Monday, October 18, 2010
Monday, October 4, 2010
Heaven
(§245) The speech of evil and infernal spirits is likewise natural to them because it is from affections; but it is from evil affections and consequent filthy ideas, to which angels are utterly averse. Thus the modes of speaking in hell are opposite to those of heaven; and in consequence evil spirits cannot endure angelic speech, and angels cannot endure infernal speech. To the angels infernal speech is like a bad odor striking the nostrils. The speech of hypocrites, who are such as are able to feign themselves angels of light, resembles in respect to words the speech of angels, but in respect to affections and consequent ideas of thought it is the direct opposite. Consequently, when the inner nature of their speech is perceived as wise angels perceive it, it is heard as the gnashing of teeth, and strikes with horror.
De Caelo et Ejus Mirabilibus et de inferno, ex Auditis et Visis
Emmanuel Swedenborg, 1758
In 19--, an associate professor at the University of C-----o did an analysis of a sampled nonsense language from a children’s television show as an exercise in comparative linguistics. To his astonishment, however, the nonsense language could be ascribed an apparent high degree of complexity and regularity in terms of apparent syntax and internal organization, atypical of glossolalia and more like a natural language. Further, the structure and pattern of the apparent language seemed unlike Indo-European inflected languages and more like an Austronesian isolating language.
Upon further inquiries, it appeared that the show was produced in the United States, but edited from unlicensed source material with minimal English language narration and scenes added to provide context, continuity and educational content to the puppet performer sequences where the nonsense language was used.
Further questions arose as to how the show was filmed, particularly the elaborate puppet segments and their alien setting. The degree of detail and peculiar range of movement displayed by the puppets called into question the actual scale of the puppets and what was inside of them. Most adult viewers had assumed a forced perspective and extensive use of miniatures created the fantastic locales that the puppets inhabited and that the "smoky god" that illuminated their world was just a lamp.
Asemics, July 1982
With the disastrous success of the Montauk and the Mohole and Kola Superdeep Borehole Projects, it became obvious that the Satanic language provided by the OTO was as obsolete as the Ancient Greek, Egyptian and Sumerian phonemes that had been cut-up into glossolalia by its original practitioners…
The failure of Lingferno and other mathematically derived language approaches is usually attributed to the incommensurability of infernal numbers, particularly its dependence on division by infernal zero, absolute negative values and the value of infernal negative zero to the zero power being whatever the interlocutor thinks it is not (readers may refer to Hunt on "The Thousand Cuts Problem and Other Satanic Math Problems").
Serious researchers therefore turned to Desperanto, an artificial pastiche coddled out of the roots of obscenities and blasphemies from every human language….
As pragmatics gained more acceptance above ground, this too was reflected in infernal linguistics' reappraisal of traditional diabolics in terms of the original context of most ritual communication. It is now widely accepted that just as heavenly language is a mixture of context, angelic facial expression, affections, gesture and pure thought, infernal language is equally context bound, being articulated through violence, crime, diabolical expressions and satanic gestures, undying hatred and willful spite. The complex and verbose rituals of the first generation of satanic interlocutors received some justification and now it is typical for a team to have at least one orthodox Satanist on hand for such purposes.
“Milestones in PROJECT CEREBUS” SITI Chronicle, August 2008
One morning, after breakfast, my master announced we were traveling. He had heard/dreamed of our unfortunate brethren amid the stones and bright darkness of Heaven and had resolved to set out to see them himself to see if he could help. It was a matter of doctrine that those in paradise cannot receive aid, but in this, as in so many other things, my master was of his own mind and determined to see for himself and form his own judgment.
We stopped for lunch a mountainside café that was most refreshing and quaint… The mine had been abandoned, like the town, since the disaster. The tailings formed a slippery road to our destination.
Though I was only adept to the Third Darkness, I knew the Blind Way well, and followed my master’s descent agile as a drop of water spilling into a rocky chasm. He seemed to make haste in our descent. For us this near vertical descent was no more difficult than a set of steep stairs.
As we descended, the earth began to swaddle us in her mother’s warmth, the air burned and the rock grew soft beneath our grip. I was used to such extremes from our practice of meditating in ovens and burned not.
