Posted by NL on December 02, 2006 at 13:44:04:
This might have a very vague holiday theme to it...
The New Message
Hi there! My name is Big Daddy Draglow and I'm on a mercy mission from hell. See, the first thing they always tell me is, gotdamn it Draglow, you can't just come right out like that and tell all the good people out there what it is that you are up to! They will kill you on the spot! It ain't wise! Well, maybe they are right and maybe they are wrong. I think I been killed several times already and been done raised right back up again by the big guy in the attic because my message is so important. That might explain my constant state of confusion, and the swirling lights and the buzzing sounds, the screams I hear at odd times, the fits I fall down into and the fact that my teeth start rotating in my head like greased up ball-bearings on a loonium track, well-lubed with a lithium grease like they used to put in rear-ends in the olden days when you could get away with most anything, long before civilization arrived like a dawning of another day, where you could suddenly inhale and smell the aromy, aromy I say, like my great grandpap Elymoyo always did when HE arose, back in the day, back in the day, when that self-same civilization was yet a spanking new and shining thing, a talisman and a cynosure of hope before it all got balled up fucked up-- I don't know really where it went wrong. I only can believe and believe like a dumbass motherfucker that I KNOW what is wrong because the big guy up in the attic tells me so.
It's really very simple. I came outta left field with a plan to accomplish the assuageliment of the murderous dreams of a pack 'o abnormal animals like an old drive-in movie, with a simple remedy. Look at all these pics I got in my old satchel here. I got pics of gals gettin' stabbed and gettin' shot and gettin' strangled and hung and you can just about name it. I can special order you some movies if you will trust me with your credit card information that will just let your id impulses come out and harmlessly play. You see, you watch, you spank the plank o' love with as broootile a fist as you please and with the eventual greenish brown gush of gyratin' gysm out will come that all too human impulse to kill and procreate and the rest of that shit. The theory is, do it enough and you'll be a gnostic, harmless to all, and the sort of animal that the big guy in the attic might want to add to his toy collection. I trust I am not wrong. I trust I am on the right track here. How could it be othewise, with the big guy in the attic, the WORLD'S attic if you take my thrust, using me as the instrument? I am the efficient cause. I think.
One time I wondered into Onlyville Alla-ka-BLAM-uh, where the good folk dwell, so they imagine (murderous, iggorunt, childrin o' HELL) and stood upright in the main street, or drag, they called it "main drag", and pulled out the pics from my satchel and gave away my special video movies and cried out with a loud voice: SAY, AIN'T YOU NEVER SEEN THAT STAR TREK WHERE THEY GO OFF TO A KIND OF PLAY PLANET AND HAVE ALL KINDS OF WEIRD FANTASY FUN AND LATER OLD CAPTAIN KIRK EXPLAINS TO SPOCK AND SEZ, SEE, IT WAS NOT SO BAD BECAUSE ALL HIGHLY EVOLVED BEINGS REQUIRE A SPOT OF SOPHISTICATED FUN. THE MORE HIGHLY EVOLVED THE MIND THE STRANGER THINGS GET. EH? EH? And old Spock he just reared back and asked, what the fuck ever made you think you were highly evolved or sophisticated you stupid fuck? For that matter, he asks, what ever made you think you even HAVE a mind?? And then the little chimp left over from a ol' Tarzan flick runs in and wraps itself around Spock's legs and pees all over the place and everybody laffs?? Didn't you never see that??
Well, that's what I planned to say but they killed me and burned my satchel and all its contents and burned my battered body and buried it under a rock and pissed on the rock. See, they didn't hold with snuff/necro assuagelishments there. Well, I knew that. You don't preach to the choir do you?
Late at night when the full moon glowered in the sky that big guy who's always hiding in the attic raised me up and said, you got to try again. These abnormal animals need to substitute fantasy for reality before they kill themselves off completely. And that would be a shame. And when I was fully formed again and had my satchel back with new and even better contents, some really nice arrow and knife work this time, I said, hey, you made all this shit. THEY aren't responsible for what they are. And I heard him sigh and say, it's just too goldang complicated to explain. It just could not have been any other way-- even I have imperatives in my nature. Besides, the infinite can't be translated into the finite, the eternal does not map into the temporal, and so on. Well, I hate that kind uh talk. Theology is THE dismal science, in my opinion.
Now you ask me, Big Daddy, you should tell them about Forbidden Planet-- why don't you tell them about the Krell? And I say, ahhhh shut the fuck up.
Sometimes I have dire need myself, my filthy old self, of snuff/necro assauagelshimets and boy howdy do I ever have a treasure trove in my old satchel! This stuff is hot! Yemmm! And ever slaking myself I see again how the whole world would be better off if we just learned the joy of catharsis. Those old greeks, or old geeks, whatever, they knew. Oh they knew. But they were too unsophisticated to enjoy the highly evolved forms of the modern snuff/necro total media sensation. Some of this stuff I'm getting now, after being about my mission for lo! these last four thousand years, raised up from prison hellholes, many bitter and isolated deaths, by ostracism and universal condemnation, by those who wouldn't think twice about snuffing a gook, a billion gooks with just a few nukes-- some of this stuff I say is sooo very real as it is projected upon the very retina by special goggles and the electric impulses are fired right into your thalamus, it is hard to determine just exactly whether you are really pumping lead into a naked gal's tender belly or genuinely slicing her breasts from her body or perhaps just standing with your vaginal torpedo in your mitts watching while someone else sticks a knife into some purty gal's tummy. THAT REAL! And the big guy in the attic tells me the "abnormal animal" is nothing if not ingenious and the simulations will only become better and better until it will be impossible to discern the real from the unreal! So much more will we need, then, the assuwaglish-pants of demented lust (all lust is demented, so I am told).
Huh. Huh. I am cleverer than the big guy in the attic thinks. That's my little joke on HIM. When it gets so good, that the digital fantasy representations of the world are impossible to discriminate from the digital representations of the real world, I will toss this dumb satchel away, and the snuff/necro pics and movies I purvey can be tossed like so much garbage (or like the strangled body of a prostitute), for it will not matter. EVERY unspeakable act will be assuagelishment-mento for every other act, real or unreal, for who will know which is which? And then we can all relax. At last!!