The peel blackens! Seal our porous border!

He whose name is not spoken in polite circles (a million praises to him and his eternal seed) has trouble sleeping. A dull--almost imperceptible--undercurrent of thought nudges him back into awareness every time he tries to drift into dreams. Thoughts about nothing.

Across town, two other souls, like him, have forgotten what it is to enjoy a nights sleep. Delusions of wealth keep them feverishly working into the small hours. The constant background hum of cooling fans is broken intermittently by furious keystrokes.

The Insignificant Aide, (curses unto her and her ignorant lot): Umm... Sire

He...: And what inane question do you have now, you unbelieving monkey-descendant?

IA: My Lord, I was wondering if I could take some time off to visit ...

He...: No.

IA: But...

He...: No.

IA: But my Lord, I have not seen them since your sent them across the great porous border; and I have been working long and hard for you for many years now; and.. and.. and... Look here, sire, I have callouses on my hands from....

He...: The answer is still no. And now that you have exhausted your vocabulary and all your logical reasoning faculties, why don't you get back to work, you peasant!

He whose name is never uttered goes back to his sleepless dreams.

IA looks for a soft pillow, one that can muffle screams well.

The measure will pass.

No word yet on whether this is a summer night or a winter evening; its too close to call.

Such trifles aside, however, there is grave business to be settled. He whose name is rarely, if ever, spoken (not entirely due to a scarcity of blog posts) enjoys a rich, smoky sips of an Islay malt, seemingly pondering the answer to the Universe with his eyes closed as the peaty fragrance wafts up his nostrils. His insignificant aide, (a thousand curses upon her) waits impatiently by his side, hunched, with her hands clasped almost in prayer, for a moment of his attention.

He whose name is everything and nothing at all condescends enough to interrupt his Scotch.

He...: What is it now, you silly fool!?

InsignificantAide (IA) : er... it's nothing ... only....

He...: Only what!?

IA: I was thinking..

He...: Don't! It might hurt your tiny little brain.

IA: I was thinking,.. when do you think I will be grown up?

He...: Wha..?!

IA: When will I be grown up, rich, powerful, wise and be able to run for public office?

He...: Why do you need to be grown up to run for public office?

IA: So I can be rich

He...: And who says you will be rich if you are grown up?

IA: I saw it on TV

He...: And what else did you see on this "TV"?

IA: A talking ball of meat who lives with a large cup of milkshake in New Jersey, and a something about humans being born of apes.

He...: Imagine that! humans born of apes. Marky Mark would love that, don't you think?

IA: Huh..? Who?

He...: Nevermind.

IA...: So when do you think?

He...: Most of the time, unless I'm unconscious... Well, I might be dreaming even when I am unconscious, so I guess I think almost all the time.

IA...: No, I meant when do you think I will be grown up, rich, and wise?

Run for the hills

In an orderly fashion, please, there is no need to panic.

The Wisdom of the Universe: Part 1 : Poverty

This is part 1 of "The Wisdom of the Universe", translated to the tongue of men, as told by M--also known as Dr. T--praise be to him and his immortal soul, to his Insignificant Aide (wretched curses from the depths of burning hell unto her and her inbred lot).

M looks out into the brilliant blue California sky.

M: "Poverty."

I: "Pardon me, sire?"

M: "Poverty, you deaf sloth! Poverty!"

I: " Yes sire, poverty. What about poverty, sire?"

M: " Have you ever pondered the source of poverty, you worm?"

I: "No, exalted one. Such intellectual pursuits are beyond my reach."

M: "As I suspected. Anyway, I have."

I: "You have what, sire?"

M: "Pondered about poverty, pea-brain!"

I: "Oh. I see!"

M: " It is the lifestyle of choice of all poor people. They seem to love it. "

I: " Yes, sire, quite strange that they do."

M: " We must outlaw it. At once!"

I: "I think that might be a tad harsh, my master. Poverty might not be a choice that people make"

M: "Where did you learn to speak so many words at once, you two-pence whore!. Shut up and outlaw it. At once!"

I: "As you wish, sire."

M: "It is hereby declared that choosing to be poor is illegal in this land. So is choosing to be a homosexual, a polygamist, a left-handed person, or a sqat-pooper. Furthermore, no Mustard on Tuesdays. I've had enough."

I: "It is done, sire"

All hail M. His will be done.

Life imitating life

M, also known as Dr. T--may the light of a hundred thousand suns shine upon his countenance-- stares an empty stare down the endless corridor. Towards its furthest reaches, where the light gives up its very soul to the death-grip of eternal darkness, lies salvation. So near, yet so far. He can sense it: a dark, warm nothingness washing the universe all the way to its very end.

As M reaches deep within himself to draw from the strengths of his primeval, a shadow slithers across te corridor. It is Ia, his Insignificant Aide.

Before M can react, Ia closes her eyes and dives into the warm nothingness.

All your octuplet are belong to us.

M, also know as Dr. T, the praise of a billion taxpayers shower upon him, is awoken from his sleep.

