Category Archives: Religious Madness

the Dark Heartlessness .. the horror, the horror

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the dark Heartlessness,

 the horror, the horror

in two parts       

 

 

     It is with woe that I confess to you that I had a hidden prejudice that I harbored all my life that came with karmic stealth back to bite me in my achilles heel a few years ago.

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    I grew up in the American South when there were still water fountains that said ‘Colored’ and ‘White.’ I was luckily born knowing that that was balderdash. I didn’t have any of the reigning festering hates of my time. But there was one determined secret grudge I held: I could not forgive ‘the good Germans’ for not standing up and speaking out against the rising murderous fascist tide, especially before the tide of blood got too deep for many to withstand. Why, I would inquire of myself in anguished inner inquiry, Why did they not stand up, not speak out?

    A few years ago, my breath was sucked out of my lungs in a karmic coincidence, my poor head caught between two giant invisible cymbals — lo, symbols – a silent percussive concussion, one cymbal from my uncompassionate past judgment and the other my own very self standing there on the street in GeorgeKarlCondiRumsDickica, a ‘good American.’ Now I knew how it happened to the ‘good Germans.’

     What are we ‘good Americans’ doing? $14000 a minute is being spent on the fantasy Missile Crackpot Scheme aka Star Wars. $200,000 a minute is being spent on the Iraqiazation Miazma. Dwight Eisenhower warned about the Father of this  TheoMonoMonstroColossus. He spoke of the Military Industrial Complex and that has gigantized into a Theofascist Corporate Complex, a goliath against which we must david.

   So I was chastened enough and on 10.09.02, 1031 days ago, I started walking out a little every damn day with my 16”x18” teach peace sign on a 4' 7″ stick. Yes, of course I felt like a bloody idiot when I began, but now I feel dumber when I don’t carry it.   

  Good Germans stood by. Good Muslims are standing by. Good Americans are standing by. Good Christians are standing by. It aztek-rips my living heart from my chest that we decent enough ordinary folk are not standing up for simple and shared Pursuit of Happiness with a living wage and universal healthcare and spectacular free education for every child.

     Write a one-paragraph Letter to the Editor of your most local pennysaver paper — dying for opinions to print. Short is the key. 

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    When I read a gruesome quote from our Lizard Leader, “See, in my line of work you got to keep repeating things over and over and over again for the truth to sink in, to kind of catapult the propaganda,” my blood coagulates. 'Catapult the propaganda'! Or “You work three jobs? … Uniquely American, isn't it? I mean, that is fantastic that you're doing that.” —George W. Bush, to a divorced mother of three, <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Omaha, Nebraska, Feb. 4, 2005. Then  I feel like my head is in some boschian horizontal pinwheelily spinning like I think may have happened in some Horror Movie I missed.

     Hey, it's not like I'm some stinking amateur in political Horror. JFK murdered on my birthday and the whole ensuing list of death and outrages stealing from a shared Pursuit of Happiness we might have embarked on had Kennedys (J & B) lived; Martin lived; Jimmy, Walter, Michael — all smart & decent & not GigaGreedy. Dear Bill & Hillary, I am a devotee. And Al an environmentalist who Yes, GOT the internet (We'd clearly have universal healthcare and universal wifi by now.)

 

Instead, horrible ole Tricky (& Henry the K, a minion-creep); Ronald who made the first big fateful TheoFascist Bargains; Dad George had horrible slithery underlings (Dick & slithery ilk), and as Ann the Divine said, “George was born on third base and thought he hit a triple.”

 

It was bad enough I thought — the horror, the horror outside a book — but little did I know the Dark Heartlessness to come.

 

I'm a tough old buzzard, but these Present Menaces have got me spooked.

 

Not that I don't get up every day and fight the 12ftTall Lîzards Disguised as Human Beings Who Purport to Lead Us.

 

with all the unquenchable spunk I can muster,

pogblog 

 

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12 Lizard . Kan . South . tzol 64  08.04.05 thur

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Giga-politics .. humans as galactic pets

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Giga-politics ..

humans as galactic pets
 

Dan Gero’s Interim Evaluation

Regarding Terran Incarnates

Report to the South Mars Gazette

08.03.05
 

    Presently Terran Incarnates have no inherent rights under Galactic Law. Presently Terran Incarnates have no inherent rights under Galactic Law. Only recently have Incarnates developed sufficient consciousness to be considered galactics rather than merely humans, the galactic slang for clever pets.    

