led us to a magnanimous victory in 38,112 A.Z.A. against the Axzyspuluk Swarm that threatened to teleport us back to the Stone Age when dinosaurs had yet to invent the rotating disc. Which disc is responsible for uniting two intelligent species–reptilians and humans–into an amalgamated imperium. For posterity’s sake, here is the exchange:


Date: Tue, 28 Jul 2015 12:37:59
Subject:
Wanna go into business together? I have a plan…
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Eleanor Cooney

…forget literary endeavors, let’s get into the cookie business. Specifically:

Zeke’s Misfortune Cookies

Printed on each strip of paper will be one of my silly quotes, of which I have /many/ (as you all-2-well know). Such as:

“Help! I’m a prisoner in a Neptunian/Chinese cookie factory, and I can’t find the right wormhole that will lead me to freedom!”

I think it’s a fabulous idea, and if you are likewise inspired, run with it. We can split it 60/40, with the 60 part for you and yours.

– Zeke


Date: Tue, 28 Jul 2015 13:47:09
Subject:
Re: Wanna go into business together? I have a plan…
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Eleanor Cooney

On Tue, Jul 28, 2015 at 1:28 PM, Eleanor Cooney wrote:

{{ It’s a winner idea, all right. But how to implement? }}

Once the money from my fame comes rolling in, I can hire some of the best to handle the business aspects. I was also thinking: you can add your own Morticia quotes. “Morticia & Gay Zombie Jesus” has a nice ring to it.

Gawd I’m on a roll these days!

– Zeke

PS: I saw Larkin yesterday afternoon, seated at the counter of Moby Dick and rolling the dice. His roommate Zachary was tending bar. I paused a moment at a spot where only Larkin could see me through the plate glass. Just in case he needed to talk. He didn’t, so I moved on. None of my scouts have seen Larkin at any other bar, nor have I, these past 7 days. Looks like my New Rule has trumped Larkin big time.


Date: Tue, 28 Jul 2015 14:34:41
Subject:
Re: Wanna go into business together? I have a plan…
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Eleanor Cooney

On Tue, Jul 28, 2015 at 2:05 PM, Eleanor Cooney wrote:

{{ Imagine our web page!!! }}

My eyes, my eyes, my eyes are burning!

{{ I think you should make some Misfortune Cookies specifically for Larkin! }}

He’s gonna need a whole passel each and every day.
I’ll whip him up a batch of glop and tell him it’s okay.

– Zeke


Towards the final months of 2015 I finally made my breakthrough as an activist and author: celebrated throughout the world, with ginormos sums of cash flowing into my Paypal account. By April of the following year, my asset value increased from $1,550 to $4,325,000. Which empowered me to open my first Misfortune Cookie (tm) factory.

My cookies were a big hit, bigger than I ever hoped, infiltrating even the poorest nations and remotest regions with their playful mayhem. They made people laugh, something sorely appreciated in those tumultuous times of poverty, disaster, oppression and disease. But more than that:

These Misfortune Cookies (tm) are highly nutritional, composed of a base of gluten-free quinoa and brown rice flours sweetened with stevia. The remaining ingredients (a trade secret) ensure that my cookies will always be delectable, and with just the right, satisfying crunch.

In appearance, they look just like standard fortune cookies, except for a special logo stamped onto one side:

This symbol was originally my graffiti signature as a gay street activist, scrawled here and there throughout The Castro to mark my turf. But since my fame took off, it has become a seal of quality for all my products, including my starship franchise established 700 years later. But let’s get back to the 21st century.

Here are seven early examples of my Zeke-style quips (besides the one displayed in the email exchange above):

Many are called but few are chosen, so step right up for your lederhosen!

“Who wants to play Twister?” – the Elephant Man on his birthday

The way to a man’s heart is his stomach…either orifice.

“Can I meet you if I retweet you, can I eat you if I reheat you?” – Gay Zombie Jesus

“Crumpets in bed, crumpets in bed. Gnoshing on crumpets and getting good head!” – gay bachelor raconteur Neville Snidermannington III

Don’t count your chickens before they change horses in midstream.

“I am not Larkin’s stalker, I’m his boyfriend.” – Zeke Krahlin

Plus six examples from Eleanor’s Morticia alter ego (which tend to be more direct and blunt than mine, no pussyfooting about):

You will lose your foot in an accident involving farm equipment.

You will catch a tropical disease and be hideously disfigured.

A grand piano will fall on you from ten stories up.

You will be drugged and transported to a refugee camp in Somalia.

You will reincarnate as a leper in 11th-century India.

You will swallow a thumbtack.

The world went through many upheavels during my stellar rise to power, and my cookie factories spread across the globe to number 182,448. Not only had I led The LGBT Revolution to establish the world’s first gay nation, Athenia, but I grew so affluent I bought up every country that collapsed under the weight of economic catastrophe, one by one. By the year 2022 immortality had been invented in the form of a nasal spray, though reserved only for the rich.

