Balls Bazook, L.J.Camps; Mind Parasites

Balls Bazook meets L.J.Camps, part 5

Balls Bazook and the Mind Parasites, part 6

 


If you read this bardic story with your mouth as if out loud, it will be very clear for you.

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                                              io, nasa jpl univ of ariz cassini image team

 

Balls Bazook and L.J. Camps .. part 5

   After his huge 200 proof injection of irony neat jabbed in his arm by Dr. Stark Raving Mad, Balls Bazook went to have a shot or two of lagavu with L.J. Camps who wrangled the religious sheeps still left over from the Old Days and weaned ‘em off  locoweed as kindly as murderous zealots can be disentangled from the shameful skeins of religissimoesquespitude.

    Balls always asked again and again for the story of L.J. Camps’ parents' sublimely subtle gesture of defiance in the terrible Last Days of Religious GigaNutLand that tormented the SemiFinal Days of Old Earth. L.J. Camps stood for Lord Jesus Christ As My Personal Savior, that dictum from the tyrannical petty as the password to Heaven, or, more usually, the Get Out of Hell Card. Any imagined slur or any joke what ever (The Bible ain’t got so many jokes, ain’t it so?) brought people to be burned at the stake and their children branded with H on their foreheads with white phosphorous, the White H for Heretic – Burn them, Burn them. Jokes are detestable in the eyes of the Lord.

    So Nam and Pam By named their only son L.J. Camps in a mockery of the idea that even the most through-the-wrong-end-of-the-telescope deity would be embarrassed to demand such petty piety as to mouth certain cowed syllables to open them Pearly Gates, or else down-escalator for thee, heathen, how ever benign, however truly kind you were. Wear and declare the LJC label or bottomless pits.  Piffle. Only the most intime of pals could be vouchsafed the trick of L.J.’s name. It was a joke that could get you killed. And ye gods know, kill and kill and kill they did in those dread days when they dealt gun-freedom and like it or be damned, cursed, vexed, and rebuked. Brimstone at thee, pagan. Yes, yes, they brought back stoning soon after burning at the stake. All televised, natch. Oh, sweet Jesus, the ratings were sweet.   

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Balls Bazook and the Mind Parasites ..part 6

a melodrama

  On Asteroid 68, Balls Bazook ran into an off-duty BrideOf Satin, her charcoal-ringed eyes smudged and wide. “What ho, BrideOf,” he began heartily tho he quickly realized the tone was clearly off for her evident despond. “Oh Balls,” she flung her usually collected and supremely sensible self into his embrace, “Slithy is lost, I fear it. Lost to the Mind Parasite outbreak.” She put a holovid of  her epistlevid to Slithy into Balls’ hand. “Oh Slithy,” the vid showed her imploring, “This harsh cold of thee feels like a panflagration forest fire in my chest. Somehow I live falsely around it – smile, work, drink milk. But I cannot breathe; it always seethes. The nightmare of your absence, of your cowardice, of your cowardice. The panic, the clear colorless iceflames burn the fleeing forest animals. I saw a foal burning alive. I saw an elk with his great antlers on fire. It is a scene of ruin.

  “I thought obsidian humor would inoculate thee, thee against the mind parasites. I saw the others fall, what was brave and bright collapse.

   “I met with Alorak at the Kitkalag Bookstore, a quaint anachronism, where people perused and mused amongst ancient paged books and amongst old Earth (Jeegoo, VuraVura) mineral queendom amulets of amethyst and jasper and pearl. Alorak was a light counselor, a sturdy accomplished Swedish person not inclined to fugues. I was shocked. She was stricken by the mind parasites as if they had sucked out her deep light like marrow from her bones. I was frightened existentially for the first time that we might subside, sink into a quicksand of a Grim Ages.

   “Never did I imagine, conceive, believe that you, Slithy, you could would harden darken your heart to this shrill chilling degree. I thought irony would protect you from the slaught, the rat-gnawed ravages of the Mind Parasites.

   “To see Alorak succumb, stop swimming, sink into the deathdark despair depths with no struggle. And thee. I’m on an island of insane pain while my brave, my beautiful, once panpagan kin are being torn by the sharks. It is the joyless silence of the sharks. Underwater the screams of the being-eaten don’t carry far.

   “Everything between us has always been so dread and unsacred, ferociously filthy — terrible and wrong. And luscious and precious. Corazon del diablo. There is never any tenderness, it has nothing to do with mind or heart, it is all root chakra rage and fury, intimidation and power. Rage and fury, desperation, humiliation, shame. Because which of us can help it? Oh knights of night, heed and be glad at our dark song.”

