Wednesday, February 27, 2013

Disney buys Lucas, Episode 21 - Training The Vultures To Kill

I often go to a section of California Central Coast beach where the sight of Hearst's castle is visible toward the north, high upon a ridge of smooth green hills, standing there, like a spiritual home for my soul, where I tour the halls and patios and grounds in my mind and soak-in the dead and forgotten spirit of American Ambition that is no longer allowed to the individual unless he is prepared to travel a strangulating and ever-tightening corridor of politics and strictures and regulations and laws and eternally looming threats from "the authorities."
   I also train vultures there.
   Actually it is not so much a training of them as it is an "opening of their minds," as it were.
   As I have endeared myself to the species of crickets that inhabit Southern California by joining into their - science would call it primitive - Grand Collective via various acts of kindness and trust that have been communicated to the rest of the pleasant singers of the summer evening - - so too have I joined the vultures of the central coast. This was done not so much with acts of kindness as it was done with acts of slaughter.
   The details are a bit disquieting. Even to me.
   And it involved many many years of - to me - fascinating and totally-absorbing patience and love. Do not be fooled into complacency or begin to swoon with delight at this: animals can in fact feel your love. Many are the naturalists who know this. What these naturalists fail to notice a lot is that animals do not subjugate their other emotions and instincts to your feeling of love toward them. They merely recognize it and respond to it: at least until a more intense emotion or instinct suddenly takes its place. Such as fear. Or the sudden impulse to kill you.
   The California Vulture is universally unregarded as anything other than an omen or a companion of death.
   It is never regarded as a delightful aspect of the natural flora and fauna of the sort which special-needs children and retarded brain-dead adults and the sierra club find so giggly and precious and fuzzy and fun.
   But now, me, on the other hand, not being a special-needs child or a retarded brain-dead adult or a member of the Sierra Club -  i find California Vultures to be charming ambassadors of the sea and sky; the faithful hunting dogs of the dead and the watchful sentinels of cleanup from on high. Yes, they are like dogs to me.
   Humans get along with dogs.
   And I get along with vultures.
   Vultures, I don't know if you have noticed, and I don't suppose you have, are extremely cooperative with each other and astoundingly uncompetitive with other vultures. They do not even have a pecking order.
   Look at seagulls surrounding a dead fucking carp in the smelly, sodden, slimy sea rocks of low tide. There is more fucking noise and chasing-off-the-kill racket going on there than from the racket from all the episodes of the New Jersey Housewives being played simultaneously through a wall full of Altec Lansing concert speakers in a steel echo chamber. You can't even hear the fucking sea, what with the fucking noise of seagulls screaming at each other over a dead piece of miniscule crab snot.
   California Vultures at a kill?......whole 'nother story, my friend. Silence reigns serenely majestic and supreme. Vultures could be eating your own dead aromatic carcass inside a library and you would not hear a sound entering your own dead ears. Flesh is pulled-away peacefully and effortlessly and without a crunch or a crinkle. Bones fall from mighty, clinging, raw sinew like lemon grass is pulled from Thai soup with a spoon. All California Vultures are shown deference and honor and respect by all other California Vultures. "You want to wrench a wad of guts, my brother? Wait, I will pull my head out of the slop and nonchalantly gaze about whilst you ram your ugly face into the Stomach Pie. Take your time my friend! I will wait for you and contemplate the eternal mysteries of death and death."
    Competition at the dining table?....What is that. All eat quietly in tranquility and with calming reverence for decorum. Some do not eat at all but stand by the corpse and bask in the aroma of putrefaction or think about flying while others do the same from a nearby fencepost.
   There can be 20 vultures in a head-down dining circle around a dead fucking gopher and you never hear a fucking peep out of any of them. A dead horse in the thick grass might have 50 vultures standing ten feet away just looking at it for an hour, not one of them making a move toward it, each of them waiting serenely for another, perhaps more worthy or honored to please be first my friend. If a steer drops dead at the Vulture Shopping Mall, all the vultures will just look at it for days if necessary until the first whiff of death-caused-bonifide decay drifts to their snouts and even then they wait a while longer just to be sure.

