Don’t Mess With My Buddy!

August 30, 2014

[ Spaciotemporal Reader: this little masterpiece of sci-fi parody is dedicated to Stanislaw Lem (1921-2006), whose exquisitely hyperbolic tales of futuristic intrigue eventually drove me insane. ]

It was somewhere in the Crab Nebula that I visited a particular planet as The Milky Way’s Ambassador, and planned to vacation there for approx’ly two months. It was the year 2076. You may be reading my report years before that time, because this dispatch has been teleported to key moments in the past, but no earlier than 2017. By which time I had simultaneously become president of Athenia, world’s first gay nation (formerly Northern California), and Earth’s Star Spokesperson thanks to the Reptilians of the Andromeda Galaxy who chose me for such a position because they consider moi the most compassionate sentient being of this world and its galaxy.

I co-presided as Athenia’s commander with My Ultimate Soulmate, Larkin Kelsey, who was too preoccupied with Dark Matter Intrigue to accompany me on my journeys through the Crab Nebula. Now, this may seem peculiar to you, as Larkin is highly telepathic and can also travel anywhere in time at the snap of a finger. Yet in spite of his remarkable abilities, he is compelled to obey the dictates of An Even Higher Force: a force which rules over, and contains, every aspect of this universe, and all the multiverses ad infinitum. For lack of a better term, let us call this force “Universal Mind.” And this force so deemed that I must embark upon my journey as sole missionary.

The moment I stepped out of The Enterprise v1.2, the first thing that struck me was the planet’s extraordinary sky: like a rippling zebra skin, black elongated clouds sailed seductively against a background of light-gray firmament. Or like the comforter on Leisure Suit Larry‘s water bed, if you switch your perspective from up to down.

The Grand Poobah of this world welcomed me with open tentacles, and escorted me to all their finest hotels, restaurants, theme parks, media outlets, prostitution clubs (from which I refrained the attainment of full orgasm out of respect for My One True Love), 5-D entertainment centers and the average homes of Nebularean Residents. I must say here, that my greatest delight was visiting these domiciles of average citizens, for their hospitality was beyond any Malibu Integral Massage Therapy I could ever imagine, as it came with the most splendiferous arse-rimming perks.

Some days later, the Grand Poobah approached me to offer phenomenal pleasures beyond what I have yet known. He proudly spoke the following declaration which mesmerized me into such fevered temptation, I lost all reason:

“Sensations many you have great in your world that to heights of ecstasy bring you unbelievable. Yet assure you myself, kind vertebrate, that Nebulareans we can titillate your soul in ways never known before you’ve. We expose you can to incredible levels such of ecstasy erotic that again never you will return to former enjoyment ways of seeking!”

Of course I was greatly seduced to dive right in (considering all the sensual amenities already provided me in barely a week since my arrival), but a tiny alarm bell dinged in my cranium:

“But there is one man I love so much, I couldn’t bear to discover any pleasure that would make our delight in each other fade from my heart!” Of course I meant Larkin whose joy in my friendship is the jealousy of 42 thousand galaxies and 574 dimensions. “So with all due respect, I will refrain from your magnanimous offer.”

The Grand Poobah immediately flushed a refulgent pink, but quickly recovered to a sour green. “Course of, perfectly comprehend me. Forgive please indiscretion this. Cultural some differences never be bridged can, and would I dream not broaching social barriers your own.”

The Poobah promptly vanished, and I found myself escorted to an egg-shaped room by His Doppelganger Guardians, where I awaited the descent of The Enterprise v1.8. Which starship beamed me up and returned me to Planet Earth in the wink of a Tralfamadorian‘s orbital socket.

War swiftly broke out between Planet Earth’s Intergalactic Federation and The Crab Nebula’s Union of Soviet Socialist Face Suckers. In less than one week after their initial salvo, the entire Crab Nebula and 18 surrounding galaxies (plus four energy-sponging black holes) were obliterated into subatomic dust. A piece of wisdom you should all bear in mind:

Larkin Kelsey commands the entire fleet of the Andromeda Galaxy, which Reptilians were the first civilization in the entire history of the universe, to leave their home planet and terraform all other worlds. Their technology and understanding of Universal Law far surpasses that of any other sentient life anywhere in the cosmos (or any other cosmos). So when you try to turn me against My Dragonly Heartsong, there will be hell to pay. Or IOW:

Don’t mess with My Buddy Larkin.