But my militia stole the formula and distributed it to everyone else within the short span of five years. So I could then breathe a sigh of relief at that point (as I morphed backwards in physical age to 19), and continue my conquest of planet earth in relative tranquility as nation after nation fell into my hands until not so much as a square inch anywhere on terra firma was not under my direct ownership. World peace was finally a reality, under the auspices of yours truly a.k.a. “Big Gay Brother.”

And I owed all this ridiculous success to my Misfortune Cookie (tm) dynasty, which garnered profit quantum leaps beyond my fame as a revolutionary author and activist. You might say that the world was now my oyster, though I would object.

As the centuries marched forward, humanity expanded throughout the solar system and on to neighboring galaxies…under my leadership with co-commander (and Uber Soulmate) Larkin Kelsey, and The Osmium Empress for My Most Trusted Military Advisor. My cookies were the first cash cow from earth to be traded on the Intergalactic Marketplace. Which of course boosted my legendary influence another quantum leap or two.

My transcosmically irresistable Misfortune Cookies (tm) were on the table (or pad or squadunk or whatever passed for a dining surface) of every sentient family across 15 galaxies including the Milky Way, by the time the Axzyspuluk Swarm was subjugated to lowly factory workers. Ah, yes, the factories:

It had finally become necessary to dedicate an entire solar system to the production of my cookies. The one I chose had 22 inhabitable planets, and the sole mission of every denizen on each of those worlds was to manufacture enough cookies to satisfy the demand of more than 6,433 quadrillion eager consumers.

These factories provided almost 17,000 years of quality cookie production, but like all good things they came to pass, and had to be demolished. Along with their entire solar system, due to residual byproduct. Of course I transferred all residents to a new location long before The Cookieocalypse took place.

Co-commander Kelsey and myself stood a safe distance from the demolition, as we watched the planets and its star quietly break up into fragments, then dust. I was quite disappointed, expecting instead a glorious super-nova implosion with many fireworks in tow.

So I looked up at him and questioned why such an anticlimactic end. To which he calmly replied:

“Well, Zeke, I guess that’s just the way the cookie planets crumble.”

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The Future Belongs To MOI

March 20, 2010

You hold in your hand a small, flat packet: a belated birthday gift you received in the mail just moments ago. Your friend said it was a small painting by that f*ggot artist so popular these days. You hope not. You’re sick of seeing his insipid face on the cover of Time (the last three issues, for God’s sake!)…and, all in the short span of one week, on TV pap like “Okra Winfree,” “I Love Lucifer,” “Glove Connection,””Married With Mutants,” “FBI: The Unsold Stories,” and “Masturbate Theater“. Enough is enough, already! “Actually, the pervert’s a f*ckin’ genius,” you admit to yourself. “Anyone who owns a piece of his art becomes an instant celebrity–and rich!” (Not by selling the painting, but by charging admission to view it.)

Musing over the packet’s contents, you sit at your desk and turn it in your hands with delicious anticipation. Pondering, you get swept up in a whirlwind of reveries…and land somewhere in the future, on a barren strip of land that goes nowhere in every direction. When you look down, grass grows under your feet, and all about. When you look around, people pop up like mushrooms. You find yourself part of a small crowd of fourteen, and know who you are, and know this is the month of Horus in the year 2335.

You rub your eyes and say to the woman beside you: “What a strange daydream I just had. Can you imagine: men with no hair on their heads?”

The stately dame smiles at you and replies, “There are stranger things in sky and ground than bald-headed men…though not by much,” she adds, scratching her own shiny pate in bemusement. Jewel-encrusted tattoos on her skull make her look twenty years younger.

A late arrival appears, looks around, and brushes lint from his toga top. “My deity, the traffic was awful!”

“Am I late?” his voice booms in the peaceful ambiance.

The dame narrows her eyes and snaps at him: “My astute young fellow. Obviously you are on time, or we wouldn’t all be standing here like turkeybots in a Formularium. ” She withdraws a Cylinder of Deimos from her sleeve and, with it, taps him on the shoulder. “Besides, I can hardly bear…”

A sharp, electric “crack” breaks the conversation, then all is silent for a few, expectant moments. A powerful resonance grows from the ground to your ears, as the image of a building takes form, hovering only inches from the ground. Its looming presence dwarfs the small crowd. It appears massive and ornate, like a nineteenth-century museum, and slowly turns (as if you are walking around it, only you stand still). Once the main gate faces the visitors, it halts. Grand marble steps lead to the gate, and are bordered by two Doric columns. Around each pillar writhes a silver android python. They flicker their sinewy, orange tongues within a hair’s breadth of the tour guide who stands atop the steps.

