Do You Feel Lucky?

(and feel free to comment! My older posts are certainly no less relevant to the burning concerns of the day.)

Friday, May 22, 2015

Knock It Off #1: "The Conspiracy," Or, "KEEP THE FU*K CALM, and GROW THE *ELL UP!!"

Friday, May 22, 2015

Knock It Off #1: "The Conspiracy," Or, "KEEP THE FU*K CALM, and GROW THE *ELL UP!!"

Quit worrying about the conspiracy already. Grow up.

Yes. The world economy is on the brink of collapse.

It's because money doesn't exist, assho*e. Economists have been clued in about this disconcerting bit of ancient history since about James Bond III's original theatrical run for Christ's sake. GROW UP. As long as there's a picture on the money of a powerful enough Caesar, the separation of church and state will remain in place: every bit as strong as it was when it was originally ordained and invented by your ole buddy of old and mine, Thomas Jefferson, by Paine and/or Voltaire, depending, and by (originally) - the big man! The guy in the sky with a seat to the side, YOU know him! HE needs no intro, it's Mister Emmanuel "Manny" J. Christ himself!! So FUCK OFF already! Grow up. Money's worth exactly what it always was: pixel dust.

Now go clap for tinkerbell why don't you, and think wonderful thoughts, and while you're at it - why not enroll in one of those "power of prayer" medical studies? That's so hot right now! Free placebos, motherfupper. And why not? What's the upside to what ails you, anyway? Why not try the old home remedy? I bet you find a spoonful of sugar pills helps the absence of medicine go down delightfully.

And also: YES.

Certain rounds of ammunition DO KEEP running out of stock at your ye local gun shoppe - and, troublingly, it's a coordinated, wide-scale phenomenon. "You yourself" (i.e., your two to three gun nut paranoia addict acquaintances, each of whom has at different times observed and darkly speculated upon the sinister causes of this periodic minor fill-rate inconvenience, and who consequently are pissed and suspicious as hell!! Because they're such dipshits, they can't even manage their inventory on the most basic staples without a next-day in-stock supplier! Are you thinking of relying on these clowns come the revolution...? Because, if so, I sure hope so!) have seen hitting shops all over the State, simultaneously, every time it happens for a given unit of ammunition.

YES. IT REALLY HAS HAPPENED, and will continue to!




At least, whatever's available at the moment STOP

It's not a problem FULL STOP

Grow up.


What you piss your commando fatigues down to and into your combat-boot-clad socks over is called canny spec buying, and competent supply chain management. AND NOW SO CAN YOU! Try it! Place a huge cash-in-hand order for every unit of as-yet-unsold eggs available in stock for immediate next-day delivery to your holding company's warehouse (terms such as no backorder, no reorder, Purchase Offer contingent upon full receipt within 9 "business hours"), and see what kind of deal Cruelty Farms Industrial Might Combine LLC will be willing to cut you, on those fresh, delicious, farm-fresh, cage-free (we use the zap collars these days) and, most likely organic, eggs. It's called the barter system, moron.

The Barter System. We never stopped doing it. We just hired underlings to do the spec buying, according to whatever standard we set and insist upon, and to do the whip-cracking and contract-termination on the overlings we've hired to rock the supply chain logistics. Savvy?

Yes. Yes, it is. But don't blame me! I had nothing to do with it except to underscore a bit. You can't blame me for what humanity's already been doing since before anyone-now-legal-to-fuck's maternal grandparent was born.

We've been on this system forever. We won't be going back from that. Or at least, if we do go back: never, ever buy a brand new car for 2,000 dozen grade A brown-shelled hen eggs. The second you drive that baby off the lot it loses 8,000 eggs in value!