We came to an area called “the falls.” It was here that many angels and other such beings were said to gather on their way to and fro the cities of Heaven.
We sat on this ledge to meditate.
We had only sat for a few hours when the citizens of that deep place indeed began to appear. I was aware of their presence for a long time by the scratching sounds they made as they dragged their angelic bodies about. They were as described and I dared not actually behold them. Indeed, the whole of heaven is filled with such creatures, all in highest exultation and singing a continual chorus of joy. It is this sound with which the earth sings.
Upon realizing I observed them, they began to gather and disport themselves in an angelic way, making such threats and obscenities as divine creatures habitually make as greeting. They began to make good upon their offers of hospitality, but finding my master unmoved, they began to disport themselves by holy displays of fornication, profanity and violation upon each other. Host upon host of creature began to combine in an incredible hallowed gathering that writhed and reeked. I had never contemplated such things, such a degree of holiness before and my heart leapt and I began to sicken.
However, in my meditation, I felt the calming hand of my master. Did he point? Or rather he pointed by not pointing.
I realized that in all these grotesque, cruel and blessed sports, our hosts were like children. My attention animated them, my own desires fed them. Humbled, I returned to the most basic mantra and they vanished from whence they came. We finished and stretched, much refreshed.
As we had to return before nightfall, we began our ascent.
On our ascent, we encountered an angel, or spirit, apparently lost, like a bird in an attic, between two worlds. The creature begged water. My master poured some. In the creature’s hands it boiled away into a scalding cloud. The creature bleated in surprise and dismay, apparently unused to its unfortunate form.
My master smiled and poured again.
Nearer the surface, we encountered a food vendor coming down, apparently going to market. The wagon wheeled toward us, the scorched and roasted victuals swung before me, dribbling fat from the ends of its fingers, from which the nails still clung. In the wrists, ragged holes.
On our way back home on the surface, my master's only comment was: “Ha, what a terrible place. I would not like to go there again."
Dim-Sook, Dim-Waz: Being an Account of My Induction, My Training In That Secret Order, Travels With My Master and Final Banishment From That Order with Some Simple Explanation of the Practice (Though Forbidden) and Helpful Diagrams and Tips,
Author, Date Unknown
Monday, September 20, 2010
Your Letters, My Answers
Dearest Readers,
It is with great joy and anticipation of your epistolary camaraderie that owing to a recent innovation in an alternate eigenstate of this blog (quantum computing on and the implosion of Earth 2) that it is now possible to leave comments and messages to express your joy, concerns, vague disappointments and troubling personal doubts in the form of comments.
It is even possible to express some sort of reaction to the post itself. However, readers are reminded that any reaction that takes the form of a dialogue between this author and the reader as gay werewolves forced to perform humiliating acts while trapped in dog form at a dog show will be deleted. Again.
To celebrate this new homoerotic-lycanthropic-humiliation-scenario-free channel of communication, I publish here some much belated responses to some of your earlier letters and inquires not related to my being mounted publicly by a Great Dane in Madison Square Garden.
Dear อาจารย์แวน,
I enjoy reading your work very much. I feel it has shaped me as a person, for the better. I find it a source of great spiritual comfort.
I only have one humble question to ask: where do you get your throwing stars?
-Gloomy in Gotham
Dear Gloomy,
I'm glad you have found my work inspiring and useful.
Here in กรุงเทพ I find it easiest just to purchase shuriken, plumbata and other hand missiles at a little store in Chinatown called The Five Daughter's Vengeance Emporium. It is also where I get my ointments and "Viet Cong Q-tips." It's a nice little store, run by a dear little man with one of those moles with super long hairs and a horrid, pitiful story that you should by no means listen to.
The store sells throwing stars by the gross, and whereas they may not be nearly as well balanced as the batarangs you are used to, they are cheap, plentiful and pointy.
I'm not really sure who owns the store. If you go out back, there are a lot of old newspapers and spears, some from before the war. What war, you say? Any war.
Dear อาจารย์แวน,
I recently acquired an enormous sofa. It is really quite old and cumbersome -in fact, I'm not sure even how to go about sitting on it comfortably, with all its odd seats and slanted surfaces, but as an ancient family heirloom I cannot part with it.