     The raging Question that divides the Galactic Council is where the line is drawn for full sentience privileges. Terrans have been considered spiritual chattel, and few of these Earthers are given more than minimal attention by their occasionally resident Ethereal or Noncarnate. Among those rare earnest Ethereals who do bother to honor and tend their Terrans, there is an outcry against Incarnate abuse — abuse of the human creature 
    Most other Ethereals are indifferent to the well-being of their Terran hosts. Many Ethereals use Incarnates or solid Earth bodies as an amusement ride or as an experiment. Too few bother to weave a mutuality of experience that gives a steady and reliable élan to the Earthbound.
    It is inconvenient to tend your Terran creature. Their reaction time is slow. They do not speak Galactic which is an holographic multi-dimensional oneiro-language. Terrans can be — well, usually are — stubborn and sulky, and, in relative terms, it must be admitted that they are one degree or another of just plain stupid.
    It is hard to resist wanting to see them react in a frenzy to the most simplistic propaganda. It is especially fun to give them a jolt of cupid juice and watch them make fawning fools of themselves. If you have not forged an irrevocable empathetic bond, it is easy to dismiss them as a gaggle of clever geese.
    At best, most of the multitude of Ethereals can be brought to pity these Terran beasts, these vessels, but damn few respect the creatures.
    It is the contention of the Sentient Rights Party that Ethereals should be denied access to a personal Terran unless the Ethereal is willing to have some training and to sign a set of Incarnate Interaction Guidelines the flaunting of which incurs genuine repercussion.    The kind of behavior suitable and amusing in a disembodied or ethereal condition can be from hurtful to grotesque in the solid terrestrial state.

 

Get this point — you careless Ethereals:

 heed it, grok it —

 

The kind of behavior suitable and amusing in a disembodied or ethereal condition — in oneiro-density — can be from hurtful to grotesque in the solid terrestrial state.

 

     Spiritual physics and spiritual psychology are very different in density, intensity, and consequence from those of the solid Earth Realm, and the Ethereal who thinks the Terran can recover from mayhem, mutilation, and misery with the quickness that it does in the more protean, less-dense lands is deluding itself.
    You enjoy the Terrans’ augmented sensitivity, and though you can, you may not torment these tender creatures for your own kicks. Perhaps worse is the boredom you inflict on your Terran partner when you erratically withdraw your attention in order to pursue quicker, slicker galactic games.
    No one requires that you partner a solid realm Terran, but if you do, you must comprehend at least the rudiments of how they experience time. To you, time is in most regards ephemeral and holospheric, a quixotic erotic zephyr. To them it is largely sequential, a river, and what to you would seem sluggish.
    If you spend some least effort, Terrans can learn some of your quicksilver ways, and you for your part can swim in delicious thick water that could actually drown you. The consequences of ethereal action and of the more dense incarnate action are so different. You give Terrans glimpses of a quicksilver and golden life and they call you angels who live in heaven and you are so flattered that you accept the superiority and bask in their adulation when in fact Terrans are better, more accomplished and more gifted and doggèd in their own dense realm than you can ever be.
    If Terrans had full Sentient Rights, if they joined the Galaxy, you could speak together in respect, you could each impart your special knowledge. Incarnate abuse poisons the whole Galaxy in the end. Incarnate abuse cannot be kept a filthy little backwater-world secret forever. It stains our souls.
    You don’t care if you slaughter them in warring herds, crush and splinter them in car wrecks, twist them with disease. It’s all a frisson to you: you get a buzz from their flood of adrenalin. You are detached from their terror; they are embedded in it.
    It is that creature’s only direct life, and there ought be limits to how you toy with that precious span. Terrans have become sufficiently sentient to deserve Galactic recognition as Sentients with Protected Rights.    Early on, it was a cool trick to inhabit the more dense realms and to discover the particular spectrum of experience that a solid body and linear experience gives. As the creatures developed culture, civilization, and history, you shifted from being their masters to being their partners, or those without hellish arrogance did. It became their world while we weren’t watching.
    The ethereal experience may be the pearl in the oyster, but when you’re hungry, it’s the oyster itself that gratifies.

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11 Night . Akbal . Hearth . West . tzol 63  08.03.05 wed

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The Anti-Christ Nation

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The Anti-Christ Nation

appendix J, ToadSpawn, Be Gone!
   