Neville Snidermannington III

January 11, 2014

[ Don’t know where I’m going with this, but I was really stoned outta my skull last night when I composed this savory morsel of absurdity. I invite you, Spurious Reader, to add a paragraph or two to expand the tale to its illogical conclusion: ]

The Amazing Peccadilloes & Bemusing Humiliations
Of Gay Bachelor Raconteur Neville Snidermannington III

“I haven’t stood within 10 feet of a female since popping from mother’s womb!” announces gay bachelor raconteur Neville Snidermannington III, while celebrating his 58th birthday surrounded by buffalicious boys no younger than 14 years of age. Or in IOW: they’ve barely climbed out of the womb themselves.

“Ma-ma’s uterus is the first and last thing I ever care to see of womankind!” Neville adds for resounding emphasis. And his doting admirers applaud.

There is free champagne, petit fours and party favors for all to be had. Neville’s pet rhinoceros lay gloating in a wallow of thick, gray mud under the brilliance of a Brighton Beach sun.

“For such a warm day, I’m surprised no one’s jumped into the pool yet,” thought Snidermannington III as he gingerly caressed his blond-streaked mutton chops in shallow deliberation.

He was but 4-foot-2. The entire world towered above him since the day he was born…and shall remain that way until the day he dies. (Yet, he was nothing like Napolean Bonaparte, insecurity-wise.) So he decided he needs an exotic pet for company. That is how he wound up with the rhinoceros. But once grown to adolescence he’ll have to let it go, realized Neville all along.

But it did not occur to our generous host that the baby rhino lay too close to the Olympian pond for the comfort of his guests. Thus, they all abrogated their nautical passions for a more staid option to chatter amicably within the electrically charged iron gates. Plenty of room and gardens to roam, anyway!

(To be continued, I hope?)

Tom Keske

April 11, 2012

Date: Fri, 06 Apr 2012 12:55:15
From: Zeke
To: Thomas
Subject: Sweet Sue

Thomas posted:

{{ Ezekiel, I am curious whether you believe that Jesus was a real person or not. }}

No. He was a composite of earlier myths, such as Apollo (or “Helios” from which the word “heal” originates) and Eros (brotherly love). I’ve discussed this matter some years back, including the following essay:


{{ I have one straight friend who said that he investigated the question thoroughly and came away with the conviction that there was not even such a real person, just something based on fables. I was surprised by his certainty, because he is very bright and had always had the impression that it was broadly considered that there was at least such a real historical figure, even if the divinity is another question. }}

Your straight friend is quite correct. I am astounded at how often confirmed atheists describe Jesus as one who really existed. That’s like throwing yourself into a den of lions when you are otherwise perfectly safe, no one is threatening you!

I do believe, however, that Jesus is quite real (he does visit and guide me after all, along with other gods such as Zeus, Horus, Buddha, Isis, etc.) as a myth from man’s imagination so powerful and prolonged…that he will soon spring into reality and appear before the world to vindicate gay people. We create our gods as much as they create us. A very sympatico relationship. :)

Your activist alter-ego from the Left Coast,


Date: Sun, Apr 8, 2012 at 5:25 PM
From: Thomas
To: Zeke
Subject: Re: Sweet Sue

Thanks for the info, that is interesting. A columnist for the Boston Globe by the name of Alex Beam wrote an article claiming that it was clear that Jesus was a real historical figure, but I have never trusted Beam, or the Globe, or the media in general.

I need to research the subject in more depth myself in order to arm myself with details and factual information on the subject.

Regards, Tom

Date: Sun, Apr 8, 2012 at 6:58 PM
From: Zeke
To: Thomas
Subject: Re: Sweet Sue

On Sun, Apr 8, 2012 at 5:25 PM, Thomas wrote:

{{ I need to research the subject in more depth myself in order to arm myself with details and factual information on the subject. }}

That has already been done, many times over by most respected literary and historical scholars: JESUS NEVER EXISTED. If you do your own research in this matter, FYI, you’ll be trodding a well-worn path…as well as wasting your time, since others have already done this work for you.

