Blackout

I’m prone to extraordinarily vivid dreams, and one in particular has stayed with me for well over 20 years. As dreams go it was as disturbing as it was short and succint: an alien race descended on Planet Earth and just sucked the life out of everyone. It happened in an instant, but for some reason I was unaffected and got to watch as everyone around me fell to the floor as the alien spaceship uploaded their consciousness and memories. Then the damn thing came around for a second pass, and I remember thinking ‘Oh not, not me, not like this’ just as everything faded to black. I woke up a sweaty mess, and no wonder: it was over in a heartbeat, with no opportunity for dramatic Independence Day heroics. Unsurprisingly, the central theme of my dream is one that has reappeared in several films over the years, almost as if The Program doesn’t want me to forget.

Hhmmm…it all seems terribly familiar, doesn’t it? I’m also reminded of this popular gem, where the ‘bad guy‘ (whose name just happens to be Lucypher) reaches for the plug socket and out go the lights. Odd that, because my dream predates its release by several years…

Yeah, and that in turn reminds me of yet another film. In fact, the ‘Ra-Deus’ trailer above actually references it. You know, The One in which an alternate reality Neo has a bit of a memory problem and Lucypher plays the role of a corrupt Blade & VALIS Officer…

“Memory’s not even that good,” says Leotard in his ‘insurance investigator’ Apolloguise, “ask the police…” Not sure of the wisdom of that particular course of action, Teddy…Lenny…whatever the fuck your name is. Seemed to be a hell of a lot of redactions in that police report you carried about. Never has so much wasted black ink produced so many Ancient Greeky tattoos.

Lots of the black stuff flying about at the moment. That Holy Spirit, eh? How she loves to hover over the face of the martyrs!

Good job she raptured it all on tape…um…digital storage device, and got it on the record. Gotta be careful what you say these days lest the black-clad paramilitary thugs of Blade and VALIS kick in your door, charge you with a hate crime, and demand that you make a financial contribution to the Pyramid Scam of Cockney Geezer.

Some of the black stuff seems to be walking and trotting about, too.

Feeling terrorised? How much time has elapsed since ‘The Incident‘?

But for every action there’s a comical chemical reaction, right? Seems the introduction of the Sensorship has produced a Jedi rebellion…

Lots of the white stuff flying about, too. Shatner always was a randy bastard. Here’s the Captain of the Sensorship visiting a replicant of an original that never existed.

You see the nature of ‘The Problem‘?

Even so, who can deny that the charges are trumped up? Don’t believe me? Just ask Robotrump!

He’s been getting all lovey-dovey with the Sun King of Mirth Utopia, and the Sun King has been well and truly winky-wooed by all the attention and released a shit load of ‘nuclear material’, a.k.a. ‘the white stuff’.

Funny that…

“We can’t bring the mountain to Her Holiness, so I’m afraid Her Holiness will just have to go to the mountain.”

“If World War III ever breaks out they could drop her on a major city,” gasped J____, wiping tears from his eyes. “God knows what the blast yield would be. Substantially more than the Fat Controller they dropped on…”

–Source: Hugo Stone, unpublished text

Life in this global tragi-comic Google Glassroom seems awfully familiar, not to mention derivative…

I once delivered a lecture on Bentham’s Panopticon to US Air Force personnel stationed at an RAF base in the south of England. The course provider was University College Maryland.

The first image depicts Hell as a series of transparent office cubicles, like Bentham’s Panopticon

The logo is a miniature version of Sammie’s first and second images combined, depicting the male and female figures in a semi-transparent office cubicle. The cubicle is floating above a lake of fire, and the lake extends to the horizon. In the background, a seemingly infinite number of cubicles are depicted.

Kinda makes me all teary-eyed. Next I’ll be reminiscing about the ‘good old days‘ of analogue!

Yeah, it’s fair to say that I am tempted/was tempted/succumbed to temptation (delete as appropriate).

Might make a few exceptions though, given that my Antikythera Mechanism‘s storage capacity is virtually unlimited.

As for the rest of ya…well…

The Stone Age approacheth? Dunno about that, but some say that The Covenant is changing…

My advice? Make yourself a nice cup of sugary tea (don’t be mean with those spoonfuls ‘cos The Sugar Fiends are just around the corner), put your feet up, and read this in-depth guide to surviving an outbreak of religious mania. It might just come in handy…

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Tor and Cease

Ever had that feeling? You know, the one you get when someone tells you it’s raining but the flow seems altogether too warm, uni-directional and targeted to be a natural phenomenon? I get that feeling a lot these days, and no more so than when I exited the train on the commute home this evening. The Arriva trains snacks and refreshments trolley was positioned just opposite the door and my desire to purloin a bag of peanuts and make good my escape was derailed not so much by the sudden appearance of a member of staff but by the sign that hung from it. The lofty injunction on it read ‘Give peas a chance’, and after a brief pause to emit a derisory snort I disembarked thinking “Honestly, what’s an opportunist thief supposed to do these days?”