     Where the Rub is – the Unholy Alliance between Golden Calf-ism, that Obscene Creed of GigaGreed, and the Wicked Uber-Patriotic Violence is the Anti-Christ or the Anti-Christ-Equivalent. Like brave, baffled Bill McKibben (Harpers Aug 05¹) and Bill Moyers, moderate Christians must speak out against these fundamentalist and extremist quintessential perversions of their potentially sweet and modest faith. And if in an inflated moment, Jesus said he was the only way, he was mistaken. There are perspectives few 32 yr-old can have, however inspired.

    One tiny revelation, one brave sentence at a time, moderates have got to put the Christ back in Christian – not as a tedious mantra but in acts that Jesus would be proud of.

     The imagination quails – shrinks back, shudders – at the violence of the delusion, the wickedness, the nastiness, the awful arrogance of our present Golden-Calf-ridden Nation. Christ would certainly be turning over in his grave if he were still there. Looking at it from the Anti-Christ angle, one trembles at the audacity of it (By the way, Karlsputin Rove³ was born on December 25, 1950 if you want an Absolut Reba’s Baby³ moment of chilling synchronicity tinct with frostbites of ironies.) Look at the conversion of GeorgeBush, Barbara’s Baby, from alcoholic to christoholic. It’s the same addiction circuits.

       I’m saying that Bill McKibben’s ‘The Christian Paradox¹, How a faithful nation gets Jesus wrong,’ like Martin Luther nailing his 95 theses to the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Wittenberg church door, is one of the most important watershed moral upheavals of our generation. An avowed Christian insider, one of the 85% of American professed-Christians, a conscientious objector, has broken-heartedly spoken out. He has flinched at the glaring, blaring sight, insight of each scene of carnage, the unChristian, the anti-Christian acts and non-acts done in the name of a tortured version of Jesus. McKibben has flinched at the terrible pain, as one must, but leaving distinct footprints of blood with each sentence, he has honorably taken the awful journey to bring his fellow Christians the unspeakable truth of what is and is not being done in their name. He kept Jesus’ radical and fierce sweetness, the uncompromisable kindness as his only compass on this harrowing Hell-journey.

   The radical vision of Jesus was to be tender – that we tend our fellows, tend our earth, our earth is our hearth. Like opening the 3rd eye, Jesus blew open the sealed doors to the heart and left us naked and gentle in the face of each other, each brother, all kin, all kind. Daring to be tender, the power in powerlessness was the gift Jesus gave, the unconditional surrender to being tender. How few jesusians there have ever been through these centuries. The satanic bargain with worldly power slammed shut those gates to the heart. Kindness became slogans not acts.

    As an interesting sidebar, I’m not sure that the word ‘Christian’ has not become too poisoned to associate with anymore? That much carnage, that much hypocrisy, that much burning of other visions and traditions. Too deep in blood. Myself, I would not bear that word. It’s on the scale that if the word ‘Nazi’ had begun benign, it’s too steeped in blood to keep it.

    McKibben’s ‘The Christian Paradox, How a faithful nation gets Jesus wrong,’ opens the heart’s door to moderate Christians to begin humbly talking about acts, as moderate Muslims must do about suicide bombers. Where’s the living wage? Where the spectacular education we owe to each child as a birthright, not a richesright? Where is the splendid health care we owe to our beloved brother and who is not our beloved brother, sister, mother, son, daughter? Acts. Jesus would fly a bomber and drop jellied gasoline on his brother, his sister? No. The madness must be woken from. If it is not tender, if it is not tending your friend, your fragile, frightened friend spinning in the same gigantic dark as you, if it is not the tender choice, don’t dare do it. Don’t Jesus and the Good Samaritan say that every person is your friend? The radical calculus is to figure out how to step aside from revenge. Alchemy. Turn rage to courage. Greed to kindness.

    There is nothing Jesus would recognize in perpetuating the obscene tax cuts for the eye-of-the-needle folk. They sneer, They dwell in contumely – they are swollen up with snarling pride. They do not rush to comfort.

      The Democrats are an ungainly bunch but they are trying to combine mind and heart, to bring the tender to bear on policy. It’s all very awkward because mind matter and heart matter are of different substance and frequency, but that is the path and there is no shirking that mystery in the end. It’s where we go. We might as well get started.  