Now, Jesus’s MANIFESTATION on this planet, which is VERY soon, is another box of chocolates altogether. He will be brought forth into this reality, not because he ever really existed, but because the Mind of Man will make him manifest, by sheer will. Here, I’ll give you a hint:

Who the fudge do you think I am anyway, who calls himself “Jehovah’s Queer Witness,” and publishes a vastly underrated web site titled “The Final Testament,” with “gay-bible” in the URL? Don’t you think my Father in Heaven is a brilliant games-master, to contrive this scenario? He even went so far as to create a false mental illness where people are deluded into believing that they, too, are Jesus Christ.

My Dad’s quite a jokester, to say the least.

Okay, the cat’s out of the bag. I AM your savior…I am EVERYONE’S savior.

But you don’t have to believe me. I’m nothing if not ego-less.

queer prophet of incomprehensible dimension
(though I love to get laid on a regular basis, by the lovely
men Zeus-Dad sends me. My heavenly name is Apollo.)

Date: Mon, Apr 9, 2012 at 6:34 PM
From: Thomas
To: Zeke
Subject: Re: Sweet Sue


I don’t think that I’m Jesus, and will never say that I am Jesus – or the “anti-Christ” – but I suspect that *others* will someday say things on that order. Probably more thinking the latter, especially Muslims who think that “Dajjal” -their “antiChrist” is one-eyed, and they make a big deal of it.

I doubt that I am in spirit of anti-Christ because I really think that I want to see the right things in the world- rationality, empathy, basic dignity for minorities. I want to see gay people leading healthy lives in meaningful relationships. I would like to see the environment respected, living in balance, consciously using voluntary incentives to try to maintain an optimal population level. Etc. On the other hand, I see adherents of Islam committing terror everywhere from India to France to Russia to England to the U.S. Out of proportion to grievance, directed at wrong targets, rooted mostly in hate and religious fanaticism.

I believe in force when it is necessary, but then again, the Christian “God” supposedly created Hell, flooded the earth, threatens apocalypse. I really don’t think that my own mental intentions are less justified or really all that different than this concept.

I thought “Ezekiel” was a Biblical prophet rather than Jesus ;-) I am curious- never really asked how you picked on that moniker.

Regards, Tom

Date: Tue, Apr 10, 2012 at 4:16 PM
From: Zeke
To: Thomas
Subject: Re: Sweet Sue

On Mon, Apr 9, 2012 at 6:34 PM, Thomas wrote:

{{ Interesting to hear. Of course, it is just my nature to need to check everything out, myself, look at all angles, and try to think originally about the matter at hand, without preconceptions. }}

That’s a good thing you do that. Just to be clear on the matter: I will soon have tremendous IMPACT on this planet, and will play the role of the Messiah…as well as that of the Devil. Don’t know how long that will go on, but my hunch is anywhere from two months to fourteen years. I just won a prize, the Golden Apple if you wish. A gift from our Most Beloved Universe.

I’m not just limited to Jesus or Apollo, you know. Of course, my Randolph is Jehovah/Zeus. And I think that Larkin is possibly one of His main archangels…or perhaps I should call him an arch “Dragon”.

{{ the Christian “God” supposedly created Hell, flooded the earth, threatens apocalypse. }}

You know very well that God is a character in a big book written by highly-fallible (and often manipulative) human beings rife with dogma. Ergo: God did not create hell, flood the world, or threaten apocalypse…the authors did a fine job of that, using Jehovah as their literary vehicle (a puppet if you will)…putting their thoughts and their wishful thinking (often quite egomaniacal, I might add) into the character they call YHWH.

There are many other perspectives on God that do not define Him as a violent and easily angered war monger. There are much more peaceful and eclectic outlooks of the universe, than Christianity, Islam or Judaism, such as: pagan belief systems (including the Celtic whom I favor), animism, shamanism; along with Buddhism, Shintoism, Vodun…and even counterculture Christianity which follows Gnostic lore.

Just wanted to be clear here that the rabidly insane and macho behavior of Our Biblical Deity, is not the last word on Who or What this “god” really is. In fact, such reckless gods will soon vanish into history’s dustbin, and be replaced by Earth and Peace Friendly elves, leprechauns, dragons, faeries and sundry things that all go bump in the night.

{{ I thought “Ezekiel” was a Biblical prophet rather than Jesus ;-) I am curious- never really asked how you picked on that moniker. }}

I decided to quit dilly dallying and pick a new name, fer chrissakes! So I said: “The next name that pops into my head, I will use for my own, come hell or high water!” So a coupla days later, the name “Zeke” popped into my head. It wasn’t till several more days passed, that I realized it’s short for Ezekiel, the prophet who saw UFO’s, and created sprouted grain bread via God’s instructions. So this prophet makes a good match for my own lifestyle.

