Balls Bazook & the War Thogs .. Odious Attacks of the WereRats

<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” /> Balls Bazook & the War Thogs parts 1-3

 amfap .. the war for fun


Balls Bazook & the War Thogs .. the Attack of the Odious WereRats, part 1

  Oh the joys of radical genetic engineering. In Place2, the first off-Earth level of shapeshifting density, Balls Bazook was debriefing re his warforplans on Earth.

   Balls was having a balls massage in the new ballsicure machine that had been designed to bring feeling back to the nethers for space jockeys whose balls had been floating in zero-G for so long they had lost sensation. Leeringly, Balls told Fla Mingo, his co-co (pretty much they co’d most things – co-conspiracy, co-racy, co-piracy, co-gent –> co-co) that he’d prefer her not-so-tender aid in his balls restitution. They both chuckled. Ballsbite, the space-floating equiv of frostbite in mountain climbing, really in fact needed the Sonic Ballsisizer, a sophisticated Balls Sucker, to revive sensation in a way that even raw or unvarnished simple or complex sex could not accomplish. It was the deep melodic purring hums through the smooth pearlescent magnetic lotion that relocated the sensitive scrotal molecules back into time1.

   BrideOf Satin was leading the long (not-brief) debrief from the two majestic, triumphant, hitherto completely unsung heroes of subversive warfor, the ultimate terrorism: the war for fun.


 The Firstest Amendment: Self-evidently it is trooth that we each & all have the sentient right to as much fun as possible (amfap) consistent with roughly equal sharing of whatever latrine-cleaning tasks have to be accomplished in any given Realm. Awarthogs.¹


    The Fight for Fun (FiFF, among the hipnoscenti) was led by the tuffest, cutest, rootiest tootiest war thog they ever hatched: Balls Bazook. Fecund fun, that is the cri de coeur. Hip hip funsaway. Balls was supremely laffable – able to laff. You had to love Balls – he was truly hung. It was hard to know which was bigger, his balls or his heart. Balls Bazook, chieftain of war thogs. 

   Balls said, “The Earth Movie is running over-budget. We’re fouling the locations. Too many droves of extras are actually dying. Karmic insurance will no longer cover this production.”


   ¹On Old JeeGoo (Earth) while it was still in the poisoned grip of methreligiosity, one of the extranutter sects (Christinsanity as we recall) used 'Amen' or 'amen' as a signoff from its ever and without exception solemn religio-pronouncements or more often anti-nouncements. Especially Thou damn well shalt not have fun. ‘Men’ being a bygone race of semi-sentients, in our jollier times, we wryishly use drollish anachronisms like awarthogs to laud creatures and states more advanced and farfunnier than ‘men.’


Balls Bazook & Trazom, part 2

   In his long &/or instantaneous sojourn in space confusing his balls, Balls Bazook dreamt of Trazom, the vaganzany² inclusive kaleidoscopic facetta of Fla Mingo, his consort, his honey whore, his socrates, et otro. He had been stirred and shaken by this encounter. It required the gossamer peripheral vision of the peripheral vision, a subsiding, indeed a surrender, a quintquantum relaxation of effort. He was shocked in his very balls at the experience. Upwelled in him an effervescent fountain throughout & within his cells of a slo-mo shock, like passing through some non-located electroplasmic cloud. The categories of benign & hostile; welcome & distasted, say, were so re-calibrated, so obsidianally fraught with chiaroscuros of humors that the sine waves of frisson were melodies of micro and macro of delightterror he had never raunchily nor ethereally begun to hear before. It was all a matter of fluid foldings, origami but without so many sharp edges. (Cf folding melted chocolate into whipped cream); the inherent became exherent in a coherent ecstasy, generous, ebullient, damned dangerous, parrot-colored glee and pastels of sweetness so diaphanous that he simply laughed like a silvery fish suddenly in a waterfall cascading in all that abun-dance of splash toward a deep pool.

   It was between two eyeblinks that this occurred, no syllable of the beatific, horrific extravagant vocabulary of etre (to be) was slurred – it was quick, sleek, slick as an otter’s dive. As unhurried & unworried as a sleeping cat, a reverential hallowed potential; a raw pagan plethora; any excuse, bold or sly, for concupiscent joy.

     The dynamic was, in an aspect, like a great bolt of cloth in which all the clothes, garments, and costumes inherent became exherent, and the lives lived in them, the dramas played in them became apparent.

     The affinities line up across the multitude of membranes. Flagrantly flamboyant, boisterously buoyant, spider-dainty, cloud-billowy. Trazom was 100% confident, 100% vulnerable. Balls Bazook was not glib for a few days. Tho radically cheerful.

Balls Bazook, Sir Tur Moil, & amfap (as much fun as possible) part 3

   One of the people Balls Bazook recruited for the amfap council was Sir Tur Moil, an asteroid voodooroo. All the asteroid roos were an odd lot when not raving mad. But they appreciated a good joke. Well, it wasn’t formal jokes with  punch lines so much as the underloved irony of the situation that lay there or lurked there.

    There was no infrastructure on most starballs as the asteroids rocks were called in the bangerslang of border space, the peculiar physics and psychics of where k1³ solid matter intervolved with the variable densities and variable chronosities of the suenos4.

    The renegades who dwelt in the asteroid belt tended to be folk who never cleaved to doctrine or might-maintained authority from life to life. Their psychic quarks were quirks.

    As Much Fun As Possible, amfap, amfap, didn’t eschew the standard cheetos & doritos of packaged hydrogenated fun, but specialized in stilton fun, sharp cheddar up the cheese ladder of compelling and demanding taste. Not for the velveeta set. The beer of fun was fine, but the brandy of fun, truffly fun was obsidian irony – which unlike God’s supposed love – remained when things got unbearably bleak.

