Category Archives: TOADSPAWN latest Chapters

The Burning Child .. .. Quantum Schools

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The Burning Child .. Quantum Schools

draft 1

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“You never change things by fighting the existing reality. To change something, build a new model that makes the existing model obsolete.” Bucky Fuller

 

   We cannot fix where we are. We cannot fix the gordian snarl we’re in. We must take the small but distinct quantum step to the Sane Fruitful Vision where we act in the gloryful, gleeful, liberating light of the fact of The Burning Child.

    Once you see that, as every bush burns, every child burns in the forests of delight, you will be honor-bound, duty-bound, future-bound to make complete superb K-College education an emergency Manhattan-Project national priority beginning today.

    The once-stolen treasure of children who blossom, not stunted, whose education is subsidized at $14,000 per minute + $200,000 per minute + $820,000 per minute – the treasure once stolen for death-dealing instead of life-dealing now fuels armies of carpenters and artists who build schools, schools that look like the vatican, the cathedral-care taken, the whimsical gargoyles, the sistine chapels cafeterias. Your learning, burning child, is sacred to we.

 

What can’t you tell about a society by what its schools look like? We got enough to lay off taxing you so you can have a 2nd mansion and a 3rd Hummer — and the school buildings completely suck? Is this what we want to say about ourselves? Shame.

 

   We should have a Manhattan Project of building and equipping the next quantum level of schools. Quantum schools. In 10 years all national schools should be splendid. We should be exporting school technology, not weapons technology. Our national security utterly depends on this urgently expanded education technology – most of which is wetware obviously. We will need to integrate lucid waking with lucid dreaming to make use of the full range of humane experience and resource.   

   We do not need one single new weapons system. The weapons we have now are sufficiently plentiful and sufficiently hideous that we can declare a moratorium until 2029 on any consideration of new weapons. It’s not like even in the dungeons of their sick and sickening fear-ridden imaginations the Death-dealers can conjure up some opposing power fiendishly devising weapons that will unman us. We are the Boogie Man. Claro que si, so shuddup Weapons Mongers.

    So the new Manhattan Project, the Fierce Education Project, “It’s the Education, stupid!” starts fomenting education by in 3 years establishing South Korean-grade broadband – wi-fi – not wire the whole country, but unwire the whole country, every hamlet, every alley, every valley immediately.

   Hello, Mars to Earth, it is a scandal, the USofA Inc is a 3rd world communications-capacity country. We’re losing the race that matters. We’re running the last century’s race. Just like we needed the electrification of <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />America, we need the wi-fi-ification of America. Don’t blather on about how the government can’t do things well. Piffle. It can do lots of things well. It built the InterState Highway System. It built the fxxxxxg atomic bomb in  two blinks. Now we want to explode brains-&-hearts wide open and bring aesthetic and invention power to an intense and playful, sustainable crescendo of lambent planetary lights — northern, eastern, western, southern lights.

    The nation must invest in a giga-light 14” titanium metal-hinged laptop for each citizen to go with the continental wi-fi. This would cost about 150 billion dollars max, roughly ¼ of the 2006 projected military budget. If  America is to survive, least of all thrive, this is the first investment to make because the Future Fierce School is mainly mobile, the world is your school, and you plug in anywhere. (The nano-cyber-enhancer is implanted and telepathic, but that’s a few warp-miles down the star road.)

   

    The glorious schools we will build or restore have a 90% social function so people don’t lose total flesh touch. Presently we in the USofA Inc are the atavistic fight-or-flight old-Reptile-brain-stem equivalent in  the  rampanting symphonikizing noosphere, the world brain-soul.

    Every hour we spend in the fear-based theo-milito-think, we are losing ground.

 

Notes:

(1) We will need to invest in a buy-out of the military-industrial complex and a retraining of those personnel for a constructive rather than a destructive mind-set. This will be fabulously expensive, but it’s as cheap now as it will ever be.

 

We will be responsible for the promises made to the present military personnel and veterans. They are, however, as out-of-date as buggywhip manufacturers and the sooner we quantum-step past our old-rut-thinking the sooner we begin to blossom in the new world now being pioneered by others.

 

(2) $14,000 per minute (cost of the fantasy Missile CrackPot Scheme aka Star Wars) + $200,000 per minute (cost of Iraq quagsand) + $820,000 per minute (partial annual military budget, not including most veteran costs); 

 

(3) We have to keep our eye on the 3000/435,000 (9-11 vs annual tobacco-related deaths) prize — so-called terrorism, as revolting as it is, is a blip in the dangers the country actually faces. The obscene and absurd skewing of resources to this false Bogeyman is crippling our future, retarding our children.