We're going to stick to the barter system, as we always have done, and as currently constituted, evolved, and intelligently designed. It's basically a social Darwin cum Saint Nicholas deal, only Santa drinks Gatorade now and his suit's a camo pastiche of dark, bright and forest green, with a big gray goodie bag of shells, bullets, musket balls and et cetera slung over that fat, privileged shoulder of his! The system works. We're going to stick to precisely this: how it has evolved. And whether you've noticed or not, that status quo works better than any alternative you have drafted, proposed, tested, or attempted to implement. "Qui Bono?"


But, because we're going to keep continuing on our steadfast course of sticking to the best system we've made or ever had, that means we're going to have to have some expectations. Accordingly. We'll have to expect we shall keep seeing these same familiar shocks, jolts and bumps in the road, as our freight-weight portfolio trails and screeches along behind us in broad-arc shifts of its huge, wide load. Nobody has to worry, if they think about it and about how things have been. All your rustlers and money runners are going to continue the mad dance of highway robbery and confidence fraud that they've been doing since, oh, about the time O. Henry was writing all those subliminal hetero rom-porn storybooks. You remember O. Henry? He's the guy where the wife cut all her hair off for a magic wallet or something, for the wife's husband. Sick stuff, man - read it, but don't take my word. They named a prominent prize after him. It's like, the O. Henry Short Storyist Author Award, or something.

Check it out!

The system works because the currency is always based on either an incomprehensible (but robust, and hard-to-crack) formula, or upon a common shared unit of whatever happens to be the easiest/best/most valuable, plentiful object in world-wide distribution at the moment. Today, it's an egg.

Tomorrow? Who knows. Human skulls with eldritch sigils hand-carved into them by officially-certified Malay war-widows of martyred jihadists?

Time will tell! And you, the consumer, will be consoled and lullabied to your daily rest, to sleep easy and soft as pillows on lilypad ponds just as soon as your preferred god-speaking authoritrator tells you what hot commodity you need to hop on next. What to buy up and sit smug on a pile of, just like the asshole moron you gullible capitalists always are - ! You will deeply and obediently abide in faith, in whatsoever the new almighty banzai of buckaroo is declared by acclaim to be. And you will clap for tinkerbell.

And you will think wonderful thoughts. Of mansions, swimming pools, movie stars, until (if there's any justice in the world) your next high-altitude low-opening extreme thrills jump will see you putting the wrong backback on, my dear Geronimo. Godspeed ye, shitbird.

You will clap for tinkerbell, as you and your kind have always done: and your money is as strong as it ever was, and it ever will be. As is ours.

It is because we - the people, and by our combined will, our servants (public) as well - are deep in preparation for the next economic paradigm shit. Fret not. We've got your back, you ignorant, cowering, moral retard!! You plebe of a philistine, you prole-loving, nye-culturny boo-jwah bitch. SURPRISE!!

Go ask Karl Marx, my brother. Inquire after him in heaven and, if you get Groucho'd instead (as usually happens), seek for brother Karl yourself, in the other place. Because economic progress is exactly as he said: foreordained, and implacable as all hell. The wheel of the dialectic turns. The scrapheap of history is reborn in hard and shining forms of plowshares and swords.

And just as we once passed without pause from standards gold to dross, through all manner of gross products national or domestic, so too will the current math that backs the value of our big ass U.S. dollar (which is an algorithm tied to Tony Romo's "quarterback rating," in inverse proportion to his paycheck that week, as adjusted and expressed in "Landry Standard" 1990 dollars) transition very easy, from our current Gross National America's Domestic Quarterback Fiscal Index Standard, to the new, easy, convenient faith and credit backer. The new unit! Dark heaviest gray is the new gold.

The pendulum swang, as it always did swoze, from liquid electric soft, back to the softest and heaviest hards. Once again, our currency will be tied to something real. Or rather, for "will be," sub "is."

Paper money? No problem! Electronic money? Bar code money? Tattoos and library cards, Monopoly money and Negotiable Sociocultural E-Credits?

No problem, because every unit people are willing to value in exchange will at bottom be tied to something hard. And this time, the denominations of hard currency will be a snap to evaluate in either/or: metric, avoirdupois, or even Klingon Halfelven T.R.U's!