Vultures are complete ladies and gentlemen, in other words.
   Because vultures fear the living. Vultures have no defenses. Vultures cannot kill. They don't know how. They have no idea what violence or aggression or quibbling or haggling or challenging or combat or dominance even is. They only know death. Death caused by something other than by them. Vultures are like flying cows. Carcasses are their grass. They are the bovine airheads of the sky. They have the faces of Satan, red, raw, and uglier than Michelle Obama. But also like Satan they have wings. Soft, feathery wings of silk that catch every current of air so that only rarely need they even flap them. They recline comfortably with mint juleps on their feathered verandas at 300 feet and look for death. And. also like Satan, they are very intelligent. But unlike Satan they are not fools. They're just birds. Silent birds. They don't tweet, they don't caw, they don't chirp, they don't beep, they don't buzz. They just land. And then eat. And then leave.
   They never have to hunt, and because they always find dinner simply awaiting them upon Nature's Nightmare Terrestrial Landmass Of Carnage - they never worry about their next meal. They know it is already laid out for them somewhere. They just have to go look for it. Which they will do just as soon as they finish with this one, hold on, I'll be right there, corpse, let me eat this corpse here first and then I will be right with you, thanks, bro.
   They are the living advice of Jesus "be not anxious about tomorrow, today is more than appropriate enough for all your attention."
   A California vulture has the anxiety level of a Department of Motor Vehicles license renewer and only half the energy. And Department of Motor Vehicles license renewers are as inert as sunken vessels.
   California Vultures are inert but not unaware. They are hyperactively timid. If it moves and it is not a breeze they will stay away from it. They will not let a moving frog come near them unless it is a dead one. And then it would have to stop moving before they would be brave enough to approach it. They don't even want other birds around them. The only living things they are not terrified of is other California Vultures. And as for humans, when was the last time you saw one in your vicinity at a picnic or a camp out or hopping around your car in a parking lot. "Never" was the last time.
   If you were to stumble upon a herd of feeding, somehow unalert, vultures, not only would they fly off, they would not return probably for days just to make sure that you were likely tired of waiting for them. Because why should they hurry back? If something else comes along to eat their meal, they are going to eventually leave something. And the vulture will just come back and eat that. And if nothing comes by to take his meal? That means the meal is only getting better and more flavorful with putrid disgust and foul and filthy filthiness. So what's the hurry to return. And what's the problem with delaying the meal: it's not as though a vulture is a humming engine of internal and external frenetic excitement. Vulture life is a life of leisurely lethargy on-high, soaring comfortably and calmly among the upper mists -  like grampa in his hammock, his belly filled with beer, and pissing himself in urinating, snoring delight. A fast-moving vulture is a vulture that just got slammed by a highballing Semi and whose blood is now radiating away from him at 100 miles and hour. In fact, how vultures manage to keep from accidentally eating each other, thinking each other dead, is something I haven't figured out yet.
   I seem to have lost my place. Talking about vultures tends to put me to sleep.
Oh yes, training them to kill.
   I guess I haven't even broached that yet, have I.
   Well! turns out!!...California Vultures can be turned into unerring, flying, attack serpents!...silent in approach, deadly in damage affliction, and generous in their cooperation with you! "You" being me.
   How exactly does one go about doing this, you say. And you might also be saying what would be the  reason, exactly, why you would yada yada and so on and so forth.
   How one goes about this is a long story. And as for why anyone would bother doing this - that's a short story but I don't want to go into it. Maybe you can get it out of me if you put a gun to my head. I often become extremely cooperative when there is a gun to my head.
   There are two versions to the "how you do this" lesson, one of them true, one of them false.
   I am going to select one of these versions and put it here.
   Once upon a time I found an old robe on the beach. It was soaking wet of course, it was wedged into the rocks and at the moment that i saw the robe the rocks were being hit once in a while with the remnants of an onto shore exhausted wave, slapping its last inch forward before sliding back down the slope of sand to its brethren, already coming forward to meet it.
   The day was hot and the beach was barren, and as is often the case, I was in the mood for a nap.
   Wringing out the robe and going to the hot dry sand closer to the bluff I laid down more to listen to the sea with my eyes closed than to sleep. And the robe, i was convinced, was germ free, being scrubbed by the salt water  and the stones for probably days. The fact that it still existed at all meant it couldnt have been there too long. Cloth seems to never exist at the seashore i have noticed. Parts of trees? -  yeah. A lotta those at the seashore. Cloth? Not really. Clothes and the sea seems to be natural enemies. And the clothes always wind-up being the thing that eventually ain't there no more, while the sea, it kinda just stays there. The clothes don't get rid of the sea. The sea gets rid of the clothes. That seems to be the pattern.
   I seem to have lost my place again.
   So I draped myself in the robe, and it had a cowl so that was cool - cool in both ways - and i kinda just laid down on the warm sand and pretended I was a hauled-out seal, living the normal seal life of being absolutely useless and ugly and serving no earthly purpose.
   Apparently I had given the same impression to the vultures which inhabit the central coast like illegals inhabit MacArthur Park.
   I had fallen asleep. And when I awoke it was in a state of motionlessness. I just sensed something was not quite right. The cowl was covering most of my face and the first thing I noticed out of the one eye that was able to peer out from under the cowl with was that the light had gone from day to sunset. The other thing I noticed was that there were a dozen vultures 30 feet away standing on the dried seaweed, looking right at me.
   I know enough about vultures to know they find food by scent, not by sight. I also knew they will never approach a living creature, no matter how ill and helpless it might be. That just ain't their thing, to eat the living. Which I think is astoundingly admirable. I have no idea why vultures are reviled. A fucking goddamn housecat, if it was hungry enough - or if it just took a fucking notion to -  would take a fucking bite out of your ballsack while you were napping on the sofa, forget about waiting for you to fucking die or even get fucking sick. There isnt a predator on earth that would hang around and give you the courtesy to fucking die and let your soul leave your own body before the fucking asshole started gnawing on ya if you were alone and helpless and weak and it was starving. You would sit there and watch yourself get digested by rats and cats and dogs long before your eyes closed for the last time. You would die pissed.
   A vulture never puts you through that. It waits patiently until you are done living your worthless little life and then it will even wait a little bit more, give you that little bit of grace period to let maybe some of the chemicals and meat and other goo that makes you you turn to fucking rotting snot before it hops quietly over to you and starts effortlessly pulling the bones off of your ligaments and pulling your ribs off of your spine. The commonly called "buzzard" is a bird of politeness and respect. It is a noble and distinguished respecter of your personhood. And it waits until your personhood is esconsed comfortably in Hell before it even thinks about desecrating the "temple" that you formerly lived in.
   I love vultures.
   And I am not what you would call an animal guy!
   Where was I.
   So there I was; me; a noble, fair, long hair, leaping gnome, the star of a Hollywood horror movie.
   This really blew my mind.
   Actually it's more that it caught my mind's attention. It didn't  really blow it. It just woke it up a little more than is usual for it.
   Apparently I looked like a dead seal, I thought to myself.
   My brain, already more awake than usual, as I just mentioned, instantly wondered what would happen if i did smell like a dead seal.
   I had no dead seals in my possession to smear all over myself and I didn't feel like laying there until i was actually dead, so I stirred myself just a tad. I didnt want to traumatize the polite and courteous watchers of my earthly departure, I just wanted to get on with my pathetic life, they could have me soon enough, so I just moved a foot or two a bit and they calmly arose from their location in a blanket of courteous waves of the wings and slow but efficient departure and I watched them variously separate and sail away with scarcely a flap of any wings and I put one finger to one lip and thought and pensively mused.
   What followed is too disgusting even for me to take any real enjoyment in telling, plus it violated many of the State Fish and Game Commission and Coastal Commision and Environmental Protection Agency Commission and Interior Department Commision and Federal Wildlife Management Commission and Bureau of Land Management Commission and Harbor Seal Commission and Haul-Out Protection Agency Commission and Rookery Oversight Commission statues and bylaws and one or two Seal Pup Protection edicts.
   Let us just say that the robe underwent some scentorial alterations. Grievous ones.
   I frankly don't know how the robe managed to endure it's own existence as long as it did, considering the stuff that was being done to it, but whoever lost it knew a few things about quality control and fine craftsmanship and solid materials and attention to detail. Because I think is lasted at least two months. I was sorry to see it go, it must have once belonged to a Persian mystic with a sultanship, it was so well made. The robe of Jesus that the Roman Grunts gambled over could not have been of better quality.
   Lesser robes were of course easy to acquire and since the eradication of the original treasure these inferior products have sufficed, though I have to be careful with the amounts of offal and evisceration I can slather onto them because rotting cloth besoaked with liquified death does not hold together well, especially inferior rotting cloth besoaked with liquified death.
   And, dear me, I seem to have let some of the gutted and disemboweled cat out of the bag, haven't I. It is no matter, for this, after all, could be the false story and not the true one, if you will remember.
   Laying in the sun on the sand inside a robe sopping with not only seal stench but with dead-seal seal stench is not something I would suggest anyone ever do if fun and excitement and feeling the reassurance that life is worth living is your goal.
   But if your goal is becoming a divine, wondrous, all loving, all providing God to a herd of idiot vultures....then I would highly recommend it!
Teaching the vultures to hunt and kill... I had long ago decided would not be all that difficult. Teaching them to hunt and kill and then bringing to me the dead, uneaten carcasses, however.....that was something I decided would be a little bit more difficult.
   The upshot of all this is that i can now command vultures to bring to me peoples' pet dogs. At the moment I cannot make these forays dog-specific. Species-specific, yes. Individual dog-targetting, no. They now limit themselves to owned housedogs. But the sad fact is the vultures are as apt to bring me the rare "nice" dog as they are the ordinary asshole fucking dog that people seem to enjoy accumulating into their human families, assuming these people are actually human and are producing human offspring, which I doubt. I would define a "nice" dog as one that never shits or pisses on other peoples' property and never barks at non-threatening objects or people or planes flying overhead or birds roosting quietly in Borneo.
   The good part is I can never tell just by looking at the delivered carcasses which dogs are - or were - the formerly good dogs and which ones were the formerly asshole motherfuckers. And that sort of bothers me, actually. But bees bother me too. And yet I put up with them. So fuck it. Ya know?



Saturday, February 16, 2013

Jesus' Parables Made Easy cont

dude has an opium poppy farm and the crop is ready to harvest. but he aint gut enough help. he goes to home depot and finds some mexicans. he says hey its 6AM mi amigoes. i gut a opium poppy farm and americans need dope and i need some help. hundred bucks you work till 6, yes or no. they go chore ting my prin! and off they go. farmer see's its noon. he wants the crop in by 6. he sees there's not enough help. he goes to home depot. hey mexicans! i need some broseros until 6. hundred bucks, take it or leave it. they say ole! and get in the truck. its almost five. time's running out. he goes to 7-11 and finds some persian assholes. he says "work for an hour i'll pay you a hundred bucks!" they go PRAISE ALLAH!.
   7 pm they all line up for pay. they all get a hundred bucks. the 9 oclock people - and the noon people they see the people that only worked an hour getting what they're getting. they go apeshit. WHAT THE FUCK! WE WORKED ALL DAY! THESE ASSHOLES WORKED A FUCKING HOUR! AND THEY GET WHAT WE GET? guy says fuck you. you agreed to work for a hundred bucks. i just happen to be one generous son of a bitch. either take the money and go or leave it here, i dont give a shit.
   the point of this is you make an agreement with a dude it dont matter what agreement the dude makes with other dudes. its none of your business.
   the other point is if god decides non jews get the goodies god promised to the jews, its none of the jews business. just shut the fuck up and take your goodies, youre lucky to be getting anything, ya fucking ungrateful kike bastards.

Jesus' Parables Made Easy

i was reading one of jesus' parables. rich guy takes a trip. calls three of his workers over and gives them some dough. "i'm taking off, hold this money for me." first guy doubles the dude's money making shrewd investments in columbian coke. second guy doubles the dudes money opening up a brothel. third guy buries the money. rich guy comes back. holds a meeting with the three. first two say here's twice what you gave me. second guy says the same. third guy gives him back exactly what he was given to mind. rich guy says what the fuck is this! guy says "i know that you are a shrewd investor. i am not. i buried it and left it so's i wouldnt lose it." rich dude says "YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!! YOU COULD HAVE PUT IT IN THE BANK AT 2%! YOU BURIED IT? YOURE FIRED!!GET THE FUCK OUT! GO LIVE WITH THE STREET MUTANTS!!"
now at no point in this entire parable did i see anything about fucking or masturbation or drinking or smoking dope or smoking cigarettes or dancing or faggots. i just saw shit about capitalism. 
so here's my question: who the fuck allowed christianity to get hijacked by christians??