Insignificant Aide (Ia) is staring at him expectantly.

Ia: "Ah sire, you awaken. The radiance of your handsome face has kept me warm this evening."

M: "Quick, you overgrown bag of filth, what is it you want now?"

Ia: "O divine brother, I would be blessed to be the mother of little ones."

M: "All right, Here you go."

A flick of M's regal wrist, a wave of his exalted finger; an imperceptible feeling of fulfillment in Ia's heart. M slumps back to sleep, and Ia goes about her wretched ways.

Ia soon drops a litter of 8. Tax payers are enraged.

Thou shalt not spend public funds for rearing of the fruits of immaculate conception.

Ia is summoned to a public town-hall style meeting. With a thousand eyes as witnesses, M hands down her punishment:

Death.

Ia languishes in max-security prison, as the seasons pass, each one bringing new hope via the endless cycles of the appeals process, and each new Governor and Commander-in-chief holding out the promise of an executive pardon.

As Ia's hopes grow dimmer and promises from the capital fade into the fog, taxpayers money too slows down to a trickle. Prison guards are underpaid and overworked. Prison doctors work one day a quarter. Heaters are on only on Wednesdays.

D-day approaches for Ia.

Will taxpayers have enough money left to gas her? Will they finally be able to bring to fruition the tying down and poisoning of the witch? Will faint-hearted weasels pardon her for their lack of balls to watch a life snuffed by a magical gas? Will we be denied a tailgating party before the execution? Are the commies plotting her escape? Will they take her away to flood our lands with litters larger and larger?

Only time will tell...

Re-roll

Soft clouds pummel the mountainside. Thunder. Rain. More thunder. More rain. Repetitive writing. Short sentences. Headache.

Just as your head feels like it will split open, M, also known as Dr. T (Praise be unto his name and his ten-headed virgin father who shall not be named) bursts into the room, guns blazing.

M: "I have burst into the room, and my guns are blazing."

M's Insignificant Aide (curses unto her and her wretched lot) slithers in behind M.

Another week

As the faces of the fallen stream across the flickering screen, and their tears seem larger than life, M is struck by an overpowering sense of boredom. Sleep hits like a thick fog.

No cheese on my pizza, please. Thank you.

Serious blogging has left M (also known as Dr. T, may praises shower upon his peaceful countenance) with a sprained thumb and a sore mind.

I'm a little teapot, short and stout.
Here is my handle, here is my spout

As the heavenly aroma of Peking duck makes his mouth water, he realizes he has no money, not for a duck, not for the local train.

Oh, woe is me!

I don't need what you got for me no more

M (also known in lands beyond the mind's eye as Dr. T, praise be unto him) feels his stomach sink as the voice with the soft T's reads aloud his worst fears. Her voice fades in his mind, lost among magical thoughts of a delirious mind.

With eyes glazed over into hard Grey marbles, M is helped up and led away.

Gaia and the bee

M (also known as Dr. T, praise be unto him in a thousand tongues of old) is almost awake. In the land between, there is a Grey mist all over, as slithering clocks melt away the final seconds of his delicious slumber.

Snooze.

Silence.

The clocks scatter and hide, waiting for their moment.

Five hundred and forty seconds have passed since the clock was last heard by mortal ear. A cold silence has since taken over the land, and M is dreaming of electric sheep, Tannhauser gate, and the shoulder of Orion.

Like a siren through the fog, the clock pierces the mornings with a recurring beep.

eeeep....eeeep....eEeEp...EEEEp...EEEEP....

Snooze.

Silence.

boob job

Ia looks across the water to the sunny hills peppered with little white settlements and little black knots of trees. So near, yet so far.

"Hot as an afternoon in hell, surely!," she tells herself.

waaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAmmmmmmmmmooooooooooooooooo..........

"WTF!@***%!!"

Big truck in the blasted blind spot.

"Stupid f***ing trucker!!"

(Don't) Wake me up before you pass out

M (also know as Dr. T, praise be unto his eternal seed) is content. He reflects on a life well lived. As the approaching light becomes brighter and hazier, he hears soothing music. A melody he has not heard before, but one that makes his heart sing.

M: " Goodbye, pleasant world."


Meanwhile, his Insignificant aide (also known as Ia, may a billion curses of fire unto her wretched offspring be!) almost falls off her chair. She has been feeling drugged ever since that infernal afternoon meal.

Ia: "Why the hell did I eat that shit?! oohhh... my stomach doesn't feel so good anymore. oohh.."

M: "Quiet! you two-pence whore. Let me pass on without your complaints."

Ia: " Apologies, sire...."

M: "..."

The music turns shrill, and the distant whine grows more menacing. M, waiting for the endless sleep, jumps four feet in the air and crouches under the white leather couch just as the vacuum cleaner nearly rips the hide off his tail.

Unprocessed

It looks old and mysterious. A small, dark disk, with spiral patterns.

Insignificant aide (also known as Ia, curses unto her and her ignorant lot): "Ooooh! It must be old"

M (Also known as Dr. T, Praise be unto him and his divine seed): "How do you know?"