(The Tolkein-Rodenberry Unit, folks. Keep up please)

Something we and all hale fellows can hail! Conservatives, libertarians, Republicans and economists alike will rejoice! Meanwhile, Libertarians, drug dealers, Democrats and other liberals will be fine with it, thanks to the cute marketing angles and the convenience aspect. Both the forms and the functions will be unspeakably cute, I assure you. Cute to the point of compelling. We're talking Madison Avenue meets Al "The Ol' Fed" Hamilton by way of the way Old Hickory shot the dumb motherfucker himself.

Mark. My word is this: by this time, ten years from now, anyone not already a certified, convicted, felonious psychopath will be able to carry their spare change (of significant weight! Of meaningful value!) in cute, convenient, hard plastic wallet blazoned with Hello Kitty. Or if you prefer, a spirit wolf, howling at some gay ass near-full moon, or an eagle or whatever. It'll be up to you pretty much. A fucking Transformers logo! Thundercats, pimps, hoes, the Playboy bunny - hell, etch a life-size dick picture of your own schlong onto the barrel if you like! Who's going to stop you?

And for you less-than-hipsters? Fear not, nothing could be cooler these days than that old-school noncomformist rebellious pose, and your easy and predictable lockstep demographic will be served and served WELL. You too will not be left out!

Folks, any real "meme craze" worth its celery salt can pander to the old dogs just as easily as the schoolboy's dream girls or the to the dirtiest tricks in your college alma mater's Greek League satirical party kama sutra manual. For you wide-hatted duster-wearing boot-clomping sons-of-the-bitch-that-you-are, the time-honored ornery habit of carrying a brace of long, elegant six-irons will be coming back in style faster than you can do the one eye squint-glare and spit "Dance!" in a hoarse, whispery staccato bark.

Rest easy, action fans and brand value enthusiasts. Clint Eastwood's estate will be making monthly-if-not-weekly millions off that trademark "guns akimbo" Outlaw Josey Wales poster pose of his. Picture that iconic cool squint etched into the stained woodgrain butt of your twin S & W forty-fours!? Or, supposing you're something of a noncomformist, such as we've seen and discussed, chuckling. In that case, maybe a quintet of .22 Glocks? Both armpits, hip weak, ankle strong and ass-side back pants-tuck), each with a full 22 round capacity fat mag clip. My money's on Wales, to be honest, but who knows? Maybe the whole thing will get bogged down in haggling and offers to trade!

No need to wait, on this one. Don't hold your breath for the headlines, not on the oldest news story since Adam got slapped for sticking his rib in a fake clay porn sculpture of himself that he'd made and hidden in a dark, leafy corner of the garden. Don't you read the news? Don't you check out the tabloids on the way to pay your grocery fees, your union dues?

Didn't you know?

We are already here. The economy is in full boom.

The Bullet Standard.

And yes.

The Franklin Mint will definitely be announcing its collector's-series die-cast silver & gold rounds (act now and receive a decorative, space-age fired-clay polymer porcelain China but-otherwise-authentic flintlock Revolutionary rifled musket! DISPLAY ONLY) for you all you grand romantics and goth-leaning war reenactors out there.

Not much to worry about. At least, not for the rich private citizen - as usual! And not much to worry about for the poor but civic-minded neighborhood-watch leaguer, also as usual. Or for either of their families. Not much to worry about for the beleaguered but honest and true civil servant! All of this, as usual. We have and continually are transitioning, into the age of Business As Usual. God's in Its heaven, all's right with the world, and peace on earth to all men of good will.

The women, of course, just want the money. But this time that's no problem, either! Because speaking generally, most of us men of good will are, by now, pretty much itchin' to give it to 'em! RIGHT WHERE IT COUNTS! Right in her little pink "oh, hello there!" kitty purse!