   She looked up at Bazook as she paused the vid. “Gee, Balls, I feel like I’m inexorably telling you this like the ancient mariner transfixing the Wedding Guest with glittering eye. Slithy’s mind in mind parasite attack felt flypaper sticky.”

   The holovid of BrideOf’s epistlevid continued, “Damnit, Slithy, sometimes you do something so monumentally stupid that scale-wise, adjectivally and adverbally, grandcanyon comes to mind. I’m impaled on your manufactured indifference. All the while I’m working on projects for amfap, my brain and heart are in darkest hell because of your horridness. Then, exhausted, yesterday afternoon, my brain just all but gave itself a lobotomy. Darnit, Slithy, I miss you, as the drowning person misses air.”

   “C’mon, BrideOf, Slithy is just having a jerkabout. Think how dull it would be for him without you. I know that your heart within you burns and you feel alone on a wide wide sea. I am glad to be taught by your tale. Slithy’ll just show up feigning nonchalance as if he hadn’t azteked your living heart from your chest. He can be a scumbag. He’ll be back.”
   BrideOf smiled slightly. “Yeah. I’ll dig his rotten eyes out.”   


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parts 1-4 of Balls Bazook
+ amfap .. as much fun as possible;
+ FiFF .. the amfap Fight for Fun campaign; also to fiff, fiffing fiffed, etc.
+ glittering eye etc — pls note the echoes in several places of the Ancient Mariner by Coleridge.
+ I read The Mind Parasites by the wonderful Colin Wilson forty years ago & only recall the dread. Read anything of Colin Wilson's you can find.
+ obsidian, lava turned to the blackest black glassy stone;
+ corazon del diablo .. heart of the devil;
 
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Z Project .. the unholy grail .. guerilla actions v. Religious Totalitarianisms

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Z Project .. the unholy grail .. guerilla actions v. Religious Totalitarianisms

 

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                                                                                   ealaindraoi

 

from our palaver of evening  tuesday

 

   memo to diGrif re random parameters of Z Project; (life is a run-on sentence, by the way); what are the elements of the Scamliar fortune cookies? How, without being as goldplated a jerk as they, can one stop, unhinge, deflate, penetrate the 2000-year-old juggernaut of Institutionalized, packaged Christianity as this pious platitudinous they-get-to-assail-you and if you jolt-back, they cry foul thing?

   One could probably pretty easily bite their ankles and/or just stab them so they ffffing bleed to death, and that is a Temptation, but the larger point is to icepick or to rapier it so they ‘get it’ and they know that you haven’t eschewed what — dignity? just to get them to Please Ffffing Jesus Shut Up with their tedious arsenically offensive proselytizing. Punch them in the damn nose? stamp on their holier than thou carcasses until they’re jellified?  Satisfying but not the unholy grail we’re looking for.

   Institutionalized Christianity is such a bane on the hyenaic rump of the world’s hope to have fun and build cool stuff and get drunk and think about ffffing that it is the new ‘nigger’ and ‘slant-eye’– the that which cannot be not challenged if you have a shred of decency or gumption.

    It is the schism between Jesus and Christianity that is a rub. Jesus had a few good fortune cookies. One could say, “Yo Jesus (before he was Christed), Love Your Enemy and Turn the Other Tower are rad(ical) & we ought grok them.” Where did it go wrong?

  Paul, the apostle, and his grotesque deal for power. Jesus was (or should have been) all about the meek inheriting the Earth. Not meek as some sort of wimps, but just not greedy and downtrodding. The point is that we are all of inherent equal worth and if you downtrod, you have erred. 

 

   I could countenance the supposed solaces of Religions (about which we can fisticuff) but the crucial zero-sum error of Christianity vs Jesusishness is this Sorry-Nope!!-we must-cry-out exclusivity ordure. I really don’t care so much what ‘spiritual’ clothes people want to sport if it makes them feel nifty as long as I do not have to wear them solemn rags or be burned at the stake or cast into lakes of burning fire or suffer “an eternity of conscious torment.”    “Scamliar, I would rather give my child heroin than Christianity” said with slightest ‘darn’ shrug is a beginning.