“Ahem! Do not feed the snakes,” he reprimands a child caught feeding bionic mice to a python. Embarrassed, the offending lad quickly backs away from the leviathan reptile that recoils in dismay.

“Let the tour begin,” the guide continues. He waves his hand with a flourish toward the stone lettering above the gate: IN MY MUSEUM THERE ARE MANY MANSIONS.

“Many mansions indeed,” remarks the guide. “As a matter of fact, we have yet to discover an end to the number of rooms. Some Krahlinologists hypothesize the number of rooms to be infinite; that this Great Talent discovered a way to continue His existence into other dimensions, where He is happily painting canvas after canvas to this very day.” He pauses. “But, like deity, this is just a romantic notion.”

“Each room is dedicated to a single painting,” continues the tour guide. “And as we discover new rooms, we discover new paintings. While The Artist has been dead now for over two hundred ninety years, we are still charmed by the presentation of His latest work, just as if He were alive today.”

“But when will He be undead?” interrupts a visitor (obviously a devotee by the anxious tone in her voice…by those subtle, but distinct, random scarifications of the body that must always remain exposed to the air and the light of truth…and by the twelve, Siamese-cloned androgynous consorts who perpetually tend to the cleanliness of her suppurating wounds).

The guide expounds, with a melancholy timbre to his words: “Nobody has ever viewed His Postmortem Contract, for it is piezosecured in the NuVatican’s Sacred Vault. So no one knows, not even the NuPope. ” He sighs. “Remember the vision of three NuSpanish children some seventy years ago, who claimed that the Holy NuVirgin revealed the year of The Great Artist’s Resurrection to be twenty-two seventy-two?”

“Yeah,” replies the questioner in discouragement (as several consorts wash her wounds in silent empathy), “I was only a hatchling then. It never happened.”

“That’s right,” the tour guide recalls. “And the resulting global riots almost toppled the world back over the edge to the Premetamorphic Era–the era which defined all of humanoid history prior to 2013–the era Our Great Artist strove so long and hard to pull us out of: to lead the world into our own, enlightened era.”

“The POSTmetamorphic Era,” comments the boy with the bionic mice. He is petting one.

“Er, yes,” replies the nervous guide as the two pythons eagerly lash their tongues at the boy, who stands less than two meters away. The decorative snakes are now completely unraveled from their marble pillars. They sprawl across the landing, heads hovered over the topmost step.

“But please, put your mouse away!” cautions our tour director as simulated beads of sweat roll down his high forehead.

The lad retreats down the stairway, and the pythons withdraw to resume their coiled embrace of the columns . But they glare at the scruffy-haired youngster: for protruding from each of his numerous pockets is a semi-automated rodent’s nose and whiskers.

The tourist guide straightens his musclelet in relief, and continues: “This incredible museum is just part of Our Great Artist’s wonderful legacy that has done so much good for the world–and continues to do more, as we evolve along with His art each time a new discovery occurs. Knowing the brilliant and clever man He was, we do not expect to uncover the last room, the last painting, anytime in the near future.”

An impatient teenager speaks up: “Okay, okay, cut the education scat. We all know this stuff from hatchery school. On with the tour!” Her four arms (one pair longer than the other, identifying her as a future biostronaut) are stubbornly folded across her chest.

The affronted guide widens his eyes: “Very well. But there’s no need to be rude.”

“Why not?” retorts the teenager, “You’re just a hologram.”

“True,” quips the guide, “but an interactive one.”

Our museum escort turns to face the gate, which rapidly vanishes into the ceiling like a reverse waterfall. The museum descends into the ground–marble steps, columns, and all–until its floor is submerged half a meter beneath the grass. It moves forward and swallows everyone up. Now, we all stand in the main lobby. The walls are built from large, mortared blocks of stone, in the fashion of medieval castles. The interior is dark and cool, lit by a single torch set in a sconce.

“The museum itself,” continues the guide, “was also created by The Great Artist. But He had to wait almost fifteen years before His dream castle would be converted from blueprint to edifice…which is how long it took NuTechnology to catch up to his dreams. This NuTechnology of Hologramacoustic Engineering, by the way, is another invention of The Great Artist.

“Can you imagine?” whispers an elderly gentleman beside you, “People living in buildings that don’t move? And they were solid, too!”

“Let us now enter the first vault.” the guide turns his back to us, as the museum moves forward and rotates, pulling us into a small, tiny chamber with just a small, tiny painting on one wall. The diminutive masterpiece seems to illuminate the entire cell in its own unassuming, but saintly, way. Several visitors gasp and swoon. The painting, entitled “Don’t Tread On MOI,” seems to speak:


I sing, I dance. I celebrate. Deity’s promise to man is fulfilled in me. Who am I to deserve such honors? I do not know. Deity says: “No man earns it. It is simply given. A gift.” I do not know. But I do know one thing: I am truly blessed! Isn’t that my message? That we are all truly blessed? I am here to wake everyone up! I am truly blessed to have the gift to show everyone else that they are also truly blessed! Blessed among the blessed, I am! You can never catch up to me! I won the golden apple! Here! Take a bite and see how wonderful it tastes! Sing with me! Dance with me! And don’t forget to give me a little credit where credit is due! Was I really such a bad guy after all? Didn’t I teach woman and man to think for themselves?