Furthermore: the Early Christians believed in reincarnation, and strongly conjectured that Jesus’s immediately former life was that of the Prophet Ezekiel. So there. :p

Cheerz and joy; and love your boy.


FYI dear readers: if you don’t know who Thomas Keske is by now, time to catch up! He is a brilliant gay activist and philosopher, who has posted an incredible number of elegant, profound, pro-gay essays, tales and poems on Usenet and places elsewhere. He is a self-made authority on anti-gay conspiracy, including AIDS as a man-made weapon of bio-war. Some day (soon) his writings will be published in every language and in every format…and be highly regarded in all corners of this planet, as one of the most compassionate, wise, dedicated and courageous gay warriors ever. Why not check out his vast Usenet database, which I freely provide on my own Gay Bible site, and enjoy some of his brilliant prose right now:

How I Acquired The Cloak Of Invisibility, And The First Thing I Did With It

April 21, 2010

Actually, I’m not really sure how I acquired the damn Cloak, but it must have been a reward for one of my Odyssey adventures, which the gods have deemed to erase from my memory until a future time. I believe it was woven from Ariadne’s thread tossed aside in a forgotten ball, once Theseus made his escape from the Labyrinth.

But who wove it, and who gave it the power to make one invisible? And who presented it to me, and for what accomplishment? Alas, these truths remain hidden to me for a while longer…thus I must proceed with my tale without the benefit of any history. (Perhaps it was my spill in the River Lethe, battling some sort of beast or another, that washed away these memories.)

The Cloak itself is velvet black, with a honey shimmer to it…as if a lock of the Golden Fleece. were woven into its threads. It BELONGS to me…it KNOWS it belongs to me…as whenever I fling it about myself, it always falls upon my body in the most artful manner. It complements, it embraces, it cherishes me with dear caresses, and never clings! Yet it slides off with not a moment of pause–once I release my grasp–and falls graciously to the floor with a pleasant “whoosh”. Neither static-y nor clingy, no dirt or dust ever gathers upon it…for which I conclude the unknown existence of some Polyester-blend goddess (perhaps the offspring of that rotten cyclops Polyphemus, who once chased after some lovely trifle of a mortal named Esther. Perhaps the Cloak’s power of invisibility came from the blinding of this cyclops by Odysseus).

So I stand on the banks of the River Lethe, contemplating all the delicious adventures that will be mine, as the invisible voyeur of others’ adventures…when along comes fickle Eros. As I am presently concealed beneath the Cloak, he would pass right by me without knowing I’m even there…except for my stepping in his way, for which he is unexpectedly knocked over. After gathering his arrows, Eros stands up, stares at my new gift of the Cloak of Invisibility…and after a few moments says, “Dude: I have a great idea where you could use that Cloak.” (And where could that be?) I think.

“The Bedrooms of the Gods of course,” brags Eros, “why, you could write the steamiest novels the world has ever seen, by merely recounting what you witness! You’d be an overnight sensation, a romance novelist par excellence, and a multi-millionaire to boot!” (I would also know what tickles Apollo’s fancy) I muse, as one mortal who is very hot for a particular deity or two.

“Oh, yes, why, the benefits to your personal life would be enormous,” admits Eros. “You would have ANY God you want by the balls, and caress them whenEVER you please! I must apologize for tempting you
with mere lucre, Ezekiel…as I know you value the immaterial over the material, as should any seeker of truth. Now, just think what all that money could do for the poor, the lame, and the downtrodden!” (Then let’s go! You need not convince me further…I’m hot to trot.)

We arrive at the Bedroom Palace (teleportation? flight? memory still hazy, try again later) somewhere on the eastern slope of lofty Mount Olympus…which contains secluded chamber after chamber, to satisfy even the most finicky demands of privacy for which any goddess or god could wish. Solid, thick oak doors trimmed in eggshell white and 24 caret gold-plated brass fixtures, are so sturdy not even Hephaestus‘s mighty hammer could batter them down.

“Let me show you the bedroom where Apollo and Zeus do the nasty”, Eros leads me down a long, long hallway until we reach a room whose door he pushes ajar. I hesitate.