 

   Think oh ye gods imagine and grok the luck that you are NOT a Believer. The deeper the horror the horror is the disgusting ‘spiritual’ obedience, the dogism. Even if you kick a dog, it still servilely wags its tail and hopes ingratiatingly placatingly to please. (Fun enough in naughty fantasies, but utter-rotten in one’s raw etheREAL substance which people often miscall ‘spiritual.’ Institutionalized religion is giving over all that is fresh and startling and eccentric and giddy about your experience to some pompous flatulent twits who claim to have the Keys. Doing that to people for power or ermine-trimmed robes terminally sucks and I will not ever have any truck with it.

 

   We need a series of Deflators depending on the nature of the deflatee. If they are the Insinuating Bludgeoners like Scamliar, they deserve the Better Heroin Than Christianity Line, but monotheism, piety, and exclusivity are too boring and terrible to let slide, period.

 

more apace,

 

///

mon amigolobo,

   Z Project, the tidbits — I'm not standing by any of the notes on this Project yet, just hunting & gathering to get the holomosaic glittering angles to eventually end up with 3 fortune cookies for various audiences — the bunker buster bomb/bludgeon; the scalpel; the mild salsa for the old and why bother them too much but they still don't get to say 'nigger,' 'slant,' or 'fat’; //Amount of appropriate hate re Christians who do not speak out against war and the appalling sinful minimum wage?; How many & what degreee of vestiges or contamination(s) could a psychic surgeon allow to remain to fester because an iota of vestige will fester.//

 

Compulsive Religioholics, RA = Religioholics Anonymous;

 

I really need to address the “solace” angle and the slippery slope of that by telling you about Barbara Stockton and The Virgin Mary and about La 'Mama' in Peace Corps training & being glad that she had Jesus, but all these years and lard later concluding that the substance of religious hallucination is simply too damn dangerous, that it is not just a private matter of bizarring one's brain (about which who cares) but it inexorably leads to, supports hideous herd behavior of a level of vicious irrationality such that it is a danger to the general well-being where one has the right not to be trampled by the restrictions or the impositions or the inquisitions of the afflicted.

 

That children are forcibly injected with this religoin (ree-lij-oh-in)(cf heroin)before they are of an age of consent seems ineluctably wicked — like making the kid start smoking Camel straights with its Gerber Strained Pears.

 

   The contact-low from the grim of piety — so sunless, so funless, so absent silly — is a societal vortex gruellingly hard to avoid — One is condemned, pitied, shunned — TPTB (The Powers That Be) want control — what is more dangerous to Their Version of Things than the happyish freeish soul? 

 

   I'm not keen on existential angst as a supposedly morally superior antidote to the bleats of the Sheep. I'm anti-angst, anti-seriousness, whoever is peddling it. Obsidian humor is the only thing I've trusted, but that's a tightrope and yawning chasms under one's feet too far for most folk, a 'spiritual' vertigo. I wish you'd come up with another word than spiritual for this project, 'spiritual' having too bloody much baggage. Perhaps 'strangelove' could contend? A strangelove vertigo. Elan vital (A-lawn vee-tahl) is always swell.


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A quixote of quirk

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                                                 hammer ucla edu daumier

 

A quixote of quirk 

 

coined 4ya, panlobo:

 

a quixote of quirk: the unit of obsidian droll + whimsy required to sustain a comic life.

 

This fell lightningwise from The Blue when I read about the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Hellas, “the amount of information needed to convey a civilization … about a billion bits.”

 

“I can only wish a quixote of quirk to befall you, my erstwhile putative pal.” –Fleet 

  

//

p.133, Scientist in the City, James Trefil

“So the old saying is true. A picture is worth a thousand words – in fact, if a word is worth 36 bits, a picture is worth 222, 222 words. / “Once you understand that every message can be analyzed in terms of its information content, you can apply the idea to all sorts of unexpected things. Human DNA, fro example is the genetic “message” that parents pass on to their children. The genetic code is contained in a sequence of molecules along the double helix of the DNA molecule. Each position can display one of four molecules so each position represents two bits of information. there are 3 billion positions, so the total information content of human DNA is about 6 billion bits—three sets of the Encyclopedia Britannica.

   “People involved in the search for extraterrestrial intelligence (SETI) have thought about the number of bits it would take to convey the content of a civilization. Although we haven’t had much experience carrying out this sort of project between the stars, we have had a good deal of experience communication through time. You could argue, for example, that what we know of ancient Greek civilization is contained in the information in a few hundred books and pictures. SETI people define a unit called the Hellas—the amount of information needed to convey a civilization—to be about a billion bits.” 