Sunday, February 10, 2013

Jury Duty Diary

    Feb 8, 2013, 6:45 AM. I am at the Clara Fuck Me Hard In The Ass Foltz Criminal Courts Building, Los Angeles California. I am one hour early. The building has the dimensions and appearance of the World Trade Center North Tower, times 5. Except it is only 20 stories high. It sits on thin pillars that go all around it. Just standing near it is a frightening experience on all levels: one, it looks ready to collapse. Two; even uncollapsed, what goes on inside would make Stalin and Mao tearful with joy and envy.
   A man named Dorkner killed some cops two days ago and the usually ubiquitous LAPD squad cars are nowhere to be seen because the entire LAPD is in hiding. As a result the energy in and around the vicinity of Los Angels is peaceful and calm. All is in order from where I stand on a corridor of concrete encircling the building and I lean against the concrete wall and look out at Los Angeles, not a cop car to be seen and a sense of happiness throughout the city and in the air. The LAPD has a proud record of fleeing when danger strikes and one man targeting uniformed officers has them all behind barriers, probably inside some central, secret gay bar in West Hollywood.
   I am out here all alone, the entire grounds is my playground except for the occasional Sheriffs Dept. cop - who are basically not afraid of things, including crazed cop killers. So except for the occasional Sheriff's Dept. cop, who are apparently around here in droves today,  and who will go his way, ignoring me, because I don't fit any profile other than Good  Christian American Citizen White Adult Male - except for these errant shuffling fatsos in green uniforms..... i am alone with the Justice Department of the city.
   It goes without saying no one inside is coming out to offer me succor from the fucking cold because Government Starts At 7. It should just say that on the door: "Your government will begin at 7. Until then you are on your own. We don't care that you are here an hour early or that you will be here another 9 hours with no pay and under threat of imprisonment if you don't show up." But all it says is Doors open 7:AM-5PM. When I do get inside this hellhole i mean monument to justice I will be there for at least 9 hours. I will not be paid. I am here because I got a court-issued summons. The summons insists that I take a prideful attitude about this because I am fortunate to have gotten the summons because it means that I get to do something fantastically exciting and essential for a calm and peaceful America: I get to decide what person I never met gets to go to jail or who doesnt. I have to become an American cop in other words, probably the most heinous, vile, sinister, sadistic, unAmerican job in the history of Man.
   The "courts district" - which is about the size of Rhode Island - and has a million huge and vast buildings, none of which are ever  assessed for property tax - is all about processing American citizens living under the Constitution to jail.

     Seven Oclock arrives and the doors open and i get into the Line That Allah Created and wait for my turn at the scanners which unerringly separate Muslims from Christians, and after a few beeps and alarms and mis steps and using all my innate charm and casual demeanor, and by my obedience to abrupt, terse commands uttered by what appeared to be an inside man working for the Cartels unless I miss my guess, I was allowed into the building and past the Muslim-proof equivalent of a piece of string. The Cartel guy was kind of a thick-headed drone who I forgot to wave goodbye to but maybe I will get to see him hanging from the side of a freeway overpass soon and I can wave hello instead.

   The first elevator I got on did not work. At every stop the door would close ten times with the announcement "the door is closing" made by a female robot voice simulator. It was early and after a floor or two I was soon alone in it and the thing stopped and a she-sheriff got on. A very cute one. Just me and her in an elevator, me pissed, her cordial. "The door is closing." After the fifth time of "The door is closing" and the door almost closing but then jarring itself open again, I said to the ceiling "No: you are wrong, ceiling lady, the door is not closing."
   The cop found this amusing.
   The door closed, the elevator moved, stopped, and she got off.
   I was probably making her nervous because she likely sensed my lack of reverence for where I was. Cops know when someone ain't buying this whole "You need us" crap. And it makes them afraid. They can feel what they interpret as a sinister individuality and a self-reliant alien life form, and it rattles their false sense of essentialness. Mere hostility they scoff at and gloat at. You can be as hostile as you want to be, citizen, but I will win any contest of confrontation: not you. But when they detect someone regarding them with what they interpret in their feral, reptilian brains as "courteous but revocable tolerance, just test me"……..this really warps their flimsy emotional underpinnings. And they have an immediate need to escape this anomalous entity that is confusing them.
   So she gets off and I go to Floor 11.
   I notice I am all alone on Floor 11.
   I look at my sheet.
   I am supposed to be on the 5th floor.
   I get into an elevator. On the 10th floor the elevator stops and that same hot cop is there staring at me. I smile, delighted, "Oh, hi, going down, if the door closes."
   She looks at me startled and hightails it across the way to a different passel of elevators. There's lots of them in there.
   Meanwhile my robot is saying "The doors are closing" and then opening them again before they close. I said "Fuck!" real loud. The cop did not turn to look at me. Probably too weak in the knees from my incredible manliness. The door closed. I got off at the 5th floor. I can only hope I have the same effect on the judge and the prosecutor and the defense lawyer as I had on the cop: abject wariness mixed with wondering if a straight jacket would be in order.

   At 7:45 the Jury Assembly room we had been assigned to opened. We all went in and sat down in the thearter-like arrangement.
   We had listened to the Highway To Hopelessness speeches - I mean the Orientation Presentations -  and then after these two boring soul-crushing tortures... we had what the Friendly-Seeming Bulldyke called "a guest speaker" - a sad, morose woman who presented a complete-piece-of-shit public service video that was like a sad campaign ad, with sad music and, ya  know, some crap about "our children," - none of which were actually mine or anyone else's in the room-  which, when it was mercifully fucking over, she then commenced into telling us the thrill - which she did not manifest in her demeanor - the thrill of volunteering for CASA. CASA (I am now giving you the interpretation, not her presentation) accumulates crack babies and latchkey Negroes... and then volunteers, after a training period of some unholy length, explain to the State what the kid's incurable fuckedupnesses are and to what kind of facility the fucked up kid can be sent to to be made depressed and lifeless even more than he or she already is. This is NOT the way she put it. I wanted to ask "What if we just kill them?" But I did not. Even though it is a good solution in reality it would not have been a good solution inside that room of unreality. Besides, it would have removed a tax burden and no government operates that way. Increasing taxes has a better payout than decreasing them. So who in their right mind would decrease them.

   Ok, so there are 150 people who are already pissed because they have been threatened with god only knows what if they fail to show up, and they are being asked to devote even MORE time to negroes than they are already going to be devoting to them in the courtroom.
   When she finally dragged her sad, depleted spirit away there was no applause of any kind. Nobody in that room gave a flying fuck. And these were normal, striving, law abiding citizens. These were not assholes. These were people who had actually reported for Jury Duty. If they had stopped all the clocks while she was talking things would have been different: rioting would have ensued. But the clocks kept running, and when she was done 5 oclock was closer. So she left with her limbs and what was left of her original depleted life force still intact.

  Between her departure and the next indoctrinator, two sheriffs had appeared at the side of the room. One was a man. One wasn't. The one that wasn't was a total beauty with a gun and an angry look. And I mean she was fucking pissed. While her partner stood with his thumbs in his belt and watched us, the woman Sheriff began a passage across the front with an expression aimed at us like one of us had just killed two of her kids by setting them on fire and then showed the video on facebook with a laugh track in the backround.
   She strode across the front like American Athena, descended from Olympus to settle some personal matter with blood-splatter aplenty and none of it hers.
   She was as breath-taking as Rizzolli, a vision that three dimensions and the eyes evolved for terrestrial use could not properly accommodate. I had to look with added effort in order to comprehend that this striding Jovian warrior was a fucking cop. I was transfixed. I knew once she left I would never see this sight again in my life and i stared at her with ten times the frozen intensity that she was staring at us with.
   Her eyes landed onto mine and and at once her demeanor intensified from anger to immediate boiling rage. Her thoughts came to me and they were "How dare you stare at me when I'm staring at you you fucking piece of shit, you look a little more respectful before I come down there and stick a pistol up your stupid asshole all the way up to your ugly face and then pull the trigger and then shit on the mess."
   She could have actually done it, I wouldn't have cared, I would have kept staring, it would have only meant that she was closer and I could see her better.
   It immediately became evident to her that I was not responding. This flummoxed her for a split second and then the little light in her head went on. "This decrepit old fuck is smitten."
   This realization threw her for a real loop. She was a cop no more. Her cheeks turned slightly pink as though microscopic paintball guns had shot them from the inside. Her eyes went sort of vacant. She looked visibly rattled.
   She continued on into the other room and then returned facing the exit into the hall and never looked back.
   Her partner gave us all one last glare and then wheeled and followed Athena Not From Pasadena out.