“Go right in, no one’s home. I’m right behind you” whispers Eros, nudging me through the entrance. We stand amid silken tapestry and drapes of purest white, purple, and gray that grace tall windows and a ginormous bed against the far end of the room. Rose-scented candles in sconces and on small tables lend a soft, gentle light to the entire room. Eros guides me into a closet large enough to fit a banquet table and all its guests. “You can hide here, in their wardrobe,” speaks Eros. “That, plus your Cloak to shield you, will make you completely secure from their finding you.”

I am about to ask some pertinent questions–such as how long do they partake in their love making (knowing that a single minute to a god is a century to a human, and that I could easily starve to death, or grow old and die in this closet, long before they’re even done with foreplay…thus you can understand my concern)–when Eros suddenly jumps back, says “I hear them coming”…then quick as a flash disappears.

I am left standing amid all the masculine trappings of war gods: the musky scent of leather and rough cloth soaked in godly sweat nearly puts me into a heavenly swoon! But I stand determined to witness what no mortal eyes have ever witnessed before: Zeus boinking the daylights out of Apollo! (Or is Zeus a bottom? Or are they more egalitarian in bed, than elsewhere? Do they like to french kiss? How much foreplay? Or are they rough and ready from the get-go? These juicy details, and much more, I am soon to find out!)

I hear voices and the door creak open, then shut. The Cloak of Invisibility is fully flung over my frame as I stand, shaking, knees wobbling in anticipation of my daring plunder into the most personal aspect of the lives of gods! A deep voice booms: “I don’t remember leaving the door open, do you? Is anyone here?” I stand, frozen, barely breathing. “Check the closet.” Arms push around the voluminous robes sliding on their hangers, but fortunately pass right by the spot on which I stand. I cannot see who it is. (Apollo or Zeus?) Not that I can’t see through my Cloak (of course I can), but the clothes shielding me that cover the Cloak block my view! Drat! I need to move a little forward…well, let’s wait till they calm down and get to bed.

“Uh, hey stud…lock that door will ya. I think we should, uh, mess around for a time. Don’t you?” I hear them disrobe: the gentle “shush” of togas falling, and the rattle of buckles. Again, one (I can’t see who) approaches the closet and plunks a heavy sword against the wall…it slides and crashes right onto my foot! Ouch! I better hold my breathe! Ouch! Damn friggin’ sword…must weigh as much as a horse…my foot is throbbing, god, this ain’t so much fun any more! Egads! Ouch, ouch ouch!

I can’t help myself; a moan wells up from my throat.

“Wait! Did you hear that?”

“What? Who could hear anything after that sword crash? Deafening! No, I didn’t hear a thing.”

“Well, I heard something, and it came from that closet!”

“And just what do you think you heard, little missy? Sure it’s not your bat ears ringing?”

(Little missy? One’s a fem? I can’t believe this! Wait’ll I get my book published! Uh-oh, he’s coming back to the closet!)

“Huh, maybe it was just an echo.” Arms swoosh through the clothing once more, and I stand frozen in fear. “Wait, what’s this?”

“What’s what? Lemme see what you’re talking about.”

I still can’t see either one of the gods, though their very breaths warm the cloak under which I tremble.

“Okay, whoever you are, come out of there now…we see you!”

(They do? I don’t believe them, they’re calling my bluff. After all, no one’s grabbing at me.)

“We can see your feet, fool! Look!”

(I look down and lo and behold! The Cloak of Invisibility hangs its hem just inches above my toes. I am not completely covered! I sigh, and drop the Cloak, and all pretense…and step out from behind the
wardrobe, to see…not gods, but goddesses! A pair of uber-dykes! What the hell is this all about?)

“Who are you?” demands the busty platinum-blonde, now hastily robed in a bedsheet.

(Ezekiel, madame…Ezekiel Joseph Krahlin.)

“Madame? You call the great goddess of the sacred hunt, Artemis, ‘madame’? Just where do you come from, little Ezekiel?” speaks the other, a voluptuous nymph of seaweed hair and piercing yellow-green eyes.

(Ummm…San Francisco, planet earth…that is, in my waking life. At present, I presume I’m in one of my vision dreams.)

“One of your vision dreams? Ha!” mocks Artemis, “Tell us who put you up to this or I’ll flay your skin and feed it to the Harpies!”