 

This is draft 1 of The Burning Child – Quantum Schools.

 

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com

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It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.

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copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

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10 Rabbit . Lamat . South .  tzol 88  08.28.05 sun 

ffwofw 472§8769§24d7h47m33s1047

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The Alamo, Dead Children, & Dick Cheney

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The Alamo & Dead Children & Dick Cheney
   part 1
   Sometimes there are <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Alamo moments that gain in icepick-in-the-left-eye piercingness. Other lines-in-the-sand crossed diminish in ferocity of ache, but remain iconic in the steles¹ of your own story.
    Meeting you crescendos into a catastrophe of raw joy and raw terror. Our exquisite, excruciating obsidian humor is the last mystery, the unholiest sweet fact I grab before I plummet, wings on fire, into the Abyss. Our unholy humor is what makes me forgive the Universe for its goddamned Sins.
   That you bastards could call dead, mutilated children collateral damage is a scarlet fact so disgusting, so repugnant to the human of heart that I have crossed into an incandescence of rage.
   I will not accept a world in which the hissing and falsely pious utter the phrase collateral damage. To whom collateral?
    I could, in concept, possibly bear it if you fell blubbering to your knees keening screaming, tearing your over-starched white shirts from your chests in grief. But this mealy-mouthed measured crap. It is cursed.
    I crossed a line from past which there is no return. If you can utter the phrase collateral damage when you mean bomb-shattered – your bombs — dead, mutilated children, you so dishonor the dead that I revile you. You do not get the life you lost; you do not grok the life you lost; you do not drink the tears of the dead. There are no obscure wars. There is no collateral damage.
    In the Alamo, there came a time of decision. William Barret Travis drew a line in the sand with his sword. Step across this line and you offer you life and your sacred honor to a Fate certain to be cruel.
    Unmasking your Big Lies, Collateralizers, and your Vicious Euphemisms is my duty to the Dream from the Land of Nightmare. I will not sleep.
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part 1 + 1
    Professor Quetzal said, “We’d better enlist our readers in the National 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 by the de-euphemizing vaccine all the sane are so panickedly trying to develop against this Plague of Addiction to Big Lies, for our own protection we must have a National Child Mutilator Registry.
     “If you have mutilated a child or mafially contracted persons or armies 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 viro-botulisms of your baleful creeds and greeds.
    “Face twisted in a simulacrum of sincerity, 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.
     “But 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, mutilated children. 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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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com
………….<^>……………..
It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.
………….….<^>……………..Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.
∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙
¹ stele .. a carved band of scenes from your life; like you would find in your chapter of the akashic record where the universe, helplessly, keeps the record of every thought and heartbeat of your life, benighted, noble, petty, delightful tho they may be.
anodyne .. a drug, a repression, a cotton-candyifying layer of insulation between your conscious mind and the atrocities, large and small, (and never secret to the hapless universe) that you have committed willfully and have tried to hide &/or justify with creeds or legerdelengua, slithering sleights of  the forked tongue.
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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com
………….<^>……………..
It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.
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copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved
Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:
http://pogblog.myblogsite.com
8 Cane . Ben . Reed . East  tzol 73 . 08.13.05 sat  
ffsb 905§8783§24d8h36m59sikhoudvanu
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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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Become a Militant Pacifist . . Charred by Nagasaki

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Become a Militant Pacifist .. Charred by <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Nagasaki
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I remember going to the Army Medical Museum adjunct of the Smithsonian in Washington DC as a child long long ago. Trust me, I happened upon this ghoulish place by Total Mistake. I'm sure it's most useful to the medical student, but to the 10-year-old seeing 30-gallon, two-foot-in-diameter glass test tubes with, say, an enormous elephantiasised leg from the knee down frayedly floating in formaldehyde was skincrawling. Row upon row of huge glass-tubed Everything in the place was diseased.

<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” /> 

But the scorching, the charred memory was all the black & white pictures of Hiroshima and Nagasaki victims. Maybe, though I never thought about it til this exact instant — those pictures were the boschian journey through the darkside of the human blackheart for why I grew up to be a militant pacifist?

 

I have never seen anything else like those pictures since. They were probably so clinical and blunt and close-up because it was the Army Medical Museum and not thought of as for the general public. And presumably they had Army access to photos that reporters wouldn't.