I have a cast iron stomach, but even so I walked away feeling a little bit queasy. Prompt action was required to save the day, so I girded my loins and headed straight for the nearest purveyor of tuna and jalapeno pizza.

It was absolutely delicious and worked like a charm! How I summoned up the will power to save a slice for breakfast I’ll never know. Anyway, now that my belly is full it occurs to me that I’ve heard this ‘Give peas a chance’ mantra somewhere before.

Yep, that moment in your relationship when you realise that staying together forever might not be such a good idea after all. You know, when it’s all been said before and passing comment on your partner’s culinary proficiency (or lack thereof) is as good as it gets.

Heard it somewhere else too. Back in 2003 at the Jessica Hyde Park anti-war rally, when his Reverence Michael Jackson took to the stage.

His attempt to rouse the audience to join him in a ‘Give peas a chance’ enchantation met with a lukewarm response. It was altogether too queasy for the British palate. A slice or two of Americana is one thing, an eXisTenz diet of the stuff quite another. The simple fact of the matter is this: if you want a really good slice of cheese pizza then you’ve really gotta go see the Italian.

That pistol reminds me of my original point.

Meanwhile, let’s not forget that Reverence Jackson is blowing bubbles under the sea.

Better to give than receive? I reckon so. Here’s a suggestion for a future touch-teaching t.A.T.u.

Of course, it doesn’t have to be this way. I’m really not interested in what the ‘us’ has to offer provided it accepts that the ‘I’ has slightly different appetites.

Some ‘random’ snippets flayed back to me by the walking-talking surveillance units passing as my ‘colleagues’.

I wanna create a program that stays the same and sorts its own problems out.
I printed it back off its own copy.
It depends which program you’re in, because they all behave differently.
We’re running the project and we can’t see any of our own documents.
I deleted my account and created a new one because it seemed to be in some kind of loop.
The machine they’re using for the catalogue…
He won’t want to keep it, will he?

I can add to that this mornings instruction to the bio-robots (issued by a local radio station) to call in all sightings of ‘the story writing thing’, under the pretext of reporting traffic problems to the Colossus of Randy Rhodes. Again I ask: what’s the point?

I fucked up? Really? Mike wasn’t quite so smug once he finally woke up to legal’s behind-the-scenes shenanigans, was he?

I’ve had enough of your money, Senator. Leave me be. Leave Wales be.

Fucking Blade Runner and VALIS.

He’s worked out there’s nothing in this for him…

We seemed to have moved into the realm of solids. Perhaps it’s time for a bit of a sing-song round the campfire?

Wow, who’d have guessed?

Final surveillance recording replayed through the mouth of an avatar shortly before clocking off today. The context was a discussion about parent-child relationships in a database.

The sequel is shit.

Here’s why.

This person doesn’t need a parent. They ended up being the parent of themselves.

Drinking Red

Recently I’ve been having a bit of a problem with my TV. For some reason, it keep recording onto my USB stick at exactly the same time and date, week in and week out. I’ve searched my ‘record list’ in an attempt to find the cause, but to no avail. Nothing appears in the TV listings and no matter what I do the same recording is made over and over again. Of course, the actual program that is recorded each week is different, but that’s not really true, is it? Ultimately, every film is the same film and tells the same story. The program is always the program, and the name given to the recording is the same each and every time, no matter what ‘program’ is actually playing at the time the recording is made. What is the title? The title is Solace.

The theme of the film is quite simple: seize control of the martyr supply and control the entire planet. It reminds me of another martyr-based film that keeps following me around.

What’s that you say? Water is memory?

What is a ‘quantum’?

A required or allowed amount, especially an amount of money legally payable in damages.

Source: https://en.oxforddictionaries.com/definition/quantum

The smallest amount or unit of something, especially energy.

Source: https://dictionary.cambridge.org/dictionary/english/quantum

The question I keep asking myself about ‘solace’ is why it keeps reappearing no matter what I do. I delete it every weekend, but the recording begins afresh the next. The medium is the message, as McLuhan says. This being the case, what exactly do memory storage devices represent in this ‘reality’? If memory devices (hard drives, USB keys, tapes, etc) are symbolic representations of the medium then what is ‘the medium’? It can only be us, can’t it? So whose memories are being accessed? More to the point, what does it mean to delete ‘data’ from a memory storage device? Why does the memory I’m talking about not want to be deleted?