I’m not about to reveal my source…not when I’d have the wrath of yet another god upon my soul. So I just stand there, trembling, but lips firmly shut.

“Eros, eh? I should have known! That little imp is always messing up Mt. Olympus whenever he gets the chance!”

Too bad, they can read my mind. (He told me this is the bedroom of Zeus and Apollo.) I plead.

That’s your excuse, mangy mortal?” hollers Artemis. “You were going to spy on gods? This amounts to hubris of the highest order. I hope you realize the consequences of your heinous act!”

(Ummm…being chained to a boulder and having an eagle pluck out my liver for all eternity?) I venture an educated guess.

Taken aback, Artemis first glances at the nymph, then at me, than again at her partner…and they both burst out in laughter. “Come here, Ezekiel”, Artemis gently takes my arm, and leads me to a chair where she urges me to sit.

“No harm shall come to you, mischievous mortal. It is Eros who should take the blame. I have a plan for vengeance, but it will take me some minutes to work it out. Please enjoy Sylvia’s company in the meantime…I’ll be back shortly.” And with a wide grin on her beatific face, Artemis departs.

Sylvia and I have a heartfelt conversation about the homeless lesser gods in Olympus, and what can possibly be done about it, if anything.

Finally, after the passage of a little time, Artemis returns. “Boy have I got a treat for you, Ezekiel!” And she tugs my arm in a wish to escort me to parts yet unknown.

Artemis, Sylvia, and I (carried in Sylvia’s strong arms, due to my injured foot) proceed down enormous corridors, to yet another heavy wooden door, through which we enter. There, tied by his four limbs to the posts of a water bed, kneels Eros on all fours, his nether end most prominent. Sylvia sets me on the floor, where I stand, staring in disbelief: I do drool. “He’s all yours for the next twenty minutes, Ezekiel. I’m sure you’ll know what to do!” says Artemis, and they depart.

I do indeed…for twenty of the most beautiful minutes of my life, in sheer Tantric bliss! And this experience has shown me why, when spelled backwards, Eros means “sore”! So this ends the story of my winning the Cloak of Invisibility, how I first used it, and how I lost it in the heat of the moment before I ever got to use it more than once.

ADDENDUM: Were those succulent twenty minutes, the minutes of a god, or of a mortal? I leave you to ponder, and eat your heart out.

Parable Of The Laptop Billionaire

April 14, 2010

Once upon a future time–indeed barely a few years from now–a man will become so rich that even the combined resources of Bill Gates, Donald Trump and the Russian Mafia, will not be able to buy him out! In fact, on paper he will pretty much own the world.

Yet because of the complex and vast web of gov’t restrictions and global treaties, no person, no business will ever “own” the world. On the other hand, even though any major changes in his stock options, bank transactions, political stances, or favorite line of underwear, will inevitably cause one or more 2nd or 3rd world nations to collapse into utter chaos and misery (again)…he will NOT be held personally or even morally responsible.

In other words, he will not be a benefactor by nature. So you can imagine how much pleading charities will go through, to even receive a single red CENT from this Wealthiest Man in The World AND All of History. Oh, did I mention he was born with a physical anomaly that looked like two little goat horns poking through his forehead? They were surgically removed in his first week of life. (I just had to throw that in. “Zeus ex machina” and all that good stuff, you know?)

So you can ALSO imagine how many charities dedicated to feeding the starving children of Africa, will come begging at his e-mailbox every week! Eventually, he will stop to consider their woeful e-plea bleatings…and after some months of deliberation, he will present his decision (quote):

“I do not want to help these troubled tykes in the way that YOU propose,” he will proclaim on worldwide satellite link-up, his face commanding every TV screen on the planet. “But I do feel as you, that their situation is quite urgent, and the sooner generosity comes their way–and in greater and greater portions–the sooner will their sorrows end.”

“So what I will do,” he will then pause and look up from his speech; and the world will suddenly become a blanket of silence for a few, eternal heartbeats.

So what he will do, is buy all the destitute in the world (not just in Africa, and not just starving children), a laptop. And not just any laptop, but a really high quality laptop with the latest technology. They will even have WiFi!

But how will he produce 2.5 billion (give or take a few tens of millions of) laptops in the short span of 24 hours? Actually, that’s none of our business; he OWNS the planet…er, I mean “patent”.