 

The wreckage and the radiation effects and the so-far past Hell monstrous hurt to children and to men and to women and to old people and the visible burned burned pain. It ripped open my young soul to what violence actually is in the violently tortured poor flesh. Having seen it, you could not cause it.

 

Maybe you could bear and repress three such pictures in a magazine or some in a book, but this was walls of them in ruthless medical close-up absent any remnant of artistic composition or recoil. Just 'Let's look at the boiled eye pulped socket and the radiation boiled flesh.'

 

There is something about radiation burns entirely different from fire-burns. It is unnatural in a way I only remember from all that life ago. Fire happens from the outside in as if there were some layer, some human refuge left however tormented. But radiation burn is from the marrow out all at once a fury of the insanely enraged and offended flesh as if it were microwrithingly boiling the flesh right in front of your screaming eyes. 

 

Walls of these pictures and your pity and horror rose until the idea of causing harm or closing your eyes to harm changed your very dna — never. Never will I be party to, excuse, stop speaking, I owe it to these silent ruined people who could have been as shiny and delighted and sunstruck somersaulting as I was.

 

So here I am. Militant pacifist. Never speak to me of collateral damage. Put yourself in the dark fire first. Dare not do this harm to another whose hand you do not hold in the very incineration moment. Dare not stand apart.  

 

pogblog

 

ps. It was that day in Washington DC that I stepped upon another species path. I did not care if I was the only one. I claim nor exalt kin nor kindness with a species that would do that deliberately charred mutilation to its own kind whose photographs I saw upon the walls. Better alone in the universe with no friend nor God than to be one of the glorified, sung and storied DeathDealers or one of their apologists.

 

Militant pacifism. It was and is a reviled view. I cannot recommend this deep a loneliness to you, friend, but if you cannot bear the lies and the slither of rationalization, your own heart will feel light to you and you will have earned the wholehearted right to hear the dawn songs of birds without the static of the screams of the dead that the Killers hear in their own forsaken child’s heart. There was a time before they joined the Legions of DeathDealers, before they chose to walk across the line of blood and justifiy the sword; the machete; the M16UziAK47; the jellied gasoline. Before they surrendered their will to the command of a Dark Purpose which feeds on the blood of the innocent under the guise of glory.

 

There must have been a day when an X became sufficiently distinct from an Y to become a different species. Whatever is in the blood or in the minutely coiled memory of my parents, I too wave farewell across a divide over which I will never return. The death you deal is evil. There is no camouflage for that. I am not one of you.

 

I looked at eternity and I accepted that utter a loneliness rather than drink radioactive human blood again – or have my military priests share that evil sacrament on my behalf. In my chalice is water.

 

My anti-war views have evolved this far now. I would not have described myself with the phrase militant pacifist at once.

 

I remember when I stood in some shocking lightning illuminated moment in the Nixon era and saw that war wasn’t just sad and too bad –ah, the necessary evil – but was insane. That if you put a man on the couch and had him explain his actions with armies and air forces and what he was commanding to be done, you’d call for the strait jacket and ready the RubberRoom. Unless he was your President. It’s clearly clinically mad and just because  so many people believe it doesn’t make it right or so. The earth was never flat no matter through how many generations or with how much God-granted authority it was proclaimed.

 

I recommend you stay with your fellows unless you have the stomach and sinew for a deep and silent dark which none could warn you of how far from human habitation it is, without the reassuring rustle and murmurs of your own kind. A very few will still speak to you and leave a bowl of soup for you to find. But none will hold your hand.

 


∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙
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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com
………….<^>……………..
It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.
………….….<^>……………..copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved
Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:
http://pogblog.myblogsite.com
2 Deer . Manik . West . tzol 67  08.07.05 sun 
for jamie 981§8783§24d8h36m59s ikhoudvanu
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the 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.”

<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” />

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………….<^>……………..

If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com

………….<^>……………..

It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.