Ia: "God must have created it"

M: "God is great. He does not have to create anything"
Ia: "But she must have created it because she wanted to, not because she needed to"
M: "God is great. He has no gender"
Ia: "All right. It must have created it, then"
M: "..."
Ia: "Can we eat it now?"
M: "God cannot be eaten"
Ia: "How do you know so much about God?"
M: "It says so in The Book"
Ia: "Oh."

Long pause.

Ia: "Look, theres a book"
M: "Its not The Book"
Ia: "Who wrote The Book?"
M: "Nobody"
Ia: "Is it a printed book, then?"
M: "Yes"
Ia: "Does it have sharp corners?"
M: "God does not have corners"
Ia: "What do we chew on, then?"

Longer pause.

Ia: "Look! Its moving!. Oh no! The window is open!"
M: "God does not... what window!??! Oh F*&%$!!"

The beetle spreads its wings and flies out the window.

Dinner has left the building.

Ia: "Oh well. Hey, theres another small, old looking thing! Ooooh! It must be old. God must have created it"
M: "God is great. He does not have to create anything"
Ia: "Looks like poop, actually"
M: "What looks like poop?"
Ia: "That thing. over there"
M: "God does not create poop"
Ia: "Why not? does it not eat?"

Kettle starts to whistle.

M and Ia run for cover.

M: "Phew! Must've been the devil's handiwork"
Ia: "Must have"

Long pause.

Ia: "Ooooh!...Look."

lawful Intercept

(Stoli + Rose's Grenadine + Rose's lime juice)

Dance of Death

P flits around the land, here now, there tomorrow, back here again the next week.

As mortals grow older, celebrate life and its steadily approaching debilitation and end, P celebrates with them, but answers a higher calling, drifting through space but steady in time, like a cork waiting in a river.

It is Him

M (also known as Dt. T, praise be unto him), has a vision. It is a beautiful Sunday evening, as M seeks a shelter and food. As his stomach leads him to wondrous places, his eyes catch sight of an unassuming figure leaning against a lonely tree. A couple of young ones play around him with the golden light of a fading day diffusing in their locks. They play in the shade of his presence, never looking towards him, but always knowing they are safe.

M does not recognize the figure, but is drawn to the sight with an instinctive tingle. The cloth might be poor, but the wearer is not. M looks into his eyes.

M knows.

The world is quiet for a moment.

M knows.

M nods.

It is him. It is him.

It is the Lord of the Fruit.

To Brea or not to Brea

M (also know as Dr. T, praise be unto him and his immortal seed) moves uneasy this evening. He cannot see Brea (also know as B, whose name, it is said, was spoken by the Mother herself in the early ages) but he senses her presence. She whispers not a breath, but M knows she rests in the damp depths that light rarely sees.

Mr. Hyde?

Its is a long day, a day whose memory shall be immortal.

M (also known as Dr. T, praise unto him be) ascends from the blue smoke, a proud countenance.

M: " Henceforth, I shall have two faces."

His Insignificant Aide (Ia, curses unto her immoral soul) gasps. The sight is breathtaking.

Ia: "gasp!"

Clear as the afternoon sky, M has two faces.

Oman Atna Ug. X-Ray vision for all.

M (also known as Dr. T, praise be unto his God-fearing soul that bows to no one but the one just God who hates the hippie- liberal- homosexual- abortionist- atheist- man- from- ape- baboons and the unbelieving heathen billions out east that are destined for limbo despite their conservative- heterosexual- pro- life- fundamentalist- man- from- pixie- dust- death- to- all- infidel beliefs) is hungry.

His stomach growls as he mutters choice obscenities under his breath.

It should be the law, he thinks to himself. It should be the law of the land, the law of God even, that food should be offered to him and his lot before the sun is nigh.

The infidels hide in the dark. He knows they pretend to sleep, to not exist. He knows of their lies, deceit and their empty, Godless souls; he has seen their axis of evil.

Ia (Insignificant aide, curses onto her ignorant lot), meanwhile, lacks the high moral fiber that she so desperately needs to aid digestion.

Ia: " Why not that bowl over there on the counter top, Sire?"

M snickers over his growling stomach.

M: " Harrumph!... you two-pence whore. You touch that bowl and the infidels have already won. That is what they want of you, debauched woman!."

Ia: " Sire.. I was only concerned about your well-being. We are starving, O esteemed leader!. Maybe we should call out to them, maybe they will feed us."

M: "Starving? pshaw!! Can not you see that we are overfed, you fat cow?! Did not not see the large sign that proclaimed "DINNER ACCOMPLISHED" about three days ago?. Do you not believe in Him?. If you don't believe in Him, you are his enemy, you bag of filth."

Ia: "..."

Ia: " Yes sire. I see it!! I see it now. Dinner accomplished. Your greatness, I no longer feel hunger. In fact, your esteemedness, I no longer feel my stomach or my toes. Hallelujah!! Praise be to him!!."

M: "Him? Who him?"

Ia: "You, your Majesty."

M: "Oh, him."