The $184 Billion Defeat
Jews Jaws Ten
Shark America Zero
Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 139
There are no new God's Space War codes today. The Big Board is blank; no flashing lights at all. In our Space-Time Submarine we are running silent and running deep.
I, your friendly Space Sailor, the world-known audibly telepathic American torture-slave, has entered a northern California mountain town he has dubbed, Smallville, not as an insult to the town but for the town's own protection from the publicity that is bound soon to come; and my Old Pal God has asked me to walk the streets of Smallville gently.
God reminds me I am used to toe-to-toe-fighting with thousands of American psycho-fascists at the same time; and that here there are less than 500; and I will hurt them if I fight them.
All the people of Smallville know all the tortures America and the world inflicts on me, and those Smallvillains who practice those tortures are as skilled as the homos of San Francisco, but that is not to be the subject of this work at this time.
I look to my brother and mentor, Jesus, and he says, "Love them, Bro, and turn the other cheek". Not easy to do when you have been soldiering for thousands of years, as I have.
My mission, if I care to accept it, which I do, is to introduce to the people of Smallviile the Truth of what I am, and to attempt to make a separate peace with them.
I have been at war so long that putting down my blade is like removing my right arm; but I have put down my blade and my arm is still there; so I pick up a broom and sweep the floor.
The house I am living in is the reason I am here; I am here to help renovate it.
The two-story house is about 100 years old and has been boarded up for years. There is no heat. no stove, no kitchen sink, no furniture but the odd table and chairs and an old bed; and to make the toilet operable I bring in a garden hose from outside and fill its reservoir before each flushing.
All the rooms are stripped bare, and the walls are marked with what will be where when the renovation is complete; kitchen here, bedroom there, and so forth.
There is at least one resident ghost, a woman I got a glimpse of once, and who was careful to tell me she in kind and gentle ways she is living here.
I think she likes my being here; and is happy to know her home will be saved.
The house is full of noises at night, none of which she makes; but it is the wind flapping the paper over the upstairs windows, and the old wood creaking like an old man's bones on a cold morning.
When the ghost talks she is distinct from all of that.
I like the place. It is just my cup of tea. I like work. I don't mind roughing it. Of most immediate importance, being here allows me to live within my Social Security pension of less than $500 a month, because I work on the house in lieu of paying rent.
I like this kind of work, and already my dangerous symptoms of ill health, such as poor blood flow that would leave my feet fat and puffy, have disappeared because of this activity.
Light physical work is the Mother's Milk of the old; and I am old now, far older than I ever expected to be.
I have no TV, and I intentionally opted not to get the fabled 122 TV channels when I subscribed to Internet and telephone service.
While holed up in that motel for those past several months I saw enough TV to last me a while; and while I saw much TV that I had never seen before because I had never had cable, a lot of tits and ass and nutty newscasters, I can do without.
There have been long periods in my life when I have had no TV at all.
None until junior high school, none during college, none while in Asia for five years, almost none while wandering the streets of American tortured day and night because God gave me the gift of audible mental telepathy. I had never seen any TV but NBC on a regular basis until events forced me to hole up in that motel a few months ago.
I think that is one thing that gives me the intellectual edge in my battle against American fascism in all its forms. I am not TV pre-conditioned, my mind has not been snatched by the mind-snatchers who creep in through the tube, and therefore I think thoughts outside the array of thoughts the consumers (consumers, not citizens) are conditioned to choose from; conditioned through that hypnosis machine, television.
The other thing that gives me an intellectual edge is God instructs me quiet a bit; and you know what God tells me most: "The Earth is Dying; Keep on Trying."
Earth dead by 2065; the human being extinct much sooner. Not a nice message I know, perhaps that is why the people don't like me.
My job is not to save the world, it is to write about the death of the world clearly and accurately before it takes place; and it is clear the really vile and cowardly treatment of me by the human race because I am audibly telepathic points to a very important reason why this Earth is dying, but that is only a small part of the story.
It is the opposite of the King Kong story's moral perhaps: The Beast killed Beauty.
My Old Pal God and I have been chatting about something lately that I thought you might find interesting; it concerns the division of labor between us; and that brings me to why God has asked me not to fight the people of Smallville.
I know, it may gall your gizzard for me to say so, but God and I and many others have been hard at work for years and decades and centuries and eons to save this Earth from the Death upon whose brink She now precariously tips; and it may surprise you that of those workers working who are not of this Earth I am the least audibly telepathic.