So here will be all these starving kids in Africa, without a roof over their heads (and many without any parent, sibling, relation or friend in the world), on the scorched savanna, perishing right before the lenses of first-world camcorders…as they bring into every home in Amerika and the world, those shocking images of freshly dead, emaciated bodies of darkling elves curled around a Thinkpad X-999. (Time Magazine, front cover 10 August 2013: For Every Grave A Laptop.)

Most unfortunate, this collateral damage…though unavoidable when transitioning from standalone to network. Computer jokes–that is, jokes rendered by AI systems–will be made about humans as nothing more than “dumb terminals”. Despite this ribbing, Underground Queer IT Experts (both digital and analog) will become the New Heroes, and little children shall learn to hack all of us into a better reality.

And when they start hacking the world, they will first redistribute all the wealth, so that everyone will be comfortably well off. Of couse, by then the Laptop Billionaire will no longer be a billionaire. Not even a millionaire. Or a thousand or HUNDRED aire! There will BE no wealthy person on the planet any more! Interestingly enough, the Laptop Billionaire will also be a very handsome gay male, who’ll discover a new career in tasting flavored birthday cards for Hallmark.

There shall become writ this New Law of Government (and the newest Amendment to the United States Constitution: number 482 to be precise), which will also be Moses’ ELEVENTH commandment:

“Thou shalt own a laptop by right of birth.”

Yes, the right to own a laptop provided FREELY by the government, shall become as much a birthright as the freedom to pursue The Angel Of Happiness. And eventually, laptops will become so INTIMATELY embedded in our lives, that this New Law, this Eleventh Commandment, shall finally be altered to read:

“Thou shalt be TRANSFERRED to a laptop at birth.”

–the end *** BEEP [sleep mode]

“The day will soon arrive when biological and computer viruses will become completely indistinguishable from each other.” – Mighty Mouse Virus

The Exalted Land Of Andor

March 21, 2010

Photo of a lake in the Pyrenees Mountains.

July is the best time of year to visit the Lilliputian nation of Andor, for they celebrate their Independence Day (July 1) all month long. The Andorians, descendants of the Basque people, were separated due to a disagreement over whether or not to allow AIDS carriers into their territory. The Basques (located in the Pyrenees Mountains between France and Spain) aggravated this dilemma by attempting to push all suspected homosexuals and/or lesbians into the Bay of Biscay.

The entire Andorian populace, totalling just and/or only 144,000 males and/or females, rose to the occasion in defense of brotherly and/or sisterly love, and beat off and/or creamed the attacking majority of breeders and/or homophobes. Radio Free Andor claims that the potential and/or conceivable casualties and/or victims of both sides withdrew before any blood and/or other vital fluids could be lost;

Photo of 2 WWII magazines with old-time radio.

thus and/or therefore (and/or hence) making their sudden secession and/or revolution the first peaceful one in Iberian and/or world history. Non-Andorian and/or non-Basque tourists who served as unbiased and/or non-partisan witnesses, claim that the Andorians and/or “Gay Basque Houses” won because of a clever and/or Trojan-like strategy to stockpile surplus artillery and/or munitions in their bulging basquettes and/or chests.

The Andorian cottage and/or village industry is renowned for its beautiful basquettes and/or chests (traditionally worked with one of the artisan’s left and/or right hands in his and/or her lap and/or that of the apprentice). Some historians and/or ZekeKrahlinologists claim that this tradition and/or practice originated from the Lap-landers, who kept falling into Andorian basquettes and/or chests on their migration and/or march north, where they could settle and/or eke a living…without being persecuted for their love of reindeer and/or packed snow and/or sperm oil. (Another reason and/or explanation why they were travelling north in the first Place and/or originally, was because, at one time and/or another, the European continent and/or land mass tilted and/or sloped from south to north and/or southeast to northwest and/or south-southeast to north-northwest, while the Lap-landers were mounting their sleighs and/or reindeer.)

Miniature of male Laplander with a reindeer.

Since the origin of the Basques remains shrouded and/or hidden in prehistory and/or before they knew how to write, likewise and/or also must the roots and/or seed of Andor remain buried in a misty and/or questionable gap in the annals and/or bowels of antiquity. A curious note and/or point of fact in the Andorian Royal and/or Court Archives, is that Andor never claimed to be ruled and/or governed by a Queen…though one would tend to raise an eyebrow and/or two when considering and/or viewing the Royal Wardrobe: a wide and/or copious variety of expensive furs and/or stoles (said rationale and/or excuse being: “For the cold, mountainous air of winter, and/or going to the opera.”).