………….….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

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

ffwofw

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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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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Cogism .. .. Capitalism become Psychotic

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Cogism .. Capitalism become Psychotic

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ToadSpawn, Be Gone! The Exorcizm of George Bush from America's Soul Chapter 8

 

     I've been trying to grok the horror of these Present Menaces' creed of giga-greed. One always needs the fortune-cookie phrase or word. I got it: cogism. A ‘cog’ is one of a series of identical interchangeable teeth, as on the rim of a wheel or gear.
    Some more quick vocabulary is in order. These words have been floating around in the political lexicon but they don't quite grasp the present extreme American situation. What's wrong? Why is it so horrible and mean? Fascism is an unholy (tho usually holier than thou) alliance among business, military, and government. A theocracy is a government ruled by or subject to religious authority – not unlike our present mob who are swept by the winds of piety. Oligarchy — the rule of a few. Plutocracy — government of the wealthy. Yes, these words have been floating around in the political lexicon but they don't quite grasp the present extreme American situation. So what's wrong? Why is it so horrible and mean?
    I was gonna call the Present Phenomenon FatHogism and remark sardonically that They don't need to get fatter, They got plenty of bacon already, the FatHoggers. Ha ha. 
    My model of, like, a Buenopia, a society that works pretty well is Europe where they invented al fresco dining and even the bus drivers and janitors get four weeks of paid vacation a year to allow for life other than as a minion or a cog. Another basic self-evident truth ought to be that each person's life is as valuable to them as any other person's is to them. This seems even tautological, but our society does not act in that sweet and evident light.
    What's happened in a peapod is that to the giga-greed corporations, those grim reapers of the harvest of our labor, to Them, we are cogs. They screw us under the fog of socially-correct, slippery platitudes; tranquilize us with cars; sports; war; malls. But we are really interchangeable; we are cogs in the profit machine. They pretend that we matter, like the Leaders pretend that the soldiers they send to slaughter matter.
   They think nothing of buying up a company, putting its assets into new company-A & its liabilities into company-B which they then put into bankruptcy. Only to find out in the small print that bankrupted Company B is the company that now has all the disappeared pensions of the retired people and the promised long-term health plans of the workers, 2/3 of whom are laid off and replaced by temp workers who are offered no benefits whatever and eat it because they're desperate for a job of any kind — or unkind. In our Cogacracy, the platinum parachutists gobble up the assets and spit out the bones of the workers.
   The profit motive has taken such an aggressive and gruesome and all but medieval turn that it chills the blood. Even in medieval times the hoggishly rich were wrung out of a few pence by Fear of Damnation — tithing was considered de rigueur if you wanted to squeeze through ye olde eye of the needle instead of through ye latest tax loophole.
   At what point does profit go past a reasonable profit so you can live comfortably and become an filthy obscene profit? At what point does an filthy obscene profit become the moral equivalent of usury? This Midas/Miser Syndrome, this horrible acquisitiveness, CEOs gorging soullessly on their gold, has become, heaven does forbid, admired widely in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />America. Dear President Clinton said “Nowhere in the Bible does it allow us to exalt the rich over the poor.” Clearly not. Well, I prefer to also go to the undeniable bible (‘bible’ with a small ‘b’), the undeniable bible of the sky and the trees and the birds and the beasts. Naked we all stand in that holy light, without facades. The ditchdigger has no less strength and glory under the just stars than does a titan of industry. The titan of industry has hogged up on the backbreaking work of the ditchdigger. Dig your own damn ditches and see how you would wish to be treated, Cogist.
   I don’t mind grotesque differences in gross accumulation of cold midas gold. It just seems just that if you’re really so damn smart Mr. FatHog, you could figure out as an obvious ethical fiat how to provide healthcare for your workers and a wage that could lead to a 10th of your comfort.
   Every single elected official should be required to spend one seven-day week of each month while they are privileged to serve actually living on the minimum wage. And that same week be required to take public transportation exclusively. And no hoarding of tasty snacks to ease the week on minimum wage. No secret stash of expensive well-brewed beer. Chivas Regal would blow the budget. Compliance would be monitored in Minimum Wage Week. My friends, my dear perceptive luminous friends, how FAST – HOW FAST do you think the minimum wage would rise if the FatHogs had to live on it? How soon a gracious rise in the frequency of buses?
   We need to lash our hearts to every policy decision. We may not cogize people. (As E.B. White once said, “I’d as soon simonize my grandmother.”) We may not cogize people. The quality of mercy cannot be abridged.
   People are as afraid to speak out against obscene FatHog amounts of money in this country as they are to speak out against war. Well, I dare & you must dare too. Will you be able to face the lidless eyes of God who judges only that you were kind or unkind? God cannot blink and sees if you dwell in greed or in generosity. Cogism is not kind. It does not seek to uplift thy brother. That bum on the street corner? That is Jesus asking for a dime. It is always a test. It is Jesus to whom you are denying healthcare. It is Jesus to whom you are paying a meager minimum wage. It is Jesus to whom you are paying minimum wage so some FatHogger can have eight Hummers. Is there no place on the Richter Scale of outrage where the terror of the shaking wakes you up? Does it make you more secure to have more than 10 years worth of my annual wage in your bank accruing what? Interest? Spiritual mold?
   My capitalist friend Bill from Canada is a super-entrepreneur up there, but he pulled his business-card-sized National Health Card out of his wallet and said, “If I am sick anywhere in Canada, I can get help. You people are crazy in America. Single payer is so obvious.” It isn’t the people who are crazy in America, it is the FatHogging Cogists. It is the Cogists who imagine that there is anything right about making obscene profits on other people’s pain. There is a difference between profit and profit at any cost.
   It is not right to cut all the art and music out of schools so the mongers of fear and the mongers of giga-greed can buy more and more and more war machines. Our souls – your soul and mine – are stained by complicity in these giga-greed creeds. Our silence stains us.
   Let them roll in cake, our FatHog Cogist masters, let them stuff cake down their own throats like the foie-gras geese until their livers become swollen and fat and greasy. Let them roll in cake. But should we stuff their coffins with cake? As they, a new phantom, stand beside  their cake-stuffed coffin and look starkly back over their life, will they be glad for the bomb they bought to blow up a kid in Iraq? Will they hold content and deep in their heart the lives their free enterprise impoverished so their coffin could be stuffed with cake? There is no free enterprise. There is no free love. You must pay the peace of your heart if you do not do these things as right as you can. Be as harmless as  you can.
   It is Gandhi whose pension you stole, Mr. Free Market. The free market is costly. The free market is costly in human peace of mind. It is Martin Luther King to whom you denied healthcare, Mr. FatHog Cogist. Your giga-greed has consequences. It is not ethically neutral. God has lidless eyes. God does not blink. God does not look aside.
   There are too many Scrooges in America now. Too many accumulating and accumulating Scrooges. And too few Tiny Tims finally noticed.
   The thunder will astonish you. You will wake and your heart will break, your heart will break. You might have done right and you did not. If by your business or by your investments, you find yourself forgetting the faces and the tears of the people whose lives and whose labor are providing you your semi-annual dividends, you are become a Cogist. And if I were you, I would tremble at the judgment, at how long in hell it takes to pay off the debt you accrued in unkindness. A terrible toll will be exacted. The 10th circle of hell is not hot; it is relentless ice. To remind you. To remind you dreadfully of your cold cold cogist heart.