   Then a negro judge stepped up to decondition us from anger and recondition us into fun. His first words were "Well: who does NOT want to be here this morning."
   I had my hand up as far as it would go before he got to the period at the end of that sentence. I was praying he would smile and ask pleasantly, "Well, why is that, sir?" Unfortunately, the guests, seeing my hand flying high, decided that maybe they would not be arrested for admitting the truth and half the hands went up. The negro judge smiled - he was a great dude, fair to say, he was totally benign and not at all an ass or full of himself nor wallowing smugly in his position in life and was visibly pained that he had to go through this attempted indoctrination because deep deep down he knew it was all basically crap and malarkey but he was still thinking hey maybe it really isnt really all crap and malarkey, I must strive and endeavor to turn jury duty into a noble cause. And so I was totally on this guy's side as far as his spirit was concerned, but me and him had really different supreme court opinions on jury duty in general.
   So he is asking us if we ever watched some show on tv about - I never fucking heard of it - these two white guys who go to Africa to start a mine, and, I don't know if you know it, but in Africa - according to the judge, I really don't know, I have never heard this before from anyone else - but in Africa, according to this judge who's ancestors came from Africa, in Africa they don't have shit, and kids walk around with machineguns and the poverty level and civilization level is somewhere back in the Precambrian Age.
   Now, I had never heard this. And frankly I was shocked. But I accepted it because this man seemed to be telling the truth. But I repeat, I was shocked to hear this. Because I had always thought that Africa was like Valhalla. Or maybe DesMoines.
   So he's telling us about all the travails and dangers these guys had to wade through, and if someone was shot, nothing was done, tomorrow someone else would be shot, and I wanted to say "So how is that different from Sowf Tentral or East El-Lay, Yo' Honuh?" But I did not, 'cause what would have been the result of that: the Friendly-Seeing Bulldyke looking-on calls a sheriff  and I am taken aside and talked to and have to either swear to be nice or go to a cell in Sowf Tentral or Eest El-Lay. The jail I was already in was enough, at least my cellies were all never convicted of a felony and did not stink of sperm and there were sodas and candy within a few yards of the place and none of them wanted to fuck me in the ass for cigarettes.
   So anyway the crux of the clearly-failing-to-convince-anyone judge was that Africa's basic horror is that, unlike America, Africa has no court system!
   Macdonald's managers are convinced, probably, that Africa's basic problem is that it doesn't have hamburgers and fries. Scientologists probly think that Africa's basic problem is not enough clears and operating thetans. Catholics probly think that Africa's basic problem is not enough priests. Richard Simmons probably thinks that not enough queers and not enough pastel draperies is Africa's basic problem.
   So it's not surprising to me that someone in the court system business would think that "no courts" is Africa's basic problem.
   My guess is that Africa's basic problem is not that there's not enough courts and not enough hamburgers and fries and not enough clears and ot's and not enough priests and not enough queers and pastel draperies but that there's too many negroes. In fact I think you could fill Africa with all those mentioned items and there would still be a big problem. But that if you removed all the negroes those problems would vanish. That's what I think. I would be willing to wager a thousand dollars on it. But this is not about Africa or negroes. It's about jury duty. Which was not started in Africa or by negroes. It was started here. By white people.

   Orientation is over. Everyone is allowed to just exist and vegetate, bureaucrat-like, inside the jury assembly room which has two sub-rooms, one of which is basically a little hallway with chairs, three of which have signs that say "do not sit on these they are broken" and which have probably been broken for years, and there's another room with tables and library-type installations or "booths" along one wall where you can almost hide and maybe actually sleep with your head down on the counter and in some isolation where you can drool freely, although your snoring would be still very apparent.
   You could also go out into the hallway. It's a long hallway made of shining marble with about ten courtroom doors along one side and maintainence and food and bathroom bullshit all along the other. The jury assembly room is at one end. You cannot wander too far afield or you might miss a call to assemble for the purpose of being shunted off to a courtroom - perhaps not even in that building - to be interrogated to see if you are bovinely inert enough to qualify as a jury member for a trial that's about to begin right that second.
   There are at the moment 150 productive citizens, all of them white or asian, sitting glumly doing nothing, or else totally involved in a laptop or an ipad. There is internet accessability all over the place. Nobody is speaking EXCEPT for the trans gender entity. He is convinced he is a woman, having, as he does, womens' hair and makeup and rings and bracelets and necklaces and breasts and a voice like Victor Mature. He is talking to the only cute girl in the place and she is trying to read a nursing handbook but for some reason is reluctant to tell the cross dresser - who never ever stops talking about everything imaginable no matter how ordinary or obscure....this fucker talked for 8 hours..... for some reason she is reluctant to tell him to shut the fuck up. But he is only bothering her so no one else gives a fuck. They're all too miserable. So anyway she never answered him. She just nodded and tried to convey politely that she wished he would burst into flame and die screaming. There was one other guy - dressed as a guy, though - who also talked for 8 hours to someone who never responded. Why these two didnt talk to each other I dont know. If I had been not in a quietly enraged coma I might have suggested it. These two uninterruptable yakking machines talking simultaneously and enthusiastically to each other in a cacophonic duet of enthusiastic stupidity would have provided some diversion from the ghastly deathlike atmospheric and spiritual pallor of gloom in the room.
   Despite the hour and a half orientation and pep talks, nothing has managed to alter the mood of the jury pool prisoners. They are all still motionlessly uneasy. Only one or two of them are strangely relaxed and at peace with the whole thing, like they are feeling useful to the Cause of Liberty and Justice in the land.

   Things have to be made Huge and Majestic in the Public Arena. Nothing is "ordinary" in governmentworld. Things "bigger than you and your petty self-absorbed concerns" are the coin of the realm in this building. You are nothing. Justice is everything. Part of the Justice is forcing you to be here. However these placid few I just mentioned above are convinced that if they had to be summoned under threat of fines and imprisonment to be here then it MUST be important. "Oh my God if they need me this bad then I must go and do what they want in the interests of saving mankind!! I am coming o lord of Justice who is wearing a fat-filled sheriff's costume that is way too small for his expanded, bloated meat-swollen frame!"

    Despite all the efforts of the staffers to insist on and hopefully inculcate the notion that all of this is meaningful, so far it has not worked. It might be meaningful to the dyke order-givers and plodding wandering lawyers - all of whose feet obviously hurt - who are getting paid to be here. But for some reason it is still unmeaningful to the 150 people who are losing money, and maybe missing important other events in their lives to be here. These people ( at least so far, cause I am watching them all in a desultory sort of way) are still not convinced that they are going to make things right for someone through their personal sacrifice, nor are they convinced that in the end they will be filled with the warming light of A Civic Duty Well Done. In fact they dont appear to be convinced of anything at all other than that they are, on some level, all pissed.
   At some point, around 11, we are all called into the main room and the Friendly-Seeming Bulldyke explains that some names will be called and these people will go somewhere and there is the terrifying suffix to her remarks that if chosen for a jury the trial could be taking place in East Los Angeles because "due to budget cuts" they have had to close some nearby courts. "Due to budget cuts" actually means "because we can't find anyone in East Los Angeles who speaks a word of fucking English, and if they do they are afraid to serve on juries because the friends of the illegal-alien Cartel Mexican on trial will kill them by slicing them alive into hors d'oeuvres and feeding them to the carnivorous donkeys they keep as pets and sometimes fuck."
   Naturally none of this did anything to improve my mood, which, if I was capable of getting depressed, my mood would have been already suicidally suicidal. But I don't get depressed. I get pissed. Depression is for weirdos. It's not for me. I just stew and simmer and do not go on a shooting spree. But I usually want to. And especially now I want to. It would be so much fucking fun killing everyone in this building, and perhaps in the entire city, and maybe upon the whole and totality of the fucking earth.
   About 50 names, 90% of them "hispanic," though probably actually Filipino, are called. Mine, although sounding probably "hispanic," is not called. I clasp my hands fiercely in prayer and silently thank all the hosts of heaven who are now assembled and smiling courteously down upon me with love and benevolence and a whopping dose of supernatural magic and who have personally safeguarded me from the fate that befell the 50 Most Unworthy And the Spawn Of The Damned. Good riddance to them!…they are clearly containers of puke calling themselves human! Not holy ones like us who have been spared!
   They depart and the room is noticeably reduced of civic-minded hostages. A prisoner transfer has been made and we few, we happy few, we quietly gloat in our momentary stays of execution.