Cleaning it, however, seems an enormous and difficult task, as its vast surface has a variety of complex and involved geegaws and decorations that I really don't understand, much less know how to clean. In particular, there is this one central stain that never seem to come out no matter how I try. As for the smell of this particular movable it seems totally inalienable from the article. Any advice?
-Recipient in Roanoke
Dear Recipient,
I am afraid you are somewhat confused. There is no stain on your sofa. There is no sofa.
From your description the object you are describing as your sofa is a Carcharodon or giant furred megalodon. The irregular features that trouble you are probably its fins, gills and possibly its eyes. If so, you should avoid trying to clean them, as you report doing, certainly not with any harsh cleansers. I must add that these features, as with the smell, are part of the natural compliment of the megalodon and really cannot be changed.
Further, the "stain" you cannot seem to remove is clearly the subconscious guilt you feel (c.f. Macbeth, Act V, Scene 1, Freud, "Obsessive Actions and Religious Practices," Lacan, The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis, passim.) produced by keeping such a magnificent extinct creature in the captivity of your apartment, instead of allowing it the freedom of apex predation in the world's oceans. I suspect you have other issues as well, so I advise you seek further help with a professional who is real and not imaginary.
Dear อาจารย์แวน,
I recently received a fuckbot for my bar mitzvah. Though it has a very good likeness of Baron von Ricthofen as I had asked for and is extremely prompt about blow jobs, I cannot help but feel that it is somehow increasingly less interested in sex, that somewhere behind its many emphatic cries, sobs and ululations of venereal delight, something is somehow missing.
I know that these things are only ultra-weak AIs and are programmed at the factory. The unit's devionics firmware is up to date and the diagnostics are in the normal/ideal parameters. Is it just me?
-Frigid in Freemont
Dear Frigid,
First of all, the proper term for an automaton designed expressly for sexual gratification, entertainment, education or aid is "android," "gymnoid" or "hermaphroid." This is the term of art of choice used by the industry, designers, droidaphiles, academics, legal authors, game shows and the automatons themselves. It is impolite, inaccurate and a non-felony lexcrime to refer to these valuable members of our post-reality economy as "skinjobs," "butt-bots," "ROV cum-dumpsters," "auto-skanks," "slut-threepios," "woombas," "Hy Pikes" or whatever other uncouth derogatory terms they are using over at Taffey Lewis' place.
Sex with fuckbots universally tends toward extreme paraphilias and object substitution. Indeed, in the DSM-XII, coitus or the desire for coitus modeled on heterosexual human coupling with a fuckbot is one of the criteria for para schizophrenia of the Mars Condo One type.
The reason for this is undoubtedly the same reason people who spend a lot of time with statues or mannequins tend to dress them up: to compensate for a perceived uncanny deficiency in the human simulacrum, namely that it is not "alive."
Though nth-generation fuckbots are quite animate and realistic in their responses, an awareness of their status as sex objects simpliciter seems to invite degrees of unrestricted sadism and perversity from otherwise sexually quite boring owners that would never be tempted to imagine such trespasses, diversions or violations with a traditional "living" "organic" human being or even an animal.
As such, most owners or operators of fuckbots (tip: leasing is better, though avoid heavily refurbished or refitted models, particularly those designed for asphyxiation or edge play; there is almost always a truly disturbing reason these models have had their memory wiped) report that their fuckbot, though objectively compliant and functioning normally become progressively less satisfying as sex surrogates from a perceived increasing lack of enthusiasm. This is usually explained by a normal plateau of sexual satisfaction and buyer's regret, a feature that manufacturers know of and anticipate with their buy back program.
Research into whether or not fuckbots actually become bored themselves is inconclusive. The never discussed reason for this is that in the process of trying to determine whether or not fuckbots become bored with sex, the researchers involved invariably become more and more dangerously perverse and depraved themselves, conducting more and more extreme, unnatural and complex "experiments" in an attempt to find the arousal threshold of their subject fuckbots, which they invariably perceive as constantly approaching the oblique asymtote limit of being cold and distant. This inevitably ends in death and mutilation for the researchers, often in some sort of sexually themed bull pen or orgasmic threshing machine.
