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--I can’t love myself.  I won’t love myself alone.--

 “But ye have borne the tabernacle of your Moloch and Chiun your images, the star of  your god, which ye made to yourselves.” Amos 5:26

There was an effort brewing in Hokkaido to suppress the infidel.  Already, they had caught him with his pants down masturbating to romance books, (you couldn’t call them novels anymore, they weren’t so new).  He got the rendezvous by the usual method, text *dingh*, not enough to cause too much racket… His lisp really bothered him on audio playback, but he wouldn’t let that bother anybody.  He wasn’t talking now.  Nor would he, no, not under torture or duress.  He had built up a tolerance for pain by bringing himself to the brink of climax again and again until his balls, his scrotum, filled with pus and made him sick.  Any pain now incurred was inversely sexual.  They wouldn’t think to milk him first.  They never do what’s nice and obvious.  Everything exquisite, nothing sacred.  Nevermind.  Microfiche, check, little tablet, check, file datum, double check.  Syria via Japan.

The spy game was easy.  Every tittle could be squeezed into a button and shoved up an anus for safe-keeping.  They never thought to plumb the line first.  In his darker years, (eldest son), he came to hate both sides of every geopolitical event, but as he soon discovered, this indifference to authority brought with it a healthy paycheck.  You see, it’s not easy to play both sides, but when one side wants you to win and believes in you, there is something innate in our nature that makes us want to obey, to follow some order, and he was okay with that, to an extent.  Loyalty to the mother/fatherland, Estonia, back home, they’d be proud.  He tries to think back, to remember something about the homeland in particular, but that wouldn’t help him right now, what, with the mission.  Boof the electronics.  Play the puppet.  It’s what he was paid to do.

He could always bend the minds of one or two confederates, but never the whole group.  The lisp gave it away.  Marked weakness, no group follows a lame leader, but to a simple some, the measurements seemed alright, and those where the ones who he aimed at, the ones with a weakness for weakness.  They would protect him when the group wouldn’t, and from there he could break apart the structure from the inside.  For he knew that what was wrong with him was merely superficial, but he brought out something much more deep-seated in others as a consequence, in their pity for him, they became his confidants.  Fox was no fool. 

It also pays to act domesticated, yet remain wild.  That was a trick he pulled off masterfully, giving half sway to his own feral being, a fully nurtured beast with a mind that was cunning and teeth that were all- together razor.  Women operate the same way.  They’re always trying to figure out something about man, to suss out a weakness and to use it against him, and to eventually break him.  Check Samson.  Fox had discerned this for himself, but unlike Samson, they forgot to blind him.  He could do much more damage this way.  He could get back at the one who betrayed him.  His scorned lover and the others.  He was young and foolish, but he was happy for a while.  But that wouldn’t do.  The war came.  There was always war, but this time it came for him.  They took her away from him (she was in on it).  It was long ago, and that’s how he chooses to remember it, it wouldn’t help to remember it otherwise.  He has his duties now.  His assignment.  Boof and deliver.  Don’t think.  Revenge can always wait.

The UB Bullshitter

                Over the years it has been brought to my attention that the average college student is not angry enough to care enough to pick up a gun and shoot somebody!  That being said, please don’t pick up a gun and shoot somebody.  I say that merely as a reference statement for the state of apathy we realize, but doesn’t allow us to conceptualize what would drive a man to extremes not induced by a sports beverage.  I’m talking about the Fire of God (or the crispy noodles of Flying Spaghetti)!  The Name called upon that inspires us to do things we normally wouldn’t (as we confide in comfort), and that we idealize only alone at night and only as a last resort, assuming things don’t go as planned.

                The exit strategy is something that’s been drummed into our political heads.  Mode of thinking, this: that it is desirable to take an undesirable situation to its fulfillment in the hopes that it will turn around on its own, neglecting any sound math, science, or literature to the contrary, favoring instead the Bull Minimum (big shot) with a plush couch and a semi-conductor for half-hard jollies.

                What I’m trying to say, what I’m getting at is this, there is a social ideal to accrue collectibles, yet never make them your own.  Fuck ‘em.  I watched this George Carlin routine once where he discussed the semantics of fucking vs. killing.  Fucking (used in its verb tense) does not just refer to copulation, but also, as an extension, procreating, and ultimately multiplying.  Killing, (on the other hand) is not just an effort to stop a sentient body in motion, but also to take away the spirit (or the Flying Spaghetti Sauce) of the ego.  What I’m proposing is that we remove more superfluous egoes (while attempting to preserve the body) while being smarter about what we fuck or attempt to call our own.  Moderation.  I think that society is taking the golden ratio (φ=1+√5/2) out of modern living, and I don’t think that it’s just the rich that are taking more, it could also be that the poor are less deserving.  Where is virtue?  I would rather see the PRODIGAL SON (or the Flying Spaghetti Meatwad) out drinking than drugged on plasma.

                Speaking of plasma (TV) suckers, I think you get the best picture when you’re not only wrapped up in the warm glow, but also when you’re fully warped by it.  When you go to the next store and the next because you’re inalterably changed by what you see when you dedicate all the free time of your precious life to somebody else’s programming (who you’ve never even met but you feel like you know) extrapolating statistics (lies, damn lies, and statistics) twaining, coupling, or pairing two or more points together via broadcast towers in tight-knit gerrymandered demographic subset communities with progressively individualized business models intended to divide and conquer you.

                You haven’t seen it all until you’ve lived on the street, until you are street-smart you’re lacking in education, and until you are educated you can’t really know.  Knowing poverty exists without experiencing it is like knowing calculus exists without solving a problem, and it’s hard to know unless you’ve been thrown into a class, class system, or ranking mutually exclusive (statistically) of capability.  Then again, for the first few months I really sucked at being a waiter, probably because I underestimated how (cushy it wasn’t) much physical strength, balance, and endurance can be involved all while thinking on your feet while remaining affable.  And that was before alcohol, energy drinks, and live music were added to the mix of confusion after midnight!  That was the year I read Moby Dick.