  The Friendly-Seeming Bulldyke goes back into her room and we once more settle-in to settling-in. A dreaded moment comprised of a visit with the angel of death has passed by. Everyone isolates themselves again with their laptops and sit in stoney silence and bury their faces in iphones and similar devices. It's like being in Starbucks only with even more lesbians and better coffee available.

  I sit motionless. My head feels like Michelle Obama and Hillary Clinton are screaming at each other inside it. I have been up since 5 on half a piece of pumpernickle and a Kashi Shit Bar, with no coffee or Diet Coke or any liquid for fear of having to use the bathroom. For I am in a government Go To Jail Perhaps building. And who dares enter the bathrooms. Only the fools and the foul.
   I am in, emotionally and spiritually, the squalid depths of the maximum potential of my hatred mixed with frustration. I am like Lucifer seeing heaven and able to easily possess were it not for these fucking chains!!
   (Being merely inside a fucking Post Office makes me want to nuke the whole fucking planet. And that's the most benign government operation there is and I am in a fury the whole time I am in a post office because it's just a shithole of shit filled with fuckheads claiming to be providing a service that I am fucking forced to use and have to pay for even when I am not using their product, and their product is sloth and indifference and inconvenience. "I'm sorry. We cant mail this the way you have wrapped it. Go home, re-do it and then come back and get back in line which will be inhabited by a completely different collection of assholes than are in it now,  go to the end of it and then wait for another hour while the line never moves cause I'm the only fucking useless fucking fuck working here and then we'll see how things go." "Fuck you you cunthole fucking cunt fucking shitfuck mother fucking worthless fuck who even a fucking deranged nigger pimp with a Rolodex filled with the names of every rotted addict and drunk on earth couldnt find anyone to fuck you, you trollop piece of assfuck shit." This is what my mind chants loudly inside my head when i have to address a Postal "employee.")
   And I was not even in the Post Office now. No. I was in a place much much worse than ha ha the paltry and impotent Post Office with its puny authority over me. No, I was not in the post office. I was in Satan's Very Nesting Place Where He Births His Young From His Very Ass And Then Eats Them And All Who Are Near Them, And Then Shits Them Out And Puts Them In Jail.
   That's where I was. I was in "Drafted Into The Army Of Inaction Unless It's To Jail You -  For A Day….. Or Maybe For Two Years, Sukkuh, If The Trial Is A Big One" building. Not the post office: a place where you can walk out of when the inconvenience and stupidity and horror gets too unbearable. No. this was not the post office. This was a different government building. This was the post office where you are the actual mail. Where you - not your packages - are picked up; hurled about; and taken to a new location.

   The clock was crawling toward 12. At noon there is a one and a half hour lunch. In private industry that would be a fucking day off. Here in Public Employee Land, though, an hour and a half is merely "not doing anything for a long time without any possibility of censure." Unlike when on-the-clock and there is a .0000000001% possibility of censure for doing nothing.
   The main difference between the lunch break on jury duty and the time preceeding and following the lunch break on jury duty was that the lunch break on jury duty was a period wherein you did absolutely nothing that had a name. It was called lunch. The before-lunch period of doing absolutely nothing on jury duty and the after-lunch period of doing absolutely nothing on jury duty.....there was no name for that. But the period of doing absolutely nothing between noon and 1:30 on jury duty had a name. It was called lunch.
   There should be a move to name the two periods of jury duty surrounding the lunch. Maybe they could be called Fucked and Fucked Some More. "Welcome. Today we will be here for 4 hours during Fucked, after which you will go to Lunch; and then you will return at 1:30 for Fucked Some More, until 5." Or, since jury duty is now called jury service and is referred to as a privilege and not a jailable offense if you dont show up, they could perhaps call the time before lunch Initial Jury Privilege Time. Then comes Lunch Time. Then comes Second Jury Privilege Time. However at the moment only the period of inactivity between noon and 1:30 has a name. It is called "lunch."

   There is some actual bonifide emotional relief to be experienced during the lunch break: and that is that you will not ever be called into a courtroom. This means you are out of danger for an entire hour and a half. The scuttlebutt is that all the judges take at least 2 hour lunches. I would too if I was a judge. What the fuck is anyone going to say about it. Nothing can happen until the judge shows up and who the fuck is assigned to go get him? No one. He goes and gets himself. Starting at 2. So what this means that is actually meaningful is that lunch is actually two hours long. which means that if you did not get called into a jury room before noon……another two glorious hours of freedom-while-not-really-free is guaranteed to you. You will only be forced to listen to your blood flow through your cranium; not witnesses and lawyers for the prosecution and for the defense.
   Lunch only goes fast when you are leaving something unpleasant to go do something pleasant. On jury duty lunch is just watching the time pass slowly while at a different location totally removed from the jury assembly room. The problem with leaving the building during lunch however - which you are allowed to do -  is there is a strong temptation not to return from lunch. This is never wise. You will be found-out at dismissal time.  Once you actually respond to your mailed "summons" you are in the system. And you stay in the system until they spit you out of the system temporarily when you are "dismissed" from your "jury service" (it's now officially called jury service) obligation privilege duty prideful sacrificial civic luxury compulsory jury bullshit crap duty obligation fuckass nonsensical pile of
civic pride honorable chance to lord it over a stranger and exercise your own personal, brief, moment of bureaucratic dominion over a fellow human being who you never met and - godlike - determine his fate…shall he return to his family and loved ones?….or shall he be sent into hell for years surrounded by the equally damned……yes, you stay and stay until you are officially released, set free, pardoned, exonerated, liberated, and you are joyously allowed to once again live your life of obedience to the State outside the State Building and in your own home that you actually think you own until you fail to pay your annual property tax and learn to your horror who really owns it and who always did, even before you bought it HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

  I wander up and down the long long corridor for a while, pretending I am going somewhere, and eat an occasional TicTac. I would prefer to be chewing tobacco and spitting into an empty Diet Coke 16 oz plastic bottle but there are so many sheriffs around sooner or later one of them would hassle me about it because it's tobacco. They would dream up a scenario that would forbid chewing tobacco OR they would just say...well, who the fuck knows what they would say or do, you never give a cop an excuse to do cop shit. Otherwise you will likely end up behind bars. Plus I didn't feel like sucking a dick which sometimes works to get a cop to overlook your transgressions. Feeling his semen going into your male mouth causes policemen to forget a lot of previous hostility toward you. They become almost cordial.
   But, ya know what?...why not just not chew tobacco and not spit the juice into a Diet Coke bottle and simply avoid that entire cowflop of law enforcement unpleasantness.

  I got a Diet Coke for drinking purposes not spitting purposes and went back into the jury assembly room and sat in a chair and listened to the crossdresser continue talking to the cute girl who wanted to read but couldn't. He had a voice like ten whiskey voiced waitresses with throat cancer and huge testicles. He was ugly as a pile of dog shit. He talked quietly and forever about how interesting a life he leads. He was knowledgeable on all subjects. It was clear to me he was making it all up as he went along. I wondered who he thought he was fooling with the woman crap and wondered what the judge and prosecutor and lawyer were going to ask him. Probably everything but "Do you have a penis?" which would likely have resulted in him suing the city, and which is probably the only thing about him they really would want to inquire about.
   I thought to myself, examining this monstrosity much as one would examine a pile of viscera on a coronor's slab, "How is it that me and this mocker of creation are in the same room for the same purpose and are considered by the law 'equal peers of the defendant,' qualified to judge the guilt or innocence of someone we never met? His judgement on guilt or innocence is equal to mine? He couldn't even come to a correct conclusion about his fucking gender. He's gonna know if Rafael Sanchez killed his mom and then fucked her or not? He probably wouldn't even consider it a crime. He doesn't consider himself at all out of the ordinary. Why would he consider anything at all out of the ordinary?.... since no matter how heinous the crime he is called upon to judge he can outdo it in heinousness with his next wardrobe choice and his next makeup selection."