(This is to say there are many workers working who are of this Earth, but that's another story.)
So, if you are in a mood to kick Telepath Ass, I can introduce you to several million Angels who will break your eardrums with their telepathy if they start talking to you; and I warn you, they don't like you as much as I.
But I digress, we were talking about the division of labor between God and I.
Consider this: It is God's job to remember and my job to forget.
If I were to remember every dirty deed every psycho-fascistic American has done to me since God gave me the gift of audible mental telepathy I would now be as loony as Daffy Duck to the Tenth Power, and I would not be able to string three words together in a coherent sentence; and I would not be able to perform my first duty in that division of labor I mentioned.
My first duty, of course, is writing The Obituary of the World; the first words of which I put to paper in 1963.
Everything I see and everything I do is a part of that work.
On the battlefield, were those little machinegun bullets killing the world, I would ask myself.
Was that man in Rome beating his horse killing the world, I would ask myself.
Was the fact that there are fewer honest politicians in Washington than male horses in a cowboy movie killing the world, I would ask myself.
An obituary must say what the dead died of; and Earth, well, when you get down to it, Earth died of a billion little things.
It can be truthfully said, for example, that Earth died because the human race never figured out what to do with its excreta.
It can be truthfully said, as another example, that Earth died because the human race sucked out too much oil, thus throwing off her balance; and doubly killed Earth by burning that oil and sending its residue skyward.
So, when I was given my commission by God to write The Obituary of the World it was no small undertaking, nothing I could scribble down on a cocktail napkin over gin and tonics with the boys at the Press Club; it was a Life's Work; and my life's work is a big part of the division of labor between God and myself.
God moves mountains, I write about the movement of mountains.
Whether or not God will save this Earth is not within my division of labor to say; and even though I know the relationship between this Earth and God is in many ways like that between a wife and a husband; and having that knowledge I feel I can with confidence assume God will save this Earth whom God loves so much, that story is outside my current division of labor.
Let me put it this way: God has asked me to write the story of the death of this Earth as it will occur if God does not intervene; and without that intervention that death will occur by early 2065.
Shark America Zero
Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 139
There are no new God's Space War codes today. The Big Board is blank; no flashing lights at all. In our Space-Time Submarine we are running silent and running deep.
I, your friendly Space Sailor, the world-known audibly telepathic American torture-slave, has entered a northern California mountain town he has dubbed, Smallville, not as an insult to the town but for the town's own protection from the publicity that is bound soon to come; and my Old Pal God has asked me to walk the streets of Smallville gently.
God reminds me I am used to toe-to-toe-fighting with thousands of American psycho-fascists at the same time; and that here there are less than 500; and I will hurt them if I fight them.
All the people of Smallville know all the tortures America and the world inflicts on me, and those Smallvillains who practice those tortures are as skilled as the homos of San Francisco, but that is not to be the subject of this work at this time.
I look to my brother and mentor, Jesus, and he says, "Love them, Bro, and turn the other cheek". Not easy to do when you have been soldiering for thousands of years, as I have.
My mission, if I care to accept it, which I do, is to introduce to the people of Smallviile the Truth of what I am, and to attempt to make a separate peace with them.
I have been at war so long that putting down my blade is like removing my right arm; but I have put down my blade and my arm is still there; so I pick up a broom and sweep the floor.
The house I am living in is the reason I am here; I am here to help renovate it.
The two-story house is about 100 years old and has been boarded up for years. There is no heat. no stove, no kitchen sink, no furniture but the odd table and chairs and an old bed; and to make the toilet operable I bring in a garden hose from outside and fill its reservoir before each flushing.
All the rooms are stripped bare, and the walls are marked with what will be where when the renovation is complete; kitchen here, bedroom there, and so forth.
There is at least one resident ghost, a woman I got a glimpse of once, and who was careful to tell me she in kind and gentle ways she is living here.
I think she likes my being here; and is happy to know her home will be saved.
The house is full of noises at night, none of which she makes; but it is the wind flapping the paper over the upstairs windows, and the old wood creaking like an old man's bones on a cold morning.
When the ghost talks she is distinct from all of that.
I like the place. It is just my cup of tea. I like work. I don't mind roughing it. Of most immediate importance, being here allows me to live within my Social Security pension of less than $500 a month, because I work on the house in lieu of paying rent.