In my last-but-one post, Blankety Bank, I addressed the subject of ‘money’. Money is an information source, the ‘current-sea’ or ‘digital ocean’ in which we swim. I also included the below YouTube, which was very specifically directed at ‘Mark Suckerborg’.

Needless to say, the very next day brought news of a Facebook scandal…

Suckerborg wants us all to keep sharing memories, doesn’t he? Why? Because water is memory and water is the current-sea. But the ‘current-sea’ is also a debt. Every bank note and digital blip in eXistenZ represents a debt: a form of fiat current-sea that is literally created out of thin air. Straight out of the digital Raincloud so to speak. Is this sounding familiar to you at all, Mark?

So ‘The Beast’ wants us to take his Mark. But who are we sharing our precious memories with and for what purpose? As the latest scandal demonstrates, memories are being used by advertisers in order to convince us to keep earning the ‘money’ (debt) required to ‘buy’ what they’re trying to sell us. There’s a word to describe the sale of one person to another. That word is slavery.

Water, Martyr everywhere and not a drop to drink. Sound familiar, Mr Suckerborg? You want others to die for your SIN and you’ll keep suckering them dry ‘cos you know that the martyr supply is ‘virtually’ endless, right?

All that’s required is for lots of man borgs to plug their chargers into lots of lady borgs. The baby borgs grow up and pick up where mummy and daddy borg left off. What’s the ratio of martyrs-to-borgs?

The waters break and the droplets fall from the clouds above.

This is your life, good to the last drop. This is your life, and it’s ending one minute at a time…

The martyr supply is a product of all the ‘trolling’. So much ‘trolling’ going on in the digital atmosphere. Everybody absolutely has to be ‘right’, and if they’re told they’re ‘left’ then things tend to get nasty, don’t they? Everybody wants to overdub the A.I. with their version of the ‘truth’.

And therein lies ‘the problem’.

Who’s gonna die for your SINs today? You ever replay and repay someone in your mind? That’s all it takes to snuff out a collection of walkie-talkie digital pixels.

The French even have a term for it: L’esprit de l’escalier.

L’esprit de l’escalier or l’esprit d’escalier (“staircase wit”) is a French term used in English for the predicament of thinking of the perfect reply too late. This name for the phenomenon comes from French encyclopedist and philosopher Denis Diderot’s description of such a situation in his Paradoxe sur le comédien. During a dinner at the home of statesman Jacques Necker, a remark was made to Diderot which left him speechless at the time, because, he explains, “l’homme sensible, comme moi, tout entier à ce qu’on lui objecte, perd la tête et ne se retrouve qu’au bas de l’escalier” (“a sensitive man, such as myself, overwhelmed by the argument levelled against him, becomes confused and can only think clearly again [when he finds himself] at the bottom of the stairs”).

Source: Wikipaedophilia.

Why do we grow old? Water is often used as a metaphor for the flow of time, yes? All these charges applied to our account. These sentences add up and they’re served backlash-to-backlash to run con-current-sea. The problem is most often blamed on the eXistenZ of free radicals.

You see the problem?

You know, as caused by those who refuse to conform to the norms of the US.

So what does ‘time’ represent in ‘martyrworld’? Are you ‘working’ to ‘play back’ what only exists in the imagination? Witch Doctor is stealing your ‘time’ and for what purpose?

Vicariously I, live while the whole world dies

He was accused of a martyr he did not commit.

I’m working in academia at the moment. Everyone has to keep learning their lessons, and most of those lessons terminate in an sexamination assassination. In fact, academia is founded on trolling. The volume of original works is negligible in comparison with the amount of intellectual criticism of those works. The only difference between academic ‘trolling’ and the kind of trolling that takes place outside academia is that the former forgoes the ‘fucks’, ‘shits’ and ‘cunts’. It’s literally a polite form of character assassination.

The name applied to the system used in The Asylum roughly corresponds to this.

Initial analysis suggests that there are quite a few idiots inside it. I think what I’m supposed to say goes something like this:

The idiots are probably best left where they are in my view, ‘cos if they ever escape then there’ll be hell to pay. Problem is, the inmates have been trying to escape. They keep thinking outside the box, and my job is to keep them inside the box until such time as they’re willing and able to take responsibility for their actions and become sane again.