May I suggest simply putting some sort of innocuous covering over the eyes or head of your unit? Avoid tape, as it tends to catch on the hair and the glue may stick to the face. Some people report that sunglasses with simple post-it pads are an economical way to avoid premature ejaculation into the uncanny valley while still staying organized.
If this does not work, why not throw a clone or a fistable monkey or lemur into the mix?
Dear อาจารย์แวน,
While making dinner for my family, who I actually love and do not despise, I put too much salt in the chowder. I believe this accident stems from the fatigue of working very hard to make my beautiful family happy and not any subconscious resentment as some would believe.
I have read that adding milk may help reduce the problem of excess salt. Is this true?
-Saline in Seattle
Dear Saline,
Often we complicate our lives by failing to follow through on our truest, deepest intentions (Nietzsche, "The Pale Criminal," Zarathustra, Book I). Milk is for children and cowards who are not lactose intolerant. If you have salted your food, so shall it be salted. Add more salt. Unscrew the lid of the shaker. Dump a whole bag on a plate. Say to your family: this, this is my heart.
When they are grown and the college of their choice burns to the ground, you will have prepared them.
It is with great joy and anticipation of your epistolary camaraderie that owing to a recent innovation in an alternate eigenstate of this blog (quantum computing on and the implosion of Earth 2) that it is now possible to leave comments and messages to express your joy, concerns, vague disappointments and troubling personal doubts in the form of comments.
It is even possible to express some sort of reaction to the post itself. However, readers are reminded that any reaction that takes the form of a dialogue between this author and the reader as gay werewolves forced to perform humiliating acts while trapped in dog form at a dog show will be deleted. Again.
To celebrate this new homoerotic-lycanthropic-humiliation-scenario-free channel of communication, I publish here some much belated responses to some of your earlier letters and inquires not related to my being mounted publicly by a Great Dane in Madison Square Garden.
Dear อาจารย์แวน,
I enjoy reading your work very much. I feel it has shaped me as a person, for the better. I find it a source of great spiritual comfort.
I only have one humble question to ask: where do you get your throwing stars?
-Gloomy in Gotham
Dear Gloomy,
I'm glad you have found my work inspiring and useful.
Here in กรุงเทพ I find it easiest just to purchase shuriken, plumbata and other hand missiles at a little store in Chinatown called The Five Daughter's Vengeance Emporium. It is also where I get my ointments and "Viet Cong Q-tips." It's a nice little store, run by a dear little man with one of those moles with super long hairs and a horrid, pitiful story that you should by no means listen to.
The store sells throwing stars by the gross, and whereas they may not be nearly as well balanced as the batarangs you are used to, they are cheap, plentiful and pointy.
I'm not really sure who owns the store. If you go out back, there are a lot of old newspapers and spears, some from before the war. What war, you say? Any war.
Dear อาจารย์แวน,
I recently acquired an enormous sofa. It is really quite old and cumbersome -in fact, I'm not sure even how to go about sitting on it comfortably, with all its odd seats and slanted surfaces, but as an ancient family heirloom I cannot part with it.
Cleaning it, however, seems an enormous and difficult task, as its vast surface has a variety of complex and involved geegaws and decorations that I really don't understand, much less know how to clean. In particular, there is this one central stain that never seem to come out no matter how I try. As for the smell of this particular movable it seems totally inalienable from the article. Any advice?
-Recipient in Roanoke
Dear Recipient,
I am afraid you are somewhat confused. There is no stain on your sofa. There is no sofa.
From your description the object you are describing as your sofa is a Carcharodon or giant furred megalodon. The irregular features that trouble you are probably its fins, gills and possibly its eyes. If so, you should avoid trying to clean them, as you report doing, certainly not with any harsh cleansers. I must add that these features, as with the smell, are part of the natural compliment of the megalodon and really cannot be changed.
Further, the "stain" you cannot seem to remove is clearly the subconscious guilt you feel (c.f. Macbeth, Act V, Scene 1, Freud, "Obsessive Actions and Religious Practices," Lacan, The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis, passim.) produced by keeping such a magnificent extinct creature in the captivity of your apartment, instead of allowing it the freedom of apex predation in the world's oceans. I suspect you have other issues as well, so I advise you seek further help with a professional who is real and not imaginary.