    Lunch ended and I was again waiting on government time, not my own. My head now felt like solid cement, like everyone has always claimed it is, but now it actually felt like it. What made the waiting even more dismal was that it was for something as meaningless and potentially dangerous as jury duty, probably the most deranged idea inside a Constitution dedicated to deranged ideas.
   The Founding Fathers basically created the blueprint for socialism and slavery that the whole world dutifully follows now just as a matter of "well, what else IS there?" stupidity. Jury Duty is merely a weird appendage on a grotesque, multi-squided monstrosity posing as What you Need To Live Safely By. Assuming perfect strangers really did need to be involved in the lives of alleged miscreants they never met or had anything to do with, one would think, if thinking were a valued commodity where governmental matters are concerned, that trained and professional jury members would be Step One in establishing something somewhat sensible within a completely insane structure, the structure being referred to here being "the justice system."
   But no. No trained jurors needed, please. Only the new and bewildered and inexperienced need apply for this little swah-ray. Idiots and / or people who have never done anything civically or criminally wrong and who have never spent a moment contemplating crime and are there against their will and want to go home more than anything else in the world are who are being employed with no pay to proclaim someone facing prison either a prisoner for probably years or instead proclaim that he can get up and go outside and go home and have dinner again with his loved ones and go to bed. It's an idea a sadist clown must have dreamed up from inside his own balls. And yet it's called a "wonderful privilege" by the Friendly-Seeming Bulldyke who is 4 feet tall and 7 feet wide. Like she would know anything. She doesn't even know when to leave the fucking table, how would she know a wonderful privilege from a wonderful dildo up the ass.

   I decided having my bladder explode in the criminal courts building was worse than confronting the criminal courts building bathroom.
   I was shocked to see it was not festooned with Mexican bodies hanging from the ceiling courtesy of the Cartels. There weren't even any papers on the floor, forget about shit and piss. It didn't smell clean but it didn't smell like the Bridal Veil Falls shitter either, another government operation. It also, unlike life outside the bathroom, gave me something to actually do.
   Alas, too soon the piss-stream came to an end and i would soon be faced with boredom.

   I dragged myself back into the room of doom and sat. And then got up and stood. And then sat. And then went over to a table and sat with my head sideways on my arms. Then I got up. Then I went out into the hallway. Then I stood and did nothing. Then I watched some drenched-in-lies lawyers jocularly telling their terrified employers why things would eventually be ok but for right now here's what we have to do. I wanted to run over and put pistols in all their mouths and pull the triggers and then tell the shocked defendants "Ok. you can go home now. I have taken care of the real problem."
   It would have involved committing a lot of felonies and thus would have rendered me ineligible for jury duty. Which is what what is known in Catholic circles as a "temptation."

   At one point a few hours earlier there was an announcement that "the following people" needed to come up to the Friendly-Seeming Bulldyke to clarify things they had inked into the forms. The form had 9 questions, each with two circles - a yes circle and a no circle - one of which had to be filled-in for each of the nine questions.
   Some people had done this wrong.
   A long list of names was then called.
   Every single fucking name was a Mexican-perhaps-Flipper one.
   They couldn't fill in a form right and they were going to decide whether or not someone goes to prison for 20 years. They would decide this based on their understanding and their interpretation of the evidence and the law. But they couldn't understand and interpret the jury duty form. But they were going to determine if a stranger did or did not go to prison for the rest of his life.
  I am apparently the only one in America, maybe on the whole planet, who does not have the Implant. So I am the only one in America, and maybe on the whole planet, who sees that something is actually wrong here.
   There are only solid citizens in the room and hallway, both of them, the jury room and the long marble hallway, both of them full of morose victims of jury duty, except for a few cholos who are not morose, but the cholos know the rules of proper behavior in the criminal courts building since they have been coming here since childhood as witnesses to crimes committed either by their relatives or to their relatives. They also had enough brains to not commit any crimes themselves but you could tell it was in them to call-on if necessary.

   The jury assembly room still has Christmas lights in it. Probably nobody who works there every day has noticed.

  The room with the tables and chairs has posters and bullshit on all the walls that a Chinese laundramat or a Watts liquor store owner could only envy for sheer mess and glut.
   A lot of the posters were framed, and they contained Blind Justice with her nipples covered and alleged "clips" from alleged letters received by the City from people who just fucking adored the whole mother fucking jury duty experience. "I was amazed at the many interesting aspects of our justice system. I look forward to my next term of jury service! Thank you!" "I am so grateful for having had the opportunity to be an important part of our law and order traditions! Thank you so much! Jury service is a wonderful education into our legal system!!" I mean, it was fucking relentless. I read them all. Waiting to see even one even partially negative or mildly sarcastic clipping. Nope. It was like reading the "wins" in a Scientology publication from satisfied customers or the accolades given to Chairman Yu Fuck Me Nau of North Korea, or listening to Baghdad Bob talking about the majesty of Saddam The Mighty. You stand there reading and walking to the next one and reading and you go, over and over, "Jesus." "What the fuck?" "Holy shit." "Who the fuck are these muttonheads?" They are your fellow-voters, citizen. That's who they are. These are the people not committing crimes. Which makes you wonder whether or not if maybe obeying the law makes you stupid.

  There was bureaucratic bullshit on the walls everywhere but there was one sign that you did not have to get too close to to read. You could have read it from the fucking moon. It said "PLEASE CONSIDER DONATING YOUR JURY DUTY FEES TO WORTHWHILE COURT PROJECTS."
   Hey, they want me to consider me doing something praiseworthy for them, they should be able to put up with my own notions for them doing something equally praiseworthy for me.
   They pay you nothing and then they don't want you to keep it. They upend your life and jam some razorwire into your ass, and then want you to take the reins from them and do it yourself even harder.
   You almost have to admire their Muslim-like brazen balls of Jew nerve and their raw slathering of jalapeno-drenched salt into your wounds. It's very likely Obama picked up his hubris and imperiousness from hanging out in jury rooms and watching the little lambs nibbling upon all this loco weed and pretending it was sirloin steak. He must have said, chortling and sucking on a joint, "This is a Country ripe for the picking. I bet with this generation of oblivious dolts now alive and thoroughly contaminated with the caustic cancerous spores of democracy and having absolutely no remnants of human intelligence in them at all I could get myself elected as their fucking leader and hasten the process of their obliviation faster than could happen in their wildest dreams of hoped-for eradication."

   I walked back to a table having completed my tour of the posters of the Naked Lady Of Weights And Measures surrounded by the mailed-in gratitude of astoundingly stupid idiots and checked the time. 3 oclock. 3 oclock. 3 oclock on a Friday in which no cops are present to come to court and lie because all the cops are in hiding from a nigger with a gun who is hiding in a white ski resort in the freezing cold in the snow: that no one can find. He's a completely black man in Big Bear... in winter… in the snow. And the cops can't find him. Cause they're all in hiding. Which means they can't come to court either to be expert witnesses to some lies because they are all in hiding from a completely black skinned man hiding in the snow. 50 miles away. This could be a good thing: that it's three oclock and all is well. Maybe it will stay well. What can go wrong when it's almost time for the judges to go home to their five year old nieces and grand nieces and sit around in front of them in their silken bathrobes with their cocks and balls hanging out and asking the children to come and see!