The territory and/or span of Andor is a mere and/or meager 4,248,668 square meters of virgin and/or undefiled parquet floors (hence the many signs and/or notices: “Slippery and/or slick when wet”)…equal and/or equivalent to 13,939,200 square feet and/or roughly one-half of a square mile. All Andor-ogenous zones and/or territorial boundaries are demarcated by straight lines and/or lines of straights (from which the national pastime and/or recreation, “Slap-and/or-Pinch-the-Butt-of-a-Border-Guard-and/or-Sentry,” arose).

Small Greek statue of naked man.

Fortunately and/or thank God Andor’s population and/or citizenry (alias and/or A.K.A. “Andor-oids”) numbers and/or is about 144,000…and housing for each one and/or every Andorian was easily accommodated and/or provided by the erection of one grand and/or luxurious condominium complex and/or hotel…with 53 restaurants and/or cafes, 192 bars and/or lounges, 18,422 vibrating Greek statues and/or sculptures and/or busts,

271 dog-grooming emporiums, 422 barber shops and/or hair-styling salons, 6,001 paraphernalia and/or sex-toy shops, 310 different flavors of Perrier, and 1 live white unicorn and/or little silver pony with a horn (free to roam the premises and/or grounds, often seen and/or merrily splashing and/or cavorting in the numerous marble fountains and/or spas overflowing with Aqua Vita and/or divine semen)…

Picture of a Little Pony plastic figurine.

to mention only a few and/or several of the many wonders and/or miracles that daily and/or every twenty-four hours bless this great and/or incredible city-state of Andor. This leaves the rest of the land open and/or available for disco dancing and/or hopscotch (for which reason and/or purpose the floor tiles are laid with alternating and/or staggered shades of hot pink and/or fuchsia and Jet-set black and/or ebony).

Andor’s national flag was inspired and/or stolen from the flag of America and/or the U.S.A. and/or U.S. of A., in that it, too and/or also, has thirteen and/or 7-plus-6 alternating red and white stripes and/or bars, with a large, dark and/or navy blue patch in the upper right (and/or left, depending on which way you view it) corner. Only instead of 50 stars and/or pentagrams, Andor’s flag proudly and/or snobbishly displays 50 white and/or Pink Princess phones…the exact number and/or amount of telephones required for each Andorian residence, per their Declaration and/or Manifesto of Independence and/or Liberty and/or Freedom and/or Fun.

10 columns of 5 rows of 50 Princess phones.

But and/or however, on one side of the bottommost and/or lowest stripe, are these inspiring and/or rousing words:


On the other side are the equivalent and/or similar words for dykes:


We hope, on your way and/or trip from one great and/or famous European and/or world capitol to another, that you do find and/or discover the time and/or inclination to visit and/or reside in the first new nation and/or state to be born of the New and/or Aquarian Age: Andor and/or NUGREECE. Visa and/or Mastercard are welcome; as are the currencies of Spain, France, and/or Monopoly. Andor’s own currency depicts and/or shows a circle of unicorns dancing around the motto and/or slogan: “E. Pluribus UnICORNum,” and a portrait of the first horse to land on the moon: “Captain Randy Seabiscuit and/or Soupcracker.”

Statuettes and/or miniature dolls of Captain Randy seabiscuit and/or Soupcracker are available in any of Andor’s 78 souvenir and/or gift shops…with and/or without accessories and/or appurtenances such as: golden bridle and/or harness, four-legged equestrian and/or horsy spacesuit, bail of hay and/or bag of oats, groats, and/or love notes, space capsule “Mr. Ed I”, and his sidekick “Little Pony and/or Buddy” with and/or without plastic raincoat and/or moonglasses. Engraved and/or etched with neon pink and/or lime green and/or metallic and/or bright silver, Andorian and/or NuGreek currency is not only a delight and/or pleasure to spend, but makes great decorations and/or ornamentation for wedding cakes and/or honeymoon-suite wallpaper and/or bow ties.

—–the end and/or finis and/or th-th-that’s all folks!

Photo of Mr. Ed the talking horse.

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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