I like this kind of work, and already my dangerous symptoms of ill health, such as poor blood flow that would leave my feet fat and puffy, have disappeared because of this activity.
Light physical work is the Mother's Milk of the old; and I am old now, far older than I ever expected to be.
I have no TV, and I intentionally opted not to get the fabled 122 TV channels when I subscribed to Internet and telephone service.
While holed up in that motel for those past several months I saw enough TV to last me a while; and while I saw much TV that I had never seen before because I had never had cable, a lot of tits and ass and nutty newscasters, I can do without.
There have been long periods in my life when I have had no TV at all.
None until junior high school, none during college, none while in Asia for five years, almost none while wandering the streets of American tortured day and night because God gave me the gift of audible mental telepathy. I had never seen any TV but NBC on a regular basis until events forced me to hole up in that motel a few months ago.
I think that is one thing that gives me the intellectual edge in my battle against American fascism in all its forms. I am not TV pre-conditioned, my mind has not been snatched by the mind-snatchers who creep in through the tube, and therefore I think thoughts outside the array of thoughts the consumers (consumers, not citizens) are conditioned to choose from; conditioned through that hypnosis machine, television.
The other thing that gives me an intellectual edge is God instructs me quiet a bit; and you know what God tells me most: "The Earth is Dying; Keep on Trying."
Earth dead by 2065; the human being extinct much sooner. Not a nice message I know, perhaps that is why the people don't like me.
My job is not to save the world, it is to write about the death of the world clearly and accurately before it takes place; and it is clear the really vile and cowardly treatment of me by the human race because I am audibly telepathic points to a very important reason why this Earth is dying, but that is only a small part of the story.
It is the opposite of the King Kong story's moral perhaps: The Beast killed Beauty.
My Old Pal God and I have been chatting about something lately that I thought you might find interesting; it concerns the division of labor between us; and that brings me to why God has asked me not to fight the people of Smallville.
I know, it may gall your gizzard for me to say so, but God and I and many others have been hard at work for years and decades and centuries and eons to save this Earth from the Death upon whose brink She now precariously tips; and it may surprise you that of those workers working who are not of this Earth I am the least audibly telepathic.
(This is to say there are many workers working who are of this Earth, but that's another story.)
So, if you are in a mood to kick Telepath Ass, I can introduce you to several million Angels who will break your eardrums with their telepathy if they start talking to you; and I warn you, they don't like you as much as I.
But I digress, we were talking about the division of labor between God and I.
Consider this: It is God's job to remember and my job to forget.
If I were to remember every dirty deed every psycho-fascistic American has done to me since God gave me the gift of audible mental telepathy I would now be as loony as Daffy Duck to the Tenth Power, and I would not be able to string three words together in a coherent sentence; and I would not be able to perform my first duty in that division of labor I mentioned.
My first duty, of course, is writing The Obituary of the World; the first words of which I put to paper in 1963.
Everything I see and everything I do is a part of that work.
On the battlefield, were those little machinegun bullets killing the world, I would ask myself.
Was that man in Rome beating his horse killing the world, I would ask myself.
Was the fact that there are fewer honest politicians in Washington than male horses in a cowboy movie killing the world, I would ask myself.
An obituary must say what the dead died of; and Earth, well, when you get down to it, Earth died of a billion little things.
It can be truthfully said, for example, that Earth died because the human race never figured out what to do with its excreta.
It can be truthfully said, as another example, that Earth died because the human race sucked out too much oil, thus throwing off her balance; and doubly killed Earth by burning that oil and sending its residue skyward.
So, when I was given my commission by God to write The Obituary of the World it was no small undertaking, nothing I could scribble down on a cocktail napkin over gin and tonics with the boys at the Press Club; it was a Life's Work; and my life's work is a big part of the division of labor between God and myself.
God moves mountains, I write about the movement of mountains.
Whether or not God will save this Earth is not within my division of labor to say; and even though I know the relationship between this Earth and God is in many ways like that between a wife and a husband; and having that knowledge I feel I can with confidence assume God will save this Earth whom God loves so much, that story is outside my current division of labor.
Let me put it this way: God has asked me to write the story of the death of this Earth as it will occur if God does not intervene; and without that intervention that death will occur by early 2065.
posted by Virgil Kret at 8:03 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home