  I take a tour of all the participants and look at them even though they are all ignoring me. Nothing unusual in that.
   I notice that there is not even one menacing-looking person in the jury pool this day. I don't think they even had tempers. They might not have even had nervous systems. There is a well dressed, very poised and quiet and somewhat pained-looking Chinese woman of about 40 who seemed very out of place in a criminal courts building and who would have been probably much more comfortable hosting a dinner with her relatives and discussing how the children are doing in college. I wondered how this refined looking dignitary would manage her delicate aplomb after being shown the smashed skull and splashed brains of a child killed by Dad who then took a shit on its stomach and then shoved his dead wife's face into the shit and then sliced granma in two with a machete and then wandered the streets yelling at the moon that life sucked and the world needed to pay for its crimes against him. I wondered whether or not being asked to gaze for weeks at photographs of this incident would have an ennobling and enriching effect upon her and increase in her her sense of good fortune at being a part of the American Justice System. Or if instead she would go home and commit suicide after her term of Jury "Service" ended.
   Why would someone who had spent their life trying to improve himself and be successful and a pillar of the community want to ever be involved in the aftermath of a killing spree performed by a stranger upon other strangers? What is it that would ever bring these two disparate examples of humanity together into one room and force them to endure each other other than Compulsory American Justice? Nothing. The framers of the Constitution were masters of vile-disgusting-misery-made-compulsory and then calling it noble and magnificent and wondrous and sublime. The Founding Fathers Of  Global Socialism who dreamed up the grand machine where we are all one District of Columbia-worshipping herd of taxable objects, o come let us adore them, did this. Let us praise these selfless architects of The New Judeo/Masonic/Kaballic Laws And Decrees From the Rectum Of Mohammed And Who Have Called It "The Republic." Let us call them "fathers" and let us grant to them a higher kind of knowledge which they bequeathed to us in order to make us perfect-through-struggle and justified through obedience. Salvation will be ours if we just accept the blathering, badly-written delusional, sociopathic goals of the authors of the Constitution as workable, even though none of them had any experience "creating a nation" before. They just got it all right the first time. Because they were all just so fucking goddamn smart.
   It all fucking stinks on unholy ice if you take the fucking plugs out of your nose.

   So Mrs Ikomo Sudaka Iwo Jima, of the Japanese Tea Society, is now in a jury box where Ibabba Hadith Abdullah The Goat Fucker is on trial for severing the heads of his errant, shorts-wearing daughters and feeding them to the dogs, which he also then killed….. she has to for some reason be involved in all of this instead of being where she should be, at the Lotus Festival of Butterflies and Lilacs. No, she's here with fucking Habib because she needed to appreciate and participate in the duty and privilege, two words which are contradictory, not synonyms,  of Jury Service. Welcome to Jefferson's and Madison's world of fun and delights, Mrs Jima. Now then, guilty or not guilty, Beeyotch?
   And you think this is merely accidentally heinous and sadistic? Then you don't know GAOTU, the grand architect of the universe later to be announced to the adepts as they become ready and worthy of the secret knowledge of how to drink with pride and impunity the blood of human young and be filled with the hidden secrets of self-improvement to be then passed on to the masses unto their perfection, as deigned and made possible by us, the human gods of democracy.
   Welcome to Masonry. Welcome to The Constitution. Welcome to the perfecting of humanity by deists yearning for a return to English nobility. Welcome to the birth of formalized socialism blueprinted onto paper and called the Constitution. Welcome, yes, to the Constitution, the flash of inspiration for Karl Marx. Welcome to the We're All In This Together Even If You Haven't Been Born Yet Circus Of Bureaucratic Delights. Welcome to a planet now filled with constitutions. Welcome to the Bill of Rights which is really the Bill of Permissions, two of which are obsolete and half of which remaining 8 do not even kick in until after you have been arrested!
   Oh, and welcome to Jury Duty you dumb ass idiot piece of fuck.

   It's almost 3. If at 8 AM I had stood up and said to everyone present, "Who's up for torching this fucking place right now?" I would have been reacted-to with shock and disgust and opprobrium. But now? At 3?
   The mood of the guests was astoundingly different at 3 than it was at 8. You could feel the undercurrents of frustration and confusion and disgust. It was plain to everyone now that this was slow meaningless torture. It was 7 fucking hours of sitting quietly and stupidly, living life as a bureaucrat, doing nothing, and not even getting paid a pension like the Friendly-Seeming Bulldyke had waiting for her down the road. Now if I had jumped up and said "Who's for wrecking the place?!!" I think I would have had to run to catch up to the riot suddenly underway.

  The fear level and the vague patriotic fervor was now absent in the jury pool and the electrons of doubt and frustration were sparking into slow confused life and were taking on their spins and orbits of awareness. It was becoming apparent to all subconciously that jury duty was the brainchild of Rasputin, not Florence Nightingale.
   That the word "summons" is used in Satanic rituals and on Jury Duty Mailouts is not by accident.
   But enchantments, such as belief in the noble enlightenment of Satan and of Governments, an afterlife, the hidden possession of superpowers of the mind, magic, creation-by-verbal-or-locomotional ritual, are difficult to wrench free from, and the longer the enchantment is regarded as true reality then an investment in the allotted time of one's life is added to the lie; and to awaken from the dream is to admit that one's life up until then has been a dupe played on you by a laughing sociopath. So most prefer to never awaken from it. Because it means you spent most of your life as an idiot. And who wants to confront that. No one.
   It is indeed a very tough truth to confront. Virtually no one can do it. So it's rarely possible in an American to fully come to the conviction that jury duty is merely a way to wean you into regarding all forcible compliance with an Official as automatic: that mindless obediance is anything other than noble and patriotic. And as long as you keep thinking jury duty is something - anything - other than what it really is…..then you are suitably safe to keep alive and/or out of a jail cell by the authorities. And they are the authorities. And you are not the authorities. You are the obedienties. And whether you do your obedience out of a cell or in one is up to you. However your obedience is already assured. It's only your location while obeying is all that can vary.
   And so it was that at 4 oclock the Friendly-Seeming Lesbian called everyone into the room and announced "I have good news: your jury service is completed."
   A great cheer rang out! And the Friendly-Seeming Lesbian was encouraging it! "Yes, say hooray or halleluia or hosanna or thank you Jesus it's all ok!"
   And now a great rejoicing filled every heart. It was over! Good citizenship was endured! No one now here had to be on a jury! And isn't that what jury duty is all about? Not getting on a jury? Yes! What a system! This is really sensible and wise! Geniuses created this!
    At various times throughout the day a few strangers had come into the jury room,  in groups of about 15, all of them buoyant with life, none of them at all like us already in the room. These cheery walking-with-a-spring citizens handed-in something and were given a Certificate of Official Worthiness that when they looked at it tears of joy almost came to their eyes. For these were jurors who had rendered a verdict. They were so happy to be-the-fuck done with all of it that I decided it would be a day or two before they - if they had come down with a guilty verdict - it would be a day or two before they would be tormented forever by what kind of fate they had delivered a complete stranger into in the name of Civic Duty. Someone who had never done anything to them personally. A complete stranger. They condemned a complete stranger to imprisonment. "Well I couldnt just let him go!" Why not? Because he might commit a crime against you later? Then send everyone to prison. Walk the streets alone and in safety.

   By the time the cheering had subsided I was feeling the gates of hell dropping off my shoulders. I had reason to believe, if I had understood the Friendly-Seeming Bulldyke correctly at the earlier Disorientation, that this would be the last jury assembly room I would ever have to visit unless it was as a soldier with the Space Brothers Earth Rehabilitation Team to erase all living evidence of the Public Sector from the face of the earth with the Serum Of Rationality.

   I left the building and looked out onto the city from the hills the court buildings were built upon. A brief rainstorm had passed and moved east and bright clean wettened sunlight illuminated every building, every leaf, every bird, with a late afternoon glow of iridescent wax. The very bums looked cleaned and washed and delightful to gaze upon. There was still not a cop car in sight. They were all still in hiding from the negro in the snow 50 miles away. The light of happiness now shone down upon Los Angeles from the very sun itself and I was at last free from my clear-and-present servitude and was back to my more shrouded, less obvious servitude as a tax and license and fees and fines payer for things I did not purchase. I was too old for the draft and now was too old for jury duty ever again. The closer I got to death in America the more free I became. I would now only have to evade euthanasia under Obama"care," and assuming Mexicans didnt kill me on the train in Highland Park on the government train ride home, life would be almost endurable for the remainder of the day.