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t (Please check pogblog Glossary for unfamiliar & coined words.) 
tDo subscribe to Harper’s Magazine. 15 bucks a year. Brilliant.
¹Bill McKibben, The Christian Paradox
¹(Just change the word ‘Zeus’ for the word ‘God’ in prayers, commandments, and on the money and see how that hubbub quiets down. Every year a different prayer, commandments, money deity by lot. Fair’s fair. All comics like me ‘n Riffie will go for Beelzebub, the buffoon’s patron. What a droll name. In Beelzebub, we trust. Thou certainly shalt not take the name of Beelzebub in vain.)
³ Reba’s Baby. Reba is Karlsputin mother’s name; cf Rosemary’s Baby. See also Karlsputin in pogblog Glossary.
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9 Alligator . Imix . Turtle . East . tzol 61  08.01.05 mon
♫ffsk 790  8783§24d8h36m59s ♫
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the fiercely pro-peace world
begins today with you
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Militant Pacifism & Cheney's Law, the National Child Mutilator Registry .. Toad Spawn, Be Gone! .. Exorcize Prez. Bush .. Chapter 6

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Toad Spawn, Be Gone! the Exorcizm of George Bush from America's Soul

 

Chapter 6 .. Militant Pacifism & Cheney's Law, the National Child Mutilator Registry ..


    Professor Quetzal said, “We better enlist our readers in the Child Mutilator Registry campaign. Child Molestation is self-evidently grotesque. Children should be left to cheerful, raucous abandon without fear of being furtively pawed by some cretinous aging drooler.

    “However, one-to-one in seriously sick from the ethical perspective is the Child Mutilator. Until our Leaders and their Fervent Followers, the Killer 12ftTall Lizards in Human Disguise are mellowed, for our own protection we must have a National Child Mutilator Registry. If you have mutilated a child or mafially contracted to have a child mutilated on your behalf, we need to know so we can keep our uninfected cheerful clown children from your virulently contagious influences. At least until we develop the vaccine. Sadly, many of your diseases are hot-airborne. We do not want our delightstruck clown children paralyzed and disfigured by the botulisms of your creeds and greeds.

    “You cry, ‘It’s in a good cause, these wars!’ The mutilation of a child can not be in a good cause, ipso facto. Child molestation is supremely disgusting, but if you can go one boschian rung lower on the ladder of ice down into cold Hell, Child Mutilation is one re-eat your-own-vomit degree of more sickening.

    “At least the Child Molester has to be faced with his own disfigured self-loathing in the mirror every morning when he shaves.”

      The Blue interrupted, “Unless he’s a taliban child molester who never shaves.”

    “Goaaal!” said Salma Nella whose hatred of religiopatrio chest-thumping hypocrisies was ivory – 99.666% pure.

    Quetzal smiled that smile to which Myrth was addicted. For the sake of the joke you had to maintain a deadpan, but with the faintest northernlights of extra glow in the aura around his face and an extra burnish of the mischief in his brown eyes, Quetzal nodded the wry nod.

    “The Child Mutilator wants some anodyne layers of denial between him:or:her and the brain-exploding acts they are allowing in their name. The mafia does contract hits so the blood-splatter evidence is on someone else’s cheap suit. But the Mutilated-Children karmic score goes in your column, pilgrim, by not one digit less. A child:mutilation is a child:mutilation is a child:mutilation. You can’t pretty it up unless you’re depraved or insane.

    “If I have to live next door to someone willing to call child-mutilating collateral damage, I want to know.

    “If you in your hometown take a grenade and throw it at a child or mow them down with an M16UziAK47, you go to jail, get battered with outrage and shunning, get wired up in the fry chair and e-lek-tro-cuted. If the mutilated child is exactly the same End, but your Means is a noble son dropping a bomb from 10,000 ft or mowin’ ’em down with the M16UziAK47, you get parades, holidays, and sousa music? You do go to Karmic Jail, and it’s a profound security prison, let me tell you, and that is a faint solace for us. If you had to touch them as they died; if you had to push their wheel chair; if you had to look over their shoulder into the same mirror as them as they have to see every day that they’ll never be pretty again; if you had to sit with them as they watch unmutilated kids play basketball or soccer. The jury that judges you is dead children, pilgrim. Not the protoplasmic jelly in the womb you so luridly defend, but the once-leaping, once-laughing, once-hopscotching whose hullabaloo and delicious lives you spindled, mutilated, folded, and collateralized.”

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6-23-05 02:20a.pdt.us 9 Wind. Ik . Whirlwind  wedthur

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NOTE: Cheney's Law as the moniker for pogblog's Campaign to Inititate a National Child Mutilator's Registry is the tangent off a chancelucky(http://chancelucky.blogspot.com/) coinage of Reagan's Law as its moniker, better in many ways but I decided not poisonously immediate enough. Chancelucky is a frequent pogblog commentator. Reagan's Law was a felicitous phrase indeed and as Digrif noted “pitchperfect.”