Dear อาจารย์แวน,
I recently received a fuckbot for my bar mitzvah. Though it has a very good likeness of Baron von Ricthofen as I had asked for and is extremely prompt about blow jobs, I cannot help but feel that it is somehow increasingly less interested in sex, that somewhere behind its many emphatic cries, sobs and ululations of venereal delight, something is somehow missing.
I know that these things are only ultra-weak AIs and are programmed at the factory. The unit's devionics firmware is up to date and the diagnostics are in the normal/ideal parameters. Is it just me?
-Frigid in Freemont
Dear Frigid,
First of all, the proper term for an automaton designed expressly for sexual gratification, entertainment, education or aid is "android," "gymnoid" or "hermaphroid." This is the term of art of choice used by the industry, designers, droidaphiles, academics, legal authors, game shows and the automatons themselves. It is impolite, inaccurate and a non-felony lexcrime to refer to these valuable members of our post-reality economy as "skinjobs," "butt-bots," "ROV cum-dumpsters," "auto-skanks," "slut-threepios," "woombas," "Hy Pikes" or whatever other uncouth derogatory terms they are using over at Taffey Lewis' place.
Sex with fuckbots universally tends toward extreme paraphilias and object substitution. Indeed, in the DSM-XII, coitus or the desire for coitus modeled on heterosexual human coupling with a fuckbot is one of the criteria for para schizophrenia of the Mars Condo One type.
The reason for this is undoubtedly the same reason people who spend a lot of time with statues or mannequins tend to dress them up: to compensate for a perceived uncanny deficiency in the human simulacrum, namely that it is not "alive."
Though nth-generation fuckbots are quite animate and realistic in their responses, an awareness of their status as sex objects simpliciter seems to invite degrees of unrestricted sadism and perversity from otherwise sexually quite boring owners that would never be tempted to imagine such trespasses, diversions or violations with a traditional "living" "organic" human being or even an animal.
As such, most owners or operators of fuckbots (tip: leasing is better, though avoid heavily refurbished or refitted models, particularly those designed for asphyxiation or edge play; there is almost always a truly disturbing reason these models have had their memory wiped) report that their fuckbot, though objectively compliant and functioning normally become progressively less satisfying as sex surrogates from a perceived increasing lack of enthusiasm. This is usually explained by a normal plateau of sexual satisfaction and buyer's regret, a feature that manufacturers know of and anticipate with their buy back program.
Research into whether or not fuckbots actually become bored themselves is inconclusive. The never discussed reason for this is that in the process of trying to determine whether or not fuckbots become bored with sex, the researchers involved invariably become more and more dangerously perverse and depraved themselves, conducting more and more extreme, unnatural and complex "experiments" in an attempt to find the arousal threshold of their subject fuckbots, which they invariably perceive as constantly approaching the oblique asymtote limit of being cold and distant. This inevitably ends in death and mutilation for the researchers, often in some sort of sexually themed bull pen or orgasmic threshing machine.
[Given this problem, some research was, of course, carried out along the lines of fuckbots studying other fuckbots to determine whether they get bored. This directly led to fuckbot-designed fuckbots, the including the "Jumpin' Jami" model, now better known by its military industrial nomen, the MDX-151 Area Denial System. While its formidable capacity as a sexual surrogate exceeds human tolerances, its efficacy as a complete weapons system is undeniable, as the continued status of the "no-go" areas of Hokkado, Thotsakan ทศกัณฐ์ Industrial Park, KADDB complexes and East Bay demonstrate, all four of which made Caligula magazine's list of the "top 20 worst places to go if you have a penis or penes." The army of PORC is rumored to still be fighting a holding action against the Chinese knockoff of the MDX-151 ADS, the Fang-10, in Guiyu.]
May I suggest simply putting some sort of innocuous covering over the eyes or head of your unit? Avoid tape, as it tends to catch on the hair and the glue may stick to the face. Some people report that sunglasses with simple post-it pads are an economical way to avoid premature ejaculation into the uncanny valley while still staying organized.