  As I walked back down the hill toward Union Station I thought idly of the different expressions of the two groups, the groups just starting jury duty and the groups ending it. The groups leaving had the radiant expressions of people who had just gotten word from Jesus that a place was reserved for them in heaven. The expressions on the people just starting jury service were the expressions of someone who had just been informed by Jesus that their worst enemy and most vile nemesis had just married into the family and would be living with them forever along with his ten pitbulls. The people leaving?...they looked and acted like children hitting the hallways and running toward summer vacation.
   Apparently nobody but me has taken notice of these two emotional states by the two groups, the groups entering and the same groups leaving, and come to the quick conclusion just from this that something is wrong. You would think, if jury duty was as fantastic as they insist it is, that it would be just the reverse: people excited about starting jury service and very very sad at its end.
   Nope. That's not how it is, pardner. It's the other way.
   As I walked past City Hall, a very imposing and architectually ridiculous Amazonian-Jungle, Neo Voodoo-style Aztec-like building, I looked up at the concrete and granite structure and read the majestic message hammered and chisled into the stone high above:

   James Russel Lowell, whoever the fuck he was, if he was not a humorist, he was clearly a psychopathic dunce or a devoted student of Marx. He was probably both. Government is the antithesis of science and even more than the anthesis of service, it is the obliteration of service. And the mocker of science. I don't know who James Russel Lowell was but I will bet he was a child molester. Just based on his ability and comfortableness in making the above utterance with no qualms of conscience. I can certainly understand why he would be considered a hero and guiding light of statists and the entire public sector and the universe of law: he can not only do evil things….he can boast of them as being holy. That takes a certain kind of person. One who can molest children and feel not only sanctified by such but tell his victims they are fortunate and blessed to be having this experience. It's the mindset of a sociopath. It's the mindset of the police. It's the mindset of the State. And it's the mindset of the Friendly-Seeming Dyke who orders you around during your imprisonment during the "enviable and unalienable right of serving on a jury." Where you fuck the life and soul out of a complete and total stranger who never did anything to you. And you feel good about it afterwards and if you could you would tell your victim that in the long run he will thank you for this. Just like the child molester tells the child.




Monday, February 4, 2013

The Constitution Dictator

   What you are about to read is new knowledge.  I dispense these things from time to time because I have been instructed to.
   The American Constitution is the first instance in history of codifying socialism and tribalism and monarchy into an instruction sheet. This is considered to be and is called "liberty" by most Americans who still call themselves Americans. The people who are living here "illegally" don't really give a shit about politics so they sort of have a leg up on the Americans, cause the latter still think that America is Something Actual. But it isn't. It's just some people within a political border who may or may not wind up in jail in five minutes.
   Calling the Constitution a guarantor of freedom is basically a lie. It does not guarantee freedom or liberty, it does not guarantee anything because for one thing it is only half a contract. No Americans under it have signed it. So what good is the guarantee. However in the Sacred Realm of Government where godlike wonders are put into play at the signing of a "bill" or by proclamation if things need to move along more quickly, saying something guarantees something is to actually make the guarantee good. Even when it's actually worthless. Because that is what "faith" is: belief in something supernatural. Even though there is no evidence that the supernatural in any arena actually exists, forget about proof, there is no evidence, even.
   The Constitution is a blueprint for socialism. All of human history before the Constitution just put socialism into operation on a hit or miss basis, or a war and conquest basis, followed by struggles for power and intrigue and more warring and it was all - from the dirt piles of Kenya to Queen Elizabeth's Court - it was all a kind of haphazard affair and no one was ever on the same page.
   The American Constitution changed all that. Taxation, incarceration, conscription, and confiscation of private property - the four essential tasks of government: any government; of any kind; of the 20 or so allegedly different kinds - these four Considered Essential atrocities were for the first time spelled out as to the particulars of the method for the 4 atrocities to be doled out. In fact it's the Constitution's immediate order of business after the Preamble, which I call "the throwing down of the gauntlet." After the "We the people" commie nonsense - which alone should give a clue to anyone smarter than a fucking Apache - after the preamble, the Constitution starts its day with the words "All legislative power herein granted....."
    I didn't grant anyone any power. What's this "power" bullshit. How does someone grant someone else "power." And why is the power legislative power. Why isn't it reading power. Or writing power. Well I'll tell you why, because reading power and writing power is not ruling power.
   So the opening line of the Constitution should read "All ruling power herein granted....." yada yada yada. 
   What this looks like to me is a bunch of guys decided there would be a pack of people separate from the people the first pack of people decided they were separate from; and that this first pack of people would rule the second pack of people.
   Apparently the second pack of people decided that this was a really good idea.
   I am not in that pack. And I am not in the first pack either. All this regal majesty and powers and congress and legislation and senators and presidents and the morass of shit that has mutated from these things, committees, departments, agencies, commissions, regulatorians...all this shit has come out of the ass of the Constitution. It did not come out of me and I was not consulted.
   No one who proclaims the amazing wondrousness and majesty of the Constitution has ever actually read it, much less contemplated its existence at all. I mean if you haven't read it, why are you defending it? And the answer would be "Because!!!"
   Most people back off from criticizing the constitution - (which no one actually does, except me) - because the "because" is so furious and blue-faced that the discussion, or whatever it is that is occurring, usually ends at that point, with one guy blue in the face and the other guy running away.
   I don't run away though, I just stay there and watch the guy get blue in the face cause, i dunno, it's kinda bitchin', seein' that happen.
   Socialism is the tribal arrangement in which all private property belongs to someone else, not the owner.
   Capitalism is the system, social or otherwise, in which all private property belongs to the rightful owner.
   All human societies in recorded history have been socialistic.
   No human society in recorded history has been capitalistic.
   American was capitalistic between defeating England and the day the Constitution went into effect. then it became socialistic.
   The American Socialistic Society was the first human socialistic society to be written down on paper before being kicked into action.
   THIS is the only definitive aspect and "advanced" nature of the Constitution; that it was the first time a socialistic society had been itemized in detail as to its operation prior to it becoming the actual "governing body." Throughout history this had always come about by kicking and screaming and ripping and tearing and assassinations and treachery and double crossing and butchery and cunning and violence.
   The American Constitution changed all that.  People actually sat down quietly or debated civilly and with polite restraint the exact operation of a socialist government and how best to preserve and safeguard and maintain its lock on power until it sucked-up all the property of all the citizens and then forced all the now propertyless citizens into either forced labor or a mass grave.
   The American Constitution showed everyone a clean, clear, safe and delightfully easy path for everyone to follow to make this all happen as efficiently and in as orderly a manner as possible.
   So: how's that Constitution working out for you personally these days? Pretty good? Got yourself a pretty good lock on the future for your 300 mexican kids and 10,000 mexican inlaws where you will all be rocket scientists and explorers of the universe? Probably not, because if you're a Mexican, America has a long way more to fall before it comes close to the shithole of socialism that you left in Meheeko. That's because Pancho Villa didn't write a solid constitution. Things collapsed quickly in Mexico once the Spanish left and the Aztecs took over. Lots of running-blood is all an Aztec needs to feel fulfilled and Civilized.
   But what if you're not a mexican. What if you are a white Christian who salutes the flag and recites the pledge of allegiance and hugs the flag and defends the Constitution: how's your future looking right now under that Constitution you are defending so strongly that you never fucking actually read and prattle-on about how glorious it fucking is, that thing you never read and probably would not understand if you did.
   Hey, serves you right for being so intellectually lazy and for believing a piece of paper composed by "enlightened servants of the Architect of the Masonic Universe" who wore powdered wigs and incredibly ugly pants was going to be your salvation. It's not your salvation, your eternal handcuffs, dude. They don't even have locks and you still won't take them off. You could be kinda fucked up. Have a joint. Maybe that will help. Hey, the shit worked for Mexico. Could work for you.

Saturday, February 2, 2013

Black History Month

   It's February and Congress has declared this month to NOT be February, but Black History Month. Since there is no black history, since Western civilization - or any other civilization -  didn't pay attention to them, since they were marooned on the "dark continent" of central and southern Africa, no one in the Real World ever heard of negroes until the plantation owners of America decided that having hot nubile sleek African teens to fuck, since you owned them, was a lot more fun than paying the hired help to pick your cotton. You could also corral a big-dicked male and a sultry looking 20 year old female into the breeding room and order them to copulate while you and your buddies - and probably the ladies too - watched and jacked off during the show. Having slaves has lots of advantages, and all of them are sexual. It ain't about saving wages. It's about free rape. Hey, I have no dog in this fight, I don't give a shit about niggers or whites, I don't even belong on this planet.
   So there is no black history. It just doesn't exist. If it did we would all be visiting the Congo Museum and learning about it from the volumes kept there in tact since 3000 BC and written by Moboola Moboola The Scholarly Negro Monk and his acolytes in the Zubidoobu Monastery. Or reading the hieroglyphics in the ruins of the great structures and temples and monuments of the Badabbadabba Civilization.
   But there ain't such things. Because the negroes lived in the dirt until Colonel Buford Krubbs shipped some over here, or Thomas Jefferson before him did. Then they lived in barns. That someone else built.
"Negroe Studies" doesn't extend any further back than Ice Cube.