Or whatever. I guess if your woman is one of those butch deals and prefers the ol' denim-tucked ass-pocket brown wallet maneuver - hey, that's all you dude! Knock yourself out. Let me know if you need help.

Brother. Can you spare a shell? I need it to buy a round.

All I have in this world is one last sawed-off double ought sawbuck, and a few shiny nickel-plateds to scatter around. What will that and the price of coffee get me?! It'll get you up Federali River for one thing, for, ostensibly, bank robbery! ADVICE: PLEASE DON'T. So help me, you try to pull that off where they keep my money, and I'll laugh all the way to the Post Office, where they post things and where I will finger your nose. And if I'm still pissed at your despicably undermitigated gall, I may even add a gloss of new meaning to the term "spitting image."


What's in your wallet?

Truth Bundles #1: "Entrust"

Speak love first to an empty room.

Don't ask what you are supposed to do. Ask who is doing the supposing.

Trust is never given, never earned. Trust involves no judgment, no character, no decision. Trust simply settles, inevitably and finally, on whoever has truly been true.

Honesty is the only debt true friendship can incur.

Children's Book Pitch #2: TALES OF SECRET DOG

(artwork sample available upon request)

Secret Dog lived in a building that said: "No Pets Allowed"
(picture of a stern brownstone Apt building with a bold word balloon coming out of it as the building says: "No Pets Allowed.")
(picture of Secret Dog peering out from concealment in Marda's backpack, seeing a posted placard: NO PETS ALLOWED)

Secret Dog had lived there for as long as he could remember.
(picture of Secret Dog peering out from concealment under the futon)

Every day, Marda and Elos showered Secret Dog with quiet love and affection.
(tickle-scratches, everybody smiling but everybody also looking out of the corners of their eyes)

Secret Dog's dog dish was a regular bowl that would be set out at mealtimes.
(picture of dish)
It did not have his name on it.

Secret Dog did not know what his name was, because Marda and Elos were always careful never to call him.
(picture of Secret Dog looking up confusedly at Marda and Elos who are smiling down at him with love)

So Secret Dog just called himself Secret Dog!
(picture of Secret Dog looking dashing and mysterious)

-Secret Dog felt certain that somewhere, elsewhere in the building, there must be another pet like him.
(picture of cutaway of the building, all apts. darkened except Secret Dog's with him in it up top right, and another apt on the second floor down left side, with another dog in it hiding under a bed)

And maybe more!
(same picture, only with another dog popping out of a closet as the two previous dogs look wistfully in his direction)

But Secret Dog was not sure how to contact the other secret pets without blowing everyone's cover.
(picture of Secret Dog munching from his dish, furious look of concentration and planning)

Secret Dog was proud of the good job he was doing, keeping himself secret. He knew that Marda and Elos would not be thrown out on his account!
(Secret Dog, guard-duty pose in front of the futon as Marda and Elos sit watching tv, eating from a big bowl of snack mix. Secret Dog is chewing too)

Secret Dog never, ever barked.
(picture of boisterous young people walking by the apt. door in the hallway, talking loudly / split screen of Secret Dog plastered up against the door not barking but clearly VERY VIGILANT)

One time Secret Dog thought he heard an intruder trying to get in.
(picture of Secret Dog under the futon, perking up in the darkened living room, light coming under the apt. door with a shadow of INTRUDER)

What would he do?
(split picture montage of Secret Dog efficiently killing masked intruder, bagging the body and dragging it down the back stairwell - then a shot of the bag sticking out of the dumpster)

Luckily, it was only Elos and Marda.
(picture of Elos and Marda coming in late, Secret Dog cowering under the futon).

And they brought a KITTEN with them!
(Marda produces a startled kitten from her backpack)

And everyone was happy.
(picture of Marda and Elos on the futon as Secret Dog sprawls across them getting scratches from Elos. The kitten sleeps on the corner of the cushion)

But that was not The End.
(same picture, only everyone stopped what they're doing and are looking at us, trepidatiously)

The End