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The Woman Who Stares At GeorgeBush Instead of At Goats

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The Woman Who Stares at GeorgeBush Instead Of At Goats .. A Radical Pacifist’s State of the Union address <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />. . . ToadSpawn Ch 7

 

<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” /> 

    There is actually (reality, actuality; matter of fact, sober reality; truth &c; stubborn fact, hard fact; not a dream &c; no joke; be the case; occur &c; extant; afloat, afoot, prevalent; undestroyed; indeed; ipso facto) a military occult cadre in America who are paid by us taxpayers to stare at goats with intent to kill.¹  A very occult project this, so secret in fact that you might say it’s oc:oc:occult. The rest of this report is both interpretative and factual, but this basic staring-at-goats-gig fact exists on the Planet you walk on and upon which you eat your Cheerios. Tremble and be afraid, very afraid – you’re paying for these people, and they are loose.

    You are paying them enough to play golf more than once a week at Pebble Beach ($700 per round, not counting tipping the caddy), the most beautifullest golf course on the planet, teal-colored ocean views; white pelicans skimming the combers; velvety Bermuda-grass greens with duffer-flattering pin-placements; scrotum-tightening pleasure oiled in reminiscence by much Jack Daniels, a real guy’s drink. A real guy who spends his time when he’s not golfing or servicing the trophy wife staring at goats with intent to kill.

    Now, the goats’ friendly bleats have been surgically excised because it’s hard to concentrate on the glaring-to-murder a goat cheerfully bleating for a scratch behind the ears or a nice handful of molassesy grain (which the goats who aren’t reaped by the grim gazes are given by their sweet Keepers at night.)

    How bizarre the goats must find our species – they get death stares for 8 hours (It’s a job for the humans) while they mill, baffled, bleating earnest silence. Then at 5pm, the Starers put their uniform jackets (made in China) back on and button up the brassette buttons. At which point the tender and fondling and sweet-whispering Tenders arrive to whisk away the corpses and to give the remaining goats honeyed grain and alfalfa hay and cool cool water. What could a goat philosopher make of it all?