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Design of Dissent: Curb Your God, &c

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   On PBS’s Now, they had on Milton Glaser who’s collected a book called the Design of Dissent http://www.pbs.org/now/arts/designofdissent.html.

  There is a teeshirt with a ‘city sign’ on it saying Curb Your God, a teeshirt I’d love to own.

   And the image that most haunted me – you see a close up of about an octave of a piano keyboard all the sharps & flats are missing, and where the word Steinway would be and in the same font as that iconic word, it says Racism. Amazing image.  

    The most ice-tooth-picky and fun is a small old-style campaign button all red with lettering saying Rather Dead Than Red (a phrase fashionable in the Cold War, and for those of us in the Blue States having an ironic resurgence . . .).

 

Pavlov's dog & the “New Pearl Harbor”

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    I’m worried that the pavlov’s-doggism — ‘beat the 9/11, “New-Pearl-Harbor” fear-drum’ and we’ll roll over for more narrowing of rights and stupid foreign wars and $14,000 a minute being spent on the fantasy Missile Nonsense — is wearing off in the citizenry. We aren’t drooling on cue and wagging our tails in time to the Star-Spangled Banner. The ied’s red glare and the rocket-propelled grenades bursting in air are smelling a tad too acrid for us to ignore even tho we aren’t allowed to view the star-spangled-banner-draped coffins forever silent of song.
     The “New Pearl Harbor” vaccination of fear is wearing off; I dread they will think we require a booster-dose in the ides of July or of August. Before or after the Supreme Court confirmation fight? What’s your guesstimate?

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“New Pearl Harbor” — see David Ray Griffin, about whom more anon.
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“I Take My Stand With Satan Today” — Toad Spawn, Be Gone! Appendix L

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Toad Spawn, Be Gone! the Exorcizm of GeorgeBush from America's Soul,  Appendix L

 

I Take My Stand With Satan Today

 

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6-24-05 12:38:25p.pdt.us 10 Hearth . Akbal . Night  tzolkin 23 fri 

Digrif mon chair, 

   I just read in the June 27, 2005 New Yorker p. 47 that these previously home-schooled students who enroll at Patrick Henry College, a feeder school for future 12ftTall Lizards Disguised as Human Beings Reptilian Party congressional interns and politicians of our “Christian Nation,” have to “sign a ten-part statement of faith, agreeing that, among other things Hell is a place where ‘all who die outside of Christ shall be confined in conscious torment for eternity.’”  

    At that exact mo-ment it was decided by Le Bleu et moi that my cat-friend, the Stunning-Rulerette-of-Milky-Way and Bealach na bó Finne (Way of White Cow/Irish) and Umthala(Zulu) and Marin Shimbireed (Way of the Bird/Somalia) and caer Arianrhod(Castle of the goddess Silver Wheel/Welsh) and Ngân-hà(Silver River/Vietnamese) – that my cat-friend’s nom de purr is Lucy Furr from henceforth. I take my stand with Lucy Furr and with Satan (<?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />1:04:07p.pdt.us) now.

     'All who die outside of Christ shall be confined in conscious torment for eternity'? How do they come up with this stuff? Conscious torment? No naps?! They are going d.o.w.n. You heard it here first. Grenade Girl and Lucy Furr are ON the case!! I no longer breathe air; I breathe brimstone(S16/3206). Let's romper et rumbler! Both sides can play with this conscious-torment game. Conscious-torment this, ScalyOnes.

 

Friend Fuerta says I'm [dangerously] “messin’ with their denial structure, girl.” Yeah, I'm going after their deep denial structure, with weapons of cold irony, my favorite and only cher Ub. They shouldnae hae messed wi' me, Riffie, what was a lil ole Southin' gal like me to do? Pass the smelling salts.

 

Digrif, ami de ma vie, pour toujours et un jour,

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The fugu of the Humor Transplant ..Toad Spawn Chapter 5

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[To READ ALL of Toad Spawn Be Gone! Click on Toad Spawn Complete under Topics on Main Page.]