    Reality is fractal and mosaic – holofractal & holomosaic. Dervish kaleidomosaic pieces flutter like flocks of all different birds in a substrate of randomly moody air. We tell the story with grammar, in a captured, orderly zoo of expression, but it doesn’t happen that way in universe-speak. It happens more jumble and jungle, but most people shriek and freak if you try to display truth to them. They want sentences and paragraphs. Drat.

   Sir Tur, who had carelessly allowed the candle of his otl to be blown out, was a trueblue cognoscente of irony seeing as he had fallen himself into the unspeakably bleak. An otl, a one-true-love, extinguished is a gcubed loss – grim, ghastly, grotesque, and where is up from there? “Sometimes,” she had said, “I have no skin and you must stand between me and the wind.” It wasn’t until she was gone that he realized so starkly so darkly how much light that single candle flame had wrought in sweetness and light, how much it had illuminated in the caverns and dungeons of his mind, what a grace and solace it had been.

   Her specialties had been silliness and patience. She accepted, without dulling, his once-caged rages, however seething, capricious, or ferocious. He didn’t need to deceive her, though he did just to cause random pain. She held it and dispelled it. Nothing tarnished her. God knows he’d tried.

    Fla Mingo slathered Balls’ balls with a cooling minty lotion. He didn’t know the chipotle lotion was next and he rested majestically like a lion. It was a satanically deep pleasure to have his balls lotioned. Fla Mingo wore a soft chartreuse silk shirt and short short pants of a shiny supple leather a dark bright rose color. They talked about the daunting flak these weevils on Earth threw into the psychic atmosphere. A cruel confetti of harsh metal shards – gay marriage, abortion, terrorists. There is no such thing as a free market. There’s the commonly constructed infrastructure. And labor – valued or devalued. Every person’s life time is exactly as valuable to them as yours is to you. Oh Justice, where art thou?  Oh Justice, where art thou?   


² derivation OVV (Old Vuravura/Earth): extra-vaganza-ly zany;

³ k1 = the basic old JeeGoo (Earth) solid, steady, persistent density and gravity is the signature of the k1 masterpiece Earth-dream;

4 sueño = the old Spanish word for ‘dreams’ – used in modern times as dreamesque; variable densities;



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11 thoughts on “Balls Bazook & the War Thogs .. Odious Attacks of the WereRats

  1. Your universe is populated with the most delightful and indeed quirky denizens. Much more fun than my universe. Thanks for letting me visit. Fiff on.

  2. This blog is a terribly written, incomprehensible bit of gibberish that stains the web. Support our troops by supporting the war and supporting George Bush. Screw you, hippie, America wants you to move to North Korea.

  3. Fun sounds good to me. I'm afraid though that some indidivduals appear to find war fun and that may be the nub of the problem.

  4. Oh, the war people get over it eventually. Their pathos is that they can feel so little besides vituperation and cloying sentimentality that it takes war to distract them from the seeping knowledge that they're a failed reptile-orangutan hybrid that Atlantis was sorry it assayed.
    Like the killer bees, they get assimilated eventually.
    You may remember the ergot madness of the Middle Ages. Whether ergot or koolaid, the warmongers are fraught with 'spasms, confusions, delusions and hallucinations.' So powerful are their seething emotions that many normal people get swept up in a contact war-thirst. The normal people subside when reality reasserts itself, but the theo-warmongers remain howling in that paranoid schizophrenic anti-reason where they dwell in a mutually re-envenoming bloodmind lunacy.
    It stinks that the rest of us get spat on and offalled on, but we're a million million miles closer to the creative-constructive coalition than when I was a kid with 'Colored” and 'White' on the water fountains. The Christianism and Islamism zealots are running amok for the nonce, but I feel extremely optimistic for the quite near term: In 945 days, I believe we can begin to dig out from the rubble of this hurricane of hallucination.

  5. This may be my favorite piece ever. We don't get to see a lot of time travelers who are so devoted to Old Earth cerca 2006. Usually there's a disdain for our backwardness rather than a wry regard for our convoluted challenges. You've encouraged me to study chronosities and luminosities not taught in school. Thanks for the glimpses of the future, pog.

  6. Times juggling is tricky. Love the time you're with or some such.
    When we teach the abc's of lucid, active dreaming in school, we'll all get more comfortable amongst times.

  7. I read this Balls Bazook piece out loud at a local open mike and people laughed and cried and gasped. It is zany and extravagant.
    I'd like to be able to describe you to people but we've never met except here. (I like the mystery.) I aspire to be an asteroid roo one day. I declare myself a FiFFer right now.

  8. Wererats. Are you supposed to speak out loud about the wererats? It's very unsettling to see one's most tormented intimate secrets written about like laser surgery. You've got nerve and verve, pogblog, indubitably. I just hope the wereharpies don't eat your Promethean liver.
    I expect Bush and his pack to restore burning witches at the stake any day now. They call seers witches. Watch your back: These are not men fond of major magic.

  9. I don't believe the Bush Administration would burn witches. We're well beyond that sort of thing. It would likely be lethal injection.

  10. Let's say, temps, that I don't expect adulation in my lifetime for the verbal filigrees and souffles. I'm grateful for the words co-abun-danced with Le Bleu, but right now I'm more worried about the daze good and smart folk seem to be in. How do you get folks to take one step out of their comfort zone, step out their front door?
    Have you noticed, cl, how so much of the thought and action of these ilk seems to be a regression to an older ruthlesser time and testament? I expect burning witches as a public spectacle when the ooomph goes out of swiftboating. Like any serial mutilator, Kraven Karl needs to up the ante and the risk. What will we take before we rise up? I ask my own self that every day, if not every hour. What do I owe the future?

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