    I don’t decry psychic powers – I have quite a few of my own.

    But, dear reader, it never occurred to me not once to just stare at the Lizard-in-Chief, Mr. Bush, until – until boils do us part. Yeah, friend, as many eyes and teeth as George owes for, I just can’t do death. But if boils is good enough for God to job Job with, they’re good enough for me to do unto George. Amen and hallelujah, brother.

     I wish there was a Boils R Us store nearby so I wouldn’t have to work so hard at this boils thing. On my groaning plate, I’ve already got daily praying for The Rapture to occur – win-win, they’re happy to go, I’m happy they’re gone, hip hip hullabaloo. (My friend, Fuerta, says pilots should have to sign a sworn statement that they are not Rapture-Ready – suddenly pilotless² planes are a clear hazard.) Adding this boils-staring voodoo at our Scaly Leader is gonna seriously cut into my sloth, snack, and siesta time.

   Now, I only need two more of you with boils-erupting baleful gazes to join up so we can triangulate Mr. Bush with boils-wielding ridicule, BWR – if you ain’t got an acronym, what kind of weapons system are you really? FMD, for instance, Fantasy Missile Defense at $14,000 per minute. Now there’s a truly ridiculous notion that no one is sufficiently squawking about. How can citizens of a sane nation allow $14,000 per minute to be spent on a Fantasy Missile so-called Defense while we are paying fellow citizens $5.15 per hour, $206 a week – you live on that, pilgrim.

     I remember the supercilious William Buckley on Larry King a decade ago intoning in his inimitable pontifical mannered manner, “Wull, Larry, you ask that [African, Indonesian; Peruvian; Alabamian] peasant if they wouldn’t rather have that 35¢ an hour?” Wull, yes, Bill, while you’re silver-forking down your lobster thermidor — over nothing, the pesky starving will choose 35¢ an hour. But that’s the wrong question, Bill baby. The question is how would you like 35¢ an hour? That’s how you sort the ‘we are all humans of equal worth’ equation; that’s the ethical calculus – prince and pauper – I would trade places with you right now. I have sufficient courage of my pompously pontificated convictions that I, William F. Buckley Jr, would trade places with you right now. Justice is blindfolded and can’t tell you from this happy happy poor person reveling in the 35¢ an hour you’re so magnanimously offering, no doubt with a daily watermelon bonus and a free turkey at Christmas. The Knights of Ridicule can set a basic Boils Team on you too, Bill.

    My Martian philosopher-journalist friend, DanGero, from the South Mars Gazette, a cosblog linked to pogblog, said his 20 years in a human suit observing homo notso sapiens undercover was an assignment of hadal delight and of a five recent years revulsion so shuddering that Martian oneiro-shamans feared for his recovery of equilibrium and equanimity.

     “Part of your species is pleasant, even jolly, fun, quite generous. The 12ftTall Lizards Disguised as Human Beings Who Purport to Lead You are so empathy- and agog-impaired that my Martian friends who’ve never visited your Planet have voted for a 100% Quarantine of your planet’s sentient effluvium from cosmic councils; cosmic trade routes; from cosmic museums; cosmic libraries, the whole Big Shebang.

    “’How can they treat their fellow conscious beings so scummily?’ ask my Martian friends.

    “On Mars we have an ancient story of a unicorn whose hide is the shimmering colors of the rainbow. Where our unicorn passes, there is music in the air. And where her golden hooves fall, the grasses are not bruised.

   “It is with musical gentleness we are asked to treat our fellow creatures. The best way I could translate it perhaps for you Earthlings is Music unto others as you would have them music unto you.

   “On Mars we hear all the songs —  the stone’s song, the butterfly’s minuet, the sonnet of your soul. On Mars, your worth is weighed in the number of jokes you’ve invented.

    “We are not aura-blind as most of you Earthlings are. We see or grok the aurora borealis of your being as it plays its concertos of actions and reactions, its woven songs. We love the ambush of practical jokes and the fierce dueling of satires.

      “Your very real harshness to one another, however, your deafness to the other’s life song are so alien to us that most of us did ratify the Quarantine.”         

    When I look at DanGero, I hear him mostly in the tangerines and hyacinths of his liliacly lyrical soul. He’s helped train me to stare boils at GeorgeBush whose putative leadership sounds all static behind the clichéd bombast. “We are bewildered,” DanGero said, “by your exploitative hierarchies anyhow, but that you would allow someone to domineer you so unmusically is sick and senseless to us.