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ToadSpawn Be Gone! the Exorcizm of GeorgeBush from <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />America’s Soul

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Chapter 5 .. the fugu of the Humor Transplant

 

     Myrth said, “In ClownSchool InterD, we don’t just get to indulge in fugu. There is fugu discipline. Fugu is the expert filleting of the exceedingly poisonous Hypocrisy fish, especially those found in the Religious and Political Oceans of Hubris. Gods alone know that our keen tools and our only wyrd and terrible weapons – Be ye terrified ye 12ftTall Lizards Disguised as Human Beings – our wyrd and terrible weapons are words. It’s necessary and fun to kebab the 12ftTall Lizards. I love weapon-words third only to the silver cat and the feloniously handsome Fuller. But we need to turn sword-words into plowshare words after we’ve welcomed the unfanged and unblinded, reasonably cheerful and modest 12ftTall Lizards back into the gallivanting human family. We need to explore with you students of comedy how people live in the aprèsWar world.

     “First let’s remind ourselves of the three great Greek philosophic constellations of inquiry: metaphysics; epistemology; ethics. Metaphysics deals with what is real. Epistemology with how we know. And ethics with what is good. The epistemology, the how of thinking, being, seeing is a lot of what ClownSchool InterD is about.

    “What do you do when you’re not gnashing your teeth; not wasting obscene sums of money on megalomaniacal weapons systems like missile defense; and not lashing out at people who snog a Different Deity than you do?    

    “Sursurprisingly, there is a way to live fruitfully and passionately and cheerfully without waking up in the morning rarin’ to perfect more Schemes to mutilate children.

    “But first, the ClownSchool InterD psybio team works holoday round perfecting the Humor Transplant operation that deflates the crazy hubris of the 12ftTall Lizards to bring them back into genuinely empathetic human scale. The radical and aggressive treatment probably necessary for cheney viperiens extremos is emergency splenectomy. The metastasized spleen just has to be hacked out on the spot—at the bus stop (As if any of them would ever ride a bus!) or at the dinner party with the butter knife or at the humvee sales lot.

   “Hustle ‘em off to the ClownSchool ER and stick an Irony transfusion IV into the soft skin inside the crook of their left elbow (the one nearest their vestigial heart) and play Mozart, Yo Yo Ma, Bella Fleck, and Hui Ohana til you see them giddy with grin. For a Cheney or Rove equivalent, this treatment could take years.

     “For people in less acute stages of satanically septic Reptilianosis, a course of ironyotherapy treatments are critical to recovery. Severe religiopatriosis is, like stroke, an attack whose redemptive recovery is long term – you’re never cured, you’re always a religiopatrioholic in recovery. The high the 12ftTall Lizards get is so fauxEupho that you have to kiss your left little finger 8x a day at the very least to protect yourself from the toxic effects of the effluvius and supperating corruption.

   “ ‘What!?’” you 12ft Lizards cry in unbridled disbelief. ‘What?! kiss your left little finger 8x a day at the very least?’

    “ ‘What!?’ the clowns cry, ‘You’re sharing our supersecret occult ritual with the 12ftTall Lizards Disguised as Human Beings? Not. You can’t. It’s our, well, our thing, our secret handshake.’

   “Shhh. It’s ok. They won’t be 12fttall Lizards any more. Their swollen spleens will be removed or de-inflamed. The kissing the left little finger 8x will help them keep on the yellow brick path to recovery.”

   “Well,” Salma Nella groused, “ok, I guess. I liked having one exclusive thing. They had the Jesus blood-drinking, fleshing-eating thing; cathedrals; heavy bishops’ rings that clunk on your head at your first communion; psalm books; hymn books; stained glass windows. I wanted some gear, some paraphernalia, a hash pipe equivalent or two. But at least our Kiss8 secret. Dammit all, Myrth.” Salma glared. “Oh, ok, go ahead and spill the bloody beans.” 

   “Here goes, ClownSchool InterD clownfants. Kiss8.”

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6-22-05 2:01:23a.pdt.us  8 Alligator . Imix .Turtle tzol 31  tueswed

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The Arsenic Of ReligioPatriotism .. ToadSpawn Chapter 4

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ToadSpawn, Be Gone! the Exorcizm of GeorgeBush From America's Soul, a blogovel 

 

” … a mad dickensian masterpiece of serial venom..”

 

(You can check pogblog's Glossary on the Main Page on left under Topics, as necessary)

 

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Chapter 4 .. the Arsenic of ReligioPatriotism

 

    “Arsenic,” Myrth mused. “On Earth, about 120 years before the end of linear time in late 2011, women in England wanted a prized translucent-skin look, bluish, supernally, hauntingly perhaps necroishly nacreous, like fine porcelain. This eerie lucence was achieved by taking tiny doses of arsenic.”