“For such a simple design, it sure is a talkative little piece,” you joke to yourself, as joy leaps in your heart like frolicking ponies. “He should have named it Yakety-Yak,” you think, and start chuckling, for you suddenly realize you are conversing and laughing along with the picture: you are joking with the snake! There is laughter all around you.

The tour guide wipes tears of joy from his eyes and composes himself. “Yes,” he remarks, “it is always a pleasure to renew this experience, as common as it is these days. And to have it, all we need do is take a moment to look at any of The Great Artist’s works, to which we have fingertip access anywhere in the world…for NuCivilization has long since manufactured billions of quality reproductions for anyone to own, for free! This is the Great Legacy of The Great Artist: through His paintings we gain the capacity of true joy: that is, oneness with the Deityhead.”

“Why, that’s like the snakes outside the museum!” exclaims an enthusiastic tourist. “And those stripes are like the ones I saw from an old holo-pic called ‘Noah’s Ark and the Slave Booty.'”

“Correct in both cases,” the guide affirms. “The colors in those stripes were once referred to as a ‘rainbow,’ after a once-common meteorological phenomenon that occurred worldwide, until The Great Artist copyrighted it and took it with Him to his piezo-mausoleum. With His death, the rainbow colors died also, until, by this time, few people even know what they are. The Artist wanted to mark the great loss to the world of His own existence, by taking with Him what He (and apparently many others, at that time) considered to be the most aesthetic symbol of the soul of art.”

The tour guide then took this visitor aside and sternly whispered, “The holo-pic you mentioned is censored. Don’t EVER bring it up again. Ever.”

The guide smiled and turned back to the crowd: “The Great Artist painted ‘MOI’ before He was self-realized. The incredible message to be carried through His Hand had begun, though The Artist Himself did not know. He decided to copyright this painting, for He knew it was clever enough for another artist to steal. When His nation’s government returned the ‘proof of deposit’ certificate for ‘MOI,’ the number assigned to it was 187-666.

The Great Author chuckled over the number, for the last three digits, in PaleoChristian mythology, signify the devil, often represented as a snake (the classic example being the serpent in the Garden of Eden). The Author thought, ‘There is no way to predict what number they’ll assign to any work. And this is the only design I have done that incorporates a snake. The odds against 666 must be astronomical to the Nth degree!’ Little did The Great Artist realize at that time, the profound machinations the cosmos had begun working, through Him, and through this painting.

“The Artist created several versions of ‘MOI.’ This version He duplicated by hand, many times over, and peddled them on the streets. It is made of a combination of cloth, vinyl, and paint; pieces made separate, then appliqued in layers. Through ‘MOI,’ He invented the 3-D patch, a truly remarkable innovation for His time…but something so common today, we don’t even think about it, like hydroponic cows.”

“He also painted several ‘flat’ versions suitable for picture-reproduction in the form of two-dimensional patches, stickers and buttons. The back of this particular 3-D patch is coated with a special glue that allows you to stick the patch on the back of your coat, or to any other reasonably flat surface. It could be re-attached over a hundred times before requiring fresh glue! The glue would not leave any residue on the surface receiving the patch…and some adhesive still remains on the patch to this very day!”

“What’s so amazing about that?” challenges the teenager with four arms (now waving them about like a windmill). “We have glue now, that’ll attach your own head right back onto your neck, and instantly restore all severed nerve, blood vessel, muscle, cartilage, and tendon connections.”

The guard narrows his eyes at her and says, “Shall we try it on you?”

“I never saw this picture before,” you intervene. “I thought you said all His known works were copied en masse throughout the world. Is this a newly discovered piece?”

“No it isn’t,” says the guide. “It is actually His First Known Piece. Known to the people of His time, that is. Because of His Copyright On The Rainbow, this is the only known piece hidden from the world. This Museum is the only place you can view it. Apparently, this is your first visit to The Museum.”

“Of course,” you emphasize, “I know what is in The Great Artist’s heart–it only takes one picture to tell you that. So I could never dream of repainting it myself to have at home, and show my friends.”

“Nor could I,” agrees the guide.

“Nor could I,” chirps a chorus of voices from the crowd. “Nor could I.”

“Let’s move on,” the guide commands, and vault number one is suddenly plunged into darkness.

When you can see again, you are once more sitting at your desk, still turning the birthday package in your hand.

And…it is still unopen.


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