    “Advanced worlds in the cosmos no longer require ethical laws, we have aesthetic laws. We weigh and measure actions and value in units of comedy. That’s why I gave you that necklace with the silver dogtag with carpe comedy stamped on it, as a token, as a reminder of your Martian blood, pog, that you are steeped in comedy and songfulness.”

   My exile to Earth, my exile from song and mirth to deaf Earth had been part of the last desperate Expedition of the Healers Guild, the Clowns, to find a cure for GAC, the Greed and Creed soul-crippling condition, the epidemic of which had swept sweet Earth for 2000 years of arid desolation.

   In his latest visit DanGero had told me that since I had foolishly fallen so somersault and devil dance with an Earthling, I could never risk bringing the possible contamination  home again to the planet we do not call Mars, but Bylar, To Dance. That permanent exile from the laughing apple-sweet rivers of my home is, dear reader, a dazzling and damned story for another fire-light flickered night. Is what you dimly call love, the insane rage, the filigree of mad mirth he and I pitilessly feel with each other worth that exile? Filigreeis a dainty web of precious metal, an haunting elf song wrought into a tiny token, a lace of metal, a braille grail jewelry you could feel in the dark, that dark where all souls journey implacably alone sometimes, at times arranged by Fate’s deranged whim – that filigree to remind me in that doomed silence which may or may not end of our dread mirth which we dared, holding only each other’s hand over the uncalculatable abyss. So is it worth it, Digrif, my friend in obsidian mirth, my cruel ironist, this exile for which I paid my whole soul? Timelessness will tell.

    So back to the goats whose plaintive and silent bleats remind us we’re in a surkafka land where people will actually spend $14000 per minute on a Fantasy Missile Defense system when they could fund universal health care for their fellow citizens in the beloved community with those same funds, as an example.

   BWR. Boils-Wielding-Ridicule. Frankly, of course I would prefer long, slow skewered rotisserie over hell-fires death for the maggots-for-brains ghouls who rule us, but I have evolved in civilized past the mutilations-by-proxy which keeps them in the ‘excruciating bone-splintering pain to other people’s children’ business that they practice with lurid violence behind the veil of patriotic songs and tinnily noble sentiments which bring back no dead child’s laughter.

    So on the 4th of July 2005, The Woman Who Stares At GeorgeBush Instead Of At Goats begins her BWR, Boils-Wielding Ridicule campaign. The end of Mr. Bush’s pinocchioing nose is the bulls-eye prize target. If just two of you can join me, we can triangulate and cast our blessedly mumbo jumbo voodoo boils spells upon his lying nose, the Lizard-in-Chief who will not offer up his own children to the Worthy Cause.

      “Yankee doodle, stare it up/Yankee doodle dandy/Mind the music and the step/And with the stares be handy.”   

 

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¹I wanted to write this report before I treated myself to reading Jon Ronson’s The Men Who Stare At Goats. I saw him on CSpan a while back and he spoke of the stranger bubbles we can slide into and of the 12ft Lizards that one guy was convinced ruled the world. I had been on this Reptile angle for years and this seemed a nifty ratification in neon of the theme. I didn’t want to read the book until I wrote The Woman Who Stares At GeorgeBush so as to have free rein to channel that idea without fear of imitation. Jon Ronson did tell us that the goats’ bleats were removed. Mr. Ronson has no association with or responsibility for even a gnat’s eyelash of my version of things. I’ll do you all up a review when I read the book.

 

²For those three people in America unfamiliar with The Coming Rapture – the Gist of it is that all the people who Truly Take Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior are going to be Raptured Up en masse into Heaven in their actual bodies, leaving the rest of us infidels to brimstonily stew in our own sulphurous juices down here. I can’t recall whether Trumpets Sound as The Rapture begins, but I’m pretty sure that the Heavens open. This Divine Hoovering is imminent, any day or year now. Thus planes being piloted by Born-Again pilots will suddenly be pilotless, cars driverless, trains will have empty locomotives. //There is doctrinal uncertainty about whether one’s teeshirt from Target or for the better-heeled Believer, one’s crisply-ironed, medium-starch blue shirt from Brooks Brothers will be Raptured Up with one? Likewise dental fillings? Should one dress for Rapture every day? I have no answers to these questions because believe me *I* a.m. g.o.i.n.g.  t.o. b.e. left behind. Not only do I not take JC as my personal savior, I distinctly and specifically reject the lad. Boy, when I was 32 years old, I thought I knew it all too. But I’ll never have Mel to make a Passion of Pogblog and pour bucket’s o’ blood over me. I never actually used the word prayer before because me ‘n the multi-verse(many-poem place) are pretty tight as these things go, but I have taken to praying that The Rapture will come asap so they can go and we can be left behind to get about making it a fairer and jollier world without all the tedious preachy nastiness. The Shortest Book on Earth is Jokes in the Bible. (By the way, I’ll reiterate that I could care less what comforting hallucination anyone indulges in if they don’t force it and its consequences down the throat of others. That’s what’s got me riled.)