   “You better remind our dear reader about the end of linear time before you finish up the arsenic story,” said Bleu. “Don’t be too alarmed, dear reader – or rather, do be alarmed, but be alarmed about the right thing. By the way, dear reader, how are you, you your very self this very hour? Treat yourself to something mildly wicked this 1400 minutes. You have 864,000 seconds in this daynight and they should preen and jolly you. Check out The Squirrels in ToadSpawn Appendixes if you need a tonic.”

     Myrth laughed, “The end of linear time. That’s a leitmotif of ToadSpawn Be Gone! Exorcize Mr. Bush. The Brimstoners would have you believe that it’s the ‘end of time,’ the ‘end of the world.’ Piffle. That’s Brimstoner cheap melodrama to keep the sheeps in the pews. Nope. It’s a sursurreal rollercoaster ride on Carnivale Earth, but it’s the end of the dominance of linear time, thru the neck of the hourglass into the jollier reaches of holospheric time. Or you might think of linear time’s having been the bud and holospheric time will be the blossom.

    “It’s vexing that you’re reading this just a few years before the blogovel technology allows your own name to appear where we say dear reader, but it would help if you could imagine that your name is also there when you see dear reader [dear reader Jamie; dear reader Jane; dear reader You] because ToadSpawn is one of the Handy Manuals for the coming time-rapids the Earth Adventure is going to go thru in the next decade. It will be funish or hellish depending on your preparation. It’s our job together to keep the 12ft tall Lizards from getting us down. Remember that Your Comments are ToadSpawn’s Appendix C! If you think you’re too shy or too technologically confused to join in, if you think you’re more comfy as a techno-wallflower, email pogblog@yahoo.com and she can get you situated with a Reader Account. We’re all in this together for fun or hell. Except for gratuitous attacks on the infamous Fuller, we know that pogblog prefers the fun option.

     “We’ll tell you more about ClownSchool InterDimensional along the way, but it’s one of ClownSchool InterD’s jolly jobs to get you to send your Inner Perfectionist on vacation to Fiji to chill out so you can take some perhaps small but significant steps in trusting and nurturing your own creative life. Your Inner Perfectionist should only whisper encouraging sweet nothings into your shell-like (ear), or you should fire that Inner Perfectionist and get a funnier, friendlier one.

    “So,” Myrth continued, “the fine ladies of olden times would take a grain or two of arsenic and with their skins so white they were tinct with blue, the arsenic ladies glowed all but radioactively. But – but there was a grisly price to pay for the slightest miscalculation: death. Similarly Religiousism and Patriotism must be taken in the tiniest doses or you will lethally poison your own consciousness — and often lay waste upon your neighbors.

    “Personally, I just avoid those arsenics entirely, but like any addictions, religiopatriotism is not just a fell morass muddying up the Wellies, but a mental and emotional quicksand which can suck you inexorably down and down. When you succumb to the adrenalins of religiopatriotism, the ground under you is not sturdy. You can find yourself hating a neighbor who embraces a different book. It’s a book! You can find yourself whooped up to kill folks in a neighboring nation. You can get your heart distances all screwed up. Compared to star M Dwarf Gliese 876, 75 trillion miles away, China is in the next room. Compared to the cold silent dust between the stars, anyone who’s heart beats is a brother. Light is colliding with you at 186, 000 miles per second – yet its illuminating impact is a caress of such complete sweetness that we welcome dawn, or we would welcome dawn if we hadn’t seen it in a year, with tears. Could we not touch each other’s hearts thus? Why not? If we grokked each other’s tentative, secret unbearable vulnerability, the fawn looking into the eyes of the wolf, should I not cascade you with honor? How not?

    “I myself do not have the ability to contain an iota of religiopatriotism without sliding into abstraction or division. My country. Your country. Only Jesus. Only Fill-In-The-Blank. Hungry Gods willing –or demanding – to eat dead children.”

        Myrth reached into the back pocket of her pink polka-dot jeans. She saw Quetzal glance at her tight levis and raise his eyebrows. “My little joke,” she shrugged. “Velv sent me an psymail for Chapter 4,” she said, and handed a shimmering paper to Quetzal to read out loud. Both he knew and she knew that she just liked to hear the sound of his voice when he wasn’t dueling. They spent most of their time dueling. Everything they did was fraught with assignation.