If this does not work, why not throw a clone or a fistable monkey or lemur into the mix?
Dear อาจารย์แวน,
While making dinner for my family, who I actually love and do not despise, I put too much salt in the chowder. I believe this accident stems from the fatigue of working very hard to make my beautiful family happy and not any subconscious resentment as some would believe.
I have read that adding milk may help reduce the problem of excess salt. Is this true?
-Saline in Seattle
Dear Saline,
Often we complicate our lives by failing to follow through on our truest, deepest intentions (Nietzsche, "The Pale Criminal," Zarathustra, Book I). Milk is for children and cowards who are not lactose intolerant. If you have salted your food, so shall it be salted. Add more salt. Unscrew the lid of the shaker. Dump a whole bag on a plate. Say to your family: this, this is my heart.
When they are grown and the college of their choice burns to the ground, you will have prepared them.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Off the Ole Wagon Bourbon Reviews
Ole Lonesome Nail
This one will punch you in the gut and give you two black eyes. One in the heart and one in the dick. Highly recommended.
Ol' Copper Kettle
Is one mean hornery copperhead, with lean blue eyes, sensual lips and a temper like an ammo wagon on fire. Thighs, hard from riding that will squeeze the life out of you. Yet light and fast as a bird. Hands that could play the piano or drive nails without a hammer. I hope you find me one day and put a bullet in me, Red.
Old Painted Beaver
This one is a real trip out to the woodshed: it will take down your britches, bring tears to your eyes and teach you what it is to be a man, namely to suffer pain and the ignominy of having survived and chosen to go on living. Turns your guts to a mass of scar tissue like a stone. So you can do what needs to be done, and done stone drunk.
Comes in a paint can, usually dented.
Old Dead Man
There’s a smile in every glass of this. It’s not a pretty smile. Not a drink that starts fights, or remembers it that way.
A good driving and punching the baby whisky.
Available in pails or buckets, because keeping it around is bad for the physical infrastructure of the house.
Old Rope
Old Rope is a standby favorite. It’s basically gallows humor in a convenient easy to throw bottle. Great for a first fight, or when moments of caution are confounding an otherwise spontaneous act of incest or getting through Faulkner.
Old Foggy Dog
Basically a dirty limerick looking for a rhyme for "stabbed in the leg." Not completely effective as a liquid blanket, but more effective than tearing at that locked screen door. When clean underwear is a distant memory that belongs to other people.
They’s some things they can’t never take away from you, boy. And that’s all them rotten things you’ve done.
Ol' Old Old
Each shot is sweet smoky fugue state with haunting images. Am I alive, or dead, or yet to be? That straight razor, who’s that for? Successfully blurs the line between murder and suicide but usually keeps them in the right order.
Another old standby. Oh hell, they all are.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Introducing Flavor Bumps!
What are Flavor Bumps?
Flavor Bumps are a brand new way to experience vibrant, long-lasting flavor, with no calories, sticky fingers, excess packaging or even the need to use your mouth.
How do I enjoy Flavor Bumps?
Just touch any of the brightly colored Flavor Bumps you find and enjoy a full flavor experience just by touching the bump. The cool, pale bumps are Zesty Cool Ranch. The bright orange bumps are Tangy Nacho-Gazpacho Cheese. The little red hard bumps are Rasslin’ Raspberry. The very white, almost translucent soft and lumpy bumps are Hearty New England Clam Chowder.
Where do I find Flavor Bumps?
Flavor Bumps are as convenient as they are easy to use. You can find them almost anywhere, whether at home, at the office, or on the go. They’re a taste sensation that you can take with you, that goes where you go. Flavor has never been this convenient. And you can find a full selection almost anywhere. Zesty Cool Ranch patches generally appear on the arms, elbows and back. Tangy Nacho-Gazpacho Cheese bumps are most often found around the face and ears, with some smaller splotches on the shoulders, waist and caudal area. Rasslin’ Raspberry spots may erupt around the nipples, groin, anus and urethra. Hearty New England Clam Chowder typically appears as wet, baggy sacs wherever natural fatty deposits occur, such as the breasts or buttocks. Use discretion when enjoying these flavors.