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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

<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” /> 

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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Ing-Ing .. ToadSpawn Appendix B

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ToadSpawn Appendix B

 

Ing-Ing is deceptively simple. Grok this fable and your life will be dna deeply changed forever.

 

for the solstice .. the sun:ing luckily being a verb, not a noun! 

 

Ing-Ing 
 

    Jolly Ing is one of the few elves left in the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />New World. You didn’t know there’d ever been any? Well, perhaps you don’t quite know it all after all? Ha. Ha.

    Jolly’s brother, Chortle Ing, Esq., Chort, for short, is known far and wide for dancing, romancing, and chancing.

    You have that dubious rational look I hate. Yes, I’ve met them myself or I wouldn’t be telling you this tale. They are my zards. Zards are a cross between wizards and bards who teach a lucky few the astonishing joys of Ing. Jolly Ing is 4' 8” tall, not as portly as Chort, but a stout fellow nonetheless. His face is a glossy beardless chocolate hue, his eyes a dappled forest-glade hazel, his hair as russet as a robin’s breast.

    The Ing are a guild of gerund folk who teach that all that exists, from a stone to a clown juggling four balls and a dinner plate, is a verb, nouns being only a convenience of language, not truth. It’s all alive, living, throbbing. I spell this out to appease your Rational Dubious Self. The Ings explain little and show much.

    To decide whether I was enough fun to be apprenticed, fluid and druid enough of mind, I had to spend days ing-ing. I had to put i-n-g on every word I thought and said. I-ing am-ing eating chocolat-ing for-ing breakfast-ing. Verb think. More rightly put: verbing thinking.

    As much as we might wish for a break, wish to just stand still, we can not. Living is an irrevocable process-ing. The sea ceaselessly sloshes. There is no way out, however persistently we pout. Y’may as well swim.

    You feel panic when you first learn the verbing lesson. The wild energy of life blows through you like a hurricane. Jolly Ing taught me how to get into the eye of my own hurricane, to feel the energy but not get blown over. After awhile the energy gets savory and comforting–just as you cannot stop, you also cannot in fact get stuck. You may, and many do, become brilliant at sequential stubbornness and serial sulks, but you actually have to work at it, it is not the universe’s natural modus operandi.

    Chortle showed me many of noun think’s evils, or stupid sadnesses as he called them. No plurals or collective nouns actually exist. No plurals or collective nouns actually exist. There are no giraffes — only one giraffe + one giraffe + one giraffe. There are no gooks, no men, no women, no ethnic blurs. Ah, betrayed again by my belovéd language. In truth, we must consider each one, one at a time.

    Jolly said that language is a splendid and useful tool as long as we do not imagine that it displays the truth. Here he would say to me slyly, poking me annoyingly in the ribs, “How fast you forget, my little turtle dove,” his hazel eyes glinting like a splash of sun off a pool in a forest glade, “Not truth, but true-ing!” He would guffaw. Chort, of course, would chortle. The Ings are certainly bloody exasperating. They did show me though how to feel the heartbeat in each living thing, its pulse, its scent, its flavor. They introduced me to the companionship of the whole world.

    It was at first daunting. Heeded, every thing had a story to tell. The world positively chatted, gossiped, jabbered at me. Undrugged by anything but air, I was drunk with stunning sensation, poetic overload. It also all writhed which was shall we say disconcerting. Jolly taught me to steady the writhing to a pleasing shimmer or radiance and to turn the cacophony tuneful. “Blink,” he’d say. Apparently the poets who go mad, stare — forget to blink.

    Afraid perhaps that the glory will go away, is a trick, a ruse, a lie. The Big Lie. They try religion, drugs, drink, anything to pry open the Door to Wonder. Jolly likes to say, “I am a lert — being a lert is all that’s necessary. Alerting.”

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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)

 

<?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />3:37:34a.pdt.us 06.13.05 12 The Road. Eb. Rattlesnake Tooth tzolkin 12 sunmon

 

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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