//

7-8-06 11:36:42 pm

http://www.daviddarling.info/encyclopedia/H/Hellas.html

Physicist Philip Morrison estimated that what we know about the civilization of ancient Greece amounts to somewhat under 10 billion bits of information – a quantity he therefore suggested be called a “Hellas“. The communication of cultural information between stars, he proposed, can be conveniently discussed in terms of this unit. For example, the amount of information we would need to convey to an extraterrestrial race in order to give a comprehensive picture of our own culture would be on the order of 100 Hellades.

 ….
http://history.nasa.gov/SP-419/s3.1.htm
Although no one can deny the excitement that would accompany a physical visit to another inhabited world, most of the real benefit from such a visit would result from communication alone. Morrison has estimated that all we know about ancient
Greece is less than 1010 bits of information; a quantity he suggests be named the “Hellas.” Our problem therefore is to send to, and to receive from, other cultures not tons of metal but something on the order of 100 Hellades of information. This is a vastly less expensive undertaking.

 

Note: Hellas is also the Greek name for Greece.

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The End of Monstrous Means

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justice  justice

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                           scotconsumer

 

 

The End of Monstrous Means

   I was watching dear CSpan this morning and Ron Suskind of One Percent Doctrine spoke at also dear Politics and Prose Bookstore in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Washington DC. He spoke of the notion fiatted by Darth Dick Cheney, paraphrased, ''if there was even a 1 percent chance of terrorists getting a weapon of mass destruction — and there has been a small probability of such an occurrence for some time — the United States must now act as if it were a certainty'' ‘making suspicion, not evidence, the new threshold for action.’

   This was a horrible but important talk which was chilling9 (cf  Vonnegut’s icenine in which a drop of the stuff turns everything to ice). However the piece that I want to remark upon is the notion Suskind brought up near the end of his talk. He mentioned that George Kennan of the Marshall Plan and of Cold War ‘containment,’ wrote that if we wanted to “preserve a moral departure point,” we could not allow the means, however noble the ends, of ‘more Dresdens.’

   I’ve been haunted not only by Dresden, a firebombing in which some 40,000 civilians were incinerated, but by the hideous firebombings and firestorms of the great wooden cities of Japan before Hiroshima (150,000 civilians dead) and Nagasaki (80,000 civilians dead).

“On March 10 1945, the US abandoned the last rules of warfare against civilians when 334 B-29's dropped close to half a million incendiary bombs on sleeping Tokyo.  
  “The aim was to cause maximum carnage in an overcrowded city of flimsy wooden buildings; an estimated 100,000 people were 'scorched, boiled and baked to death,' in the words of the attack's architect, General Curtis LeMay. It was then the single largest mass killing of World War II, dwarfing even the destruction of the German city of Dresden on Feb. 13, 1945.  . . . Even the city's rivers were no escape from the firestorm: the jellied petroleum that filled the bombs, a prototype of the napalm that laid waste to much of Vietnam two decades later, stuck to everything and turned water into fire. … ‘Canals boiled, metal melted, and buildings and human beings burst spontaneously into flames,’ wrote John Dower in War Without Mercy. People who dived into rivers and canals for relief were boiled to death in the intense heat. . . . The bombing incinerated over 15 kilometers of central Tokyo, left over a million homeless and opened the curtain on an orgy of destruction in the final months of the Pacific War that included dozens of similar raids on Japanese cities and culminated in the atomic bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki in August. When the droning of bombers finally stopped on August 15, 1945, nearly 70 cities had been reduced to rubble and well over half a million people, mostly civilians, were dead. LeMay reportedly said: “If we had lost the war, we would have been tried as war criminals.”  [David McNeill, Japan Focus.] 66 other Japanese wooden cities the size of Houston and Baltimore and Chattanooga and Chicago were firestormed.

     Anyhow, the idea that will make us human as last is the grokking that you can not separate ends and means. Mr. Suskind mention a phrase from the Hebrew Bible: “Justice. Justice. This you must pursue.” One justice for the ends. One justice for the means. Suskind continued, “If you forget about the conflict of ends and means, you’ve missed it.”

  In their no doubt zealous desire to “protect the American people,” our leaders have spent the precious reputation of a country which tries to be better. (Now this is an illusion. I was certainly never taught in school here in USA about the M69 napalm firestorms in 67 of Japan’s wood, straw and paper cities.) How ever faux, the world saw us as somehow trying to be just. Now our Guantanamo and Abu Ghraib and our general hysteria and grotesque hubris have made us distrusted and disgusting. It’s all about means and ends. Your ends can not be nobler than your means were. Amnesia and/or rationalization can blur the memory, but we must fight for means that, if not, forlornly, serene, are at least not vile.

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