How did this happen?
We could spend all day trying to explain it. The fact is, it’s happened. This is not a dream.
Is this natural and vegan-safe?
On the one hand, yes, what could be more natural than your own body and more vegan than not actually eating anything. On the other hand, come on...
I can’t sleep at night. Every time I do, I wake up choking with the disgusting taste of New England Clam Chowder, Rasslin’ Raspberry and Cool Ranch Dressing in my mouth.
Try sleeping on your stomach.
I tried sleeping on my stomach, but the pain was incredible.
Some initial, acute pain and swelling is normal when Flavor Bumps first appear. However, these experiences usually only last a few weeks, to be replaced with normal swelling and pain. Some customers report sleeping in a chair with your arms tied to be most comfortable.
Sex is a nightmarish trough of vomit inducing taste/touch experiences.
Yes, yes it is.
Are there more flavors to come?
Some customers report the luscious taste of banana crème and/or asparagus when they close their eyes. We can only hope they are wrong.
PI 312
Monday, August 9, 2010
Films Tom Sent Me
Resigned as I am to the impossibility of recovery, and isolated as I am from human contact on this shrug of an island, quarantined even from the other inmates, it is with great pleasure and gratitude this week that I have finally received the boon of another care package most thoughtfully sent by the most considerate of friends.
One of the greatest influences upon my soul has been the education provided by the direction of that living eye, Tom Ronca. Under Tom's tutelage I have seen many things, things that hurt, horrified, or destroyed me; terrifying, reprehensible, awful things; ghastly, appalling, obscene things; but things, things that always, above all, we must not fail to acknowledge, that Tom wanted to show me.
Though I am deprived of his company and direct influence, Tom continues to grace me with his vision, much as the voices in the heads of Poe's protagonists provide certain and continual guidance.
Has this guidance been for the better, or for certain ill that has rendered me from any moral sense like glue is mealed out of horse, leaving only a puddle of putrescent dross with no fiber, value or shape, a soulless broken husk, exiled from all humanity, damned for all eternity like some unflushable ejecta that endlessly circles the endless white enameled arctic maelstrom like an excremental Pym?
Cast your eyes upon his gifts to me, dear reader and draw what conclusions you can. Tom's taste's are impeccable, save for their peccant essence of total damnation. They also, you may notice, reflect certain enthusiasms, certain questionable zeals that Tom has lately been obsessed with, a solecism that we had all hoped would die once this man-like thing had been sedulously staked in his grave, yet which, much to the horror and alarm of all non-deviants, seems to have found companions in his total campaign against Nature and Human Values.
I try and watch this from time to time. I honestly do. But every time I do, I end up stopping it, turning on the lights and taking a good long look at myself instead and thinking: I don’t deserve this, I don’t.
Bronson (2008)
On the other hand, I totally deserve this.
Pontypool (2009)
This is how the world ends: in a sound booth, full of Glenlivet with Slavoj Zizek and bad high school French, about to be stomped to death by an obsolete theory of language.
Everybody Poops, Dies (1982)
Wikipedia tells me this is The Big Sleep of caveman detective fiction, featuring more on screen club based deaths than any other feature film. When Gigantor and his raiding party massacre another more advanced tribe, they discover pictograms that depict time travel –or so it seems. What follows is a rather Lacanian account of the scene of language and the invention of writing. Features the immortal line: “It you Gronk, you.”
Mork –ein Pedo?
This documentary aims to prove the rather implausible thesis that the mission of Mork of Mork and Mindy was actually the rather unsavory directive to impregnate underage human females. Given the clearly specified age of the character of Mindy McConnell, the line of reasoning from the actual series seems unclear and is not at all made clearer by the filmmaker’s decision to express most of it in song.
Though the songs are sometimes catchy, the ideas presented are never quite intelligible or credible and the low-fi, single set-up camera, the degraded tape quality and the always hooded figure on the Casio keyboard by themselves make this one of the most disturbing videos I have ever seen.
Make Love to My Face Without Using Your Hands
Not sure what country is this from, but I hope I never go there.