     “I fear 11/02 more than 9/11.” Quetzal read. “9/11 was a nasty day perpetrated by Insane Religious Zealots, IRZs. 11/02, the dismal day of the USofA Inc election is murkier, more hadal, perpetrated by IRZs blessed with armies, and marines, and air forces with dozens of death-wielding planes, helicopters, and tanks, instead of 3 commercial airliners, an unlimited number of molotov cocktail equivalents, rpgs, ieds, and IRZ suicidal youths willing to blow themselves to kingdom come, they hope, for 32 or 72 scantily-clad virgins, depending on which sect is making the offer. I’m not sure what our suicidal youth are willing to be blown up for (this is a third-rail topic), but as insane deals go, 72 virgins seems a more rational enticement to a 20-yr-old guy in heat than the old Big Lie, pro patria and a few strips of colored cloth mori. The hypnotic techniques are truly breathtaking. Boot camp, shave all the hair off (cf Samson), severe fraternity hazing, and the post-hypnotic suggestion is so powerful that people will kill for it and die for it. It’s satanic in sheep’s clothing.

    “Now, our side is noble — because we are better equipped to kill? What’s the equation here? What lethal mathematics apply? Once you’ve slipped inside the ‘It’s Not Murder, It’s War’ Bubble, you can ennoble hideous acts and excuse Gitgulag, and Abu and Bagram perversions. Our side, their side are both flayingly sad and vile.”

    Myrth shook her head and sighed, and they all four reached for the half-empty bottle of the USofA Inc export Sangre de Niños at the same time. “After you.” “No, after you.”

 

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6-20-05 2:06:30a.pdt.us  ….6 Rainstorm . Cauac . Redbird  tzol 19 sunmon

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Is the Armageddon thing happened yet?

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“Is the Armageddon thing happened yet?”

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On my way to pick up my meds (Tazo Organic <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Darjeeling Tea), I was at the edge of the sidewalk about to jaywalk across to Whole Foods when off to my left in the dimly streetlight-lit dark, I heard a woman’s voice ask someone, “Is the Armageddon thing happened yet?”

 

 ======

Well, there is nothing one can possibly say about something so sublime, so terrifying. But that’s never slowed down pogblog before.

 

1. It really happened, in a kind of cross between poe & kafka. I whirled whiplashilly to my left, agog, hearing my telltale heart beating in the night made crepuscular by the eerie strontium-vapor streetlight.  

 

2. “Is the Armageddon thing happened yet?” [sic]  Sic means ‘thus,’ implying that a mistake in the sentence just written is from the original deliverer, not a typo of the scribe. Sic should be put right after the offending part, but jeez, it makes it so yucko to read then. It's also supposed to be italized, but then so is the Catholic Mass. (Yes, I know you know about sic, but we’re trying to reach a range of folks not all of whom are among the arcane-minutiae zealots of English-language giga-elite.)

 

3. Suppose she was right, the ancient street mariner? Suppose the Armageddon thing has already happened and we’re just not aware of it yet, not aligned with the Shining Truth yet? Maybe it’s like that before Enlightenment ‘wash the rice bowl'; after Enlightenment ‘wash the rice bowl’ thing?

 

4. The gods are fond of this sudden icepick made of ice hit tactic. They murder you with an icepick made of ice. Then the murder weapon melts and you’re left with a small hole and terminally out of breath. This give them the usual deitific deniability.

 

5. Samuel Johnson, lexicon artist, one of pogblog’s mentors, drank 60 cups of tea a day. My guess is that tea in those days was ‘organic’ by default. Pogblog doesn’t slosh down 60, but probably 15. You can’t chaindrink that much milky tea if it’s some harsh stomach-dissolving crud. The Tazo Organic Darjeeling (teabags) is fine stuff. (Their own regular Black Tea is a battery-acid equivalent.)

 

5a. How can doornail Sam be pogblog's mentor? (It's that same tone and sneeréd curl of lip you use when you say, “Yeah, and I bet you've seen unicorns too!”)  Just because you don't do time travel and have ghostly guests doesn't in the slightest degree inhibit pogblog from same.

 

6.crepuscular sounds scary which is its overwrought irony-boosting purpose in the fablet, but means: like twilight or dim;

 

7. Maybe the Armageddon thing is past & we lived? We could let the patient people on the tedious Armageddon Watch go home to their famlies [sic]? We could just get on with the rest of Eternity after a restorative nap? Pogblog will cogitate on it for you.  

 

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6-16-05 3:20:12pm.us 2 Eagle . Men  tzolkin 15

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