Mindy is Naked and My Sister
What if Mork and Mindy were brother and sister? Wouldn’t this ruin the whole premise of the series? Apparently not for these Japanese fans of the M&M BDSM community. Also, apparently it’s okay if Mindy doesn’t keep her arms and legs, but does somehow become a stripper. A humiliating, upsetting film. I haven’t got past the appearance of “the Eggmen.”
The Mirror Has Two Faces (1996)
I honestly puzzled over why Tom sent me this film for some time, until I found he had replaced one of the DVD audio tracks. At first, I thought Tom was groaning during certain scenes to make fun of the film. Once I realized what he was doing, I threw the DVD away and joined a Buddhist monastery. And now you know the rest of the story.
Play Mindy for Me (1982)
Of all the Mork and Mindy fan films this is easily the most well known and well produced. Indeed, its leads look disturbingly like Robin Williams and Pam Dawber, though the ludicrous amount of body hair and cocaine use depicted are clearly dispositive of an homage. The film is both lyrical and disturbing at times, most notably in the scene where a nude Mork forces Mindy at gunpoint to stare at a TV screen and describe what she thinks is happening on a scrambled Cinemax channel.
This film is notable in that it established most of the conventions for Orkan genitalia and discharge in the many, many films to come, films I would have never, ever heard of or voluntarily sought out or watched, if not for my friend, Tom Ronca.
Monday, July 26, 2010
My Rejected Wiki Edits to "Crocodile Attacks"
Precautions and information
| | This section may contain material not appropriate for an encyclopedia. Please discuss this issue on the talk page. (January 2010)
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▪ Just because crocodiles are not visibly present does not mean that an area is safe to swim. In fact, crocodiles that view humans as prey usually hide at the first sign of humans (i.e. a car parking or footsteps). However, not all crocodiles view humans as prey. Only the incredibly large and dangerous ones.
▪ A 6-meter-long crocodile can lie completely invisible in less than a foot of muddy water. However, the anti-protons that leak from their cloaking field can be used to detect them.
▪ Large crocodiles have the strongest biting force of any animal alive- exceeding 5000 psi. As such, they are quite capable of biting entirely through a policeman in body armor, police cruiser or ambulance door, just when you think you are safe.
▪ Most attacks by large crocodiles are over within a few seconds or less. However, it will seem like forever.
▪ Most human victims succumb to drowning long before dismemberment and consumption take place. We hope.
▪ Crocodiles become more aggressive during the mating season. This season only includes the months where the Earth orbits the sun.
▪ Crocodiles can move very quickly over short distances on land. By flying.
▪ Crocodiles won't hunt their prey on land over a distance longer than a couple of feet. They don't have a high stamina and don't want to waste energy. If you can escape their first strike and run a couple of meters, you are usually safe. Yep, as safe as a person only a couple of meters away from an unstoppable killing machine.
▪ Crocodiles are adept at learning and memorizing routines, such as the location of nearby campers or the routes of travelers. If you have used a birthday or anniversary as a pin number, it’s pretty much over.
▪ In water, crocodiles tend to drag their prey under and drown them.
▪ Crocodiles can slow their metabolism to such an extent that a tree with an intruder hiding in its branches may be guarded continuously for several weeks, without breaks for food. Then, once you've built a tree house around it and let your adorable children have their first backyard sleep out with their little friends ...I don't even want to think about it.
▪ Crocodiles have strong muscles for closing their jaws and holding them shut, but weak muscles for opening them. This and an unshielded thermal exhaust port, are the crocodile’s only flaws.
▪ There is a sensitive flap in a crocodile's throat, known as the glottis, which they use for breathing. As a result, as with some other predators, forcing the arm into the throat may encourage release, although this is not certain by any means and may instead lead to the arm being severed. If this happens, try the other arm.
▪ Sometimes, an attacking crocodile will bite, hold on, and then rapidly spin its body to weaken its prey or tear off limbs (the "death roll"). This is actually even more horrible than it sounds. Really. They can't even really show this stuff on animal programs because it's so disturbing people would basically just give up.
▪ When crocodiles see prey, they will duck under the water and when they reach their target, jump out and bite. Humanity has no defense against this.
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