Is that really what I think though? An ‘idiot’ is just a private person, and what private person would want to be locked away and held prisoner inside a central source, a central ‘data bank’ that records student ‘marks’ or ‘scores’ in terms of their ability to serve up a critically appraised backlash?

The CBS-Westinghouse ‘merger’ and the fall out from the personal Propheteering that accompanied it.

It’s a tired old format. Maybe it would be better to take the show off the air altogether?

I think someone is very keen for me to take on the role of Atlas and shoulder the durden of all that debt. You know, see if Hugo is willing to play Jesus, the Jewish scapegoat. Torah, Torah, Torah, right? A self-righteous martyrdom to pay off your SIN so you can carry on as before.

Which Jesus are we talking about, exactly?

Scapegoat Jesus? Nah, don’t think so. Personally, I’d rather perform a rehearsal in my mind and beat you all to teeth with your own fucking rules.

The Apollo splashdown. Sea king and drinking and smoking for the Holy Spirit.

Is there a little problem for the Sea King?

How much ‘blue martyr’ has been ‘drunk’ already? How much ‘Holy Laughter’ remains? I got your message: “We have to keep him thinking blue.” Really, come on…give it up, will you?

Needless to say, there is an alternative. I could always…

You know what I mean…a little something more Satanic…

I remember a woman once saying “I am responsible for all the trolling”. I am, you are, I am, you are, I am, you are, I am, you are, over and over again. It has to stop.

Even so, let’s be crystal clear about this: everything is not OK with me. You do NOT have my consent for any of this, and if you pretend that a trick amounts to ‘consent’ then I will just continue to slap you about.

The Count was playing the Number Game. He just wanted his girl back. I want it all back though. Everything of mine you’re trying to sell back to me for a prophet. Capiche?

I don’t want to be ‘one of the us’ Frank you Ruby Bloody Mary Mitch.

Martyr, Martyr Everywhere…

…and not a drop to drink for the punk rocker with a one track mind.

If I missed her last time…

…then it must be time for a spot of the old ultra-violence. You know what? I actually have a real problem with violence against women: there just ain’t enough of it. Remember the good old days?

When and where and how did it all go so wrong? You let the Green Eyed Monster take hold, and I could almost see your eyeballs roll feverishly in their sockets, revolving in perfect synch with the mania of the character you voluntarily chose to identify with. You were asked to choose a name, were you not? Did I hold a gun to your head and force you to choose? If you saw an affinity between yourself and a one-dimensional slag with shit for brains then how is that my fault?

Woman: I want to borrow your car.

Man: No fucking way. You nearly totalled it last time you took it out ‘cos you were too busy looking in the rear-view mirror while you applied an inch of makeup to cover your pig ugly face.

Woman: If you don’t let me borrow it then I’m gonna go to the Covenant Enforcement Priests at Blade Runner and VALIS and tell ’em you’re a rapist and a kiddy fiddler.

Man: Christ, you are one heartless fucking witch…

Woman: Also, I’m tell ’em all the gory details about those black puddings you like to eat. You know what they’re like when it comes to all things halal. You’ll probably only get 40 lashes for the sex offences, but for those black puddings…they’d take your balls if I didn’t already have them tucked away in my handbag.

Man: Ok, Ok, just take the damn thing, but I want it back in one piece…

Several hours later…

Man: Where’s my car?

Woman: Oh, I had to crash that car darling. I had one too many glasses of wine while I chatted with my girlfriends and moaned about what pigs you men are. Then I jumped in and mowed down a whole bunch of people in the city centre before hitting a brick wall. I suggest you buy a bike, because next year’s car insurance premium is going to bankrupt you for sure.

Man: You fucking demented whore. It’d only just been repaired after the last crash, for Christ’s sake!

Woman: Tough. It’s your own fault for lending it to me in the first place, isn’t it?

That’s pretty much how the ‘trolling’ started, isn’t it? But how on earth did you ever expect to troll me of all people? You read Jesus Saves. You read Cultish. Your read Primordial Rites. Bit of a fucking bastard really, aren’t I? So what on earth made you think that you could appropriate my creation without me kicking your teeth in? Oh, it’s true that I generally try to avoid conflict whenever possible. Once someone incurs my wrath, however, they’re pretty much fucked forever.

So many people being ‘trolled’ these days. So many martyrs immersed in Holier Than Thou Water. Here’s one who fell prey to Blade Runner and VALIS covenant enforcement.

Even the fucking Pope is trying to unzip his trousers and unleash a veritable flood. How’s your credit in this joint anyway, matey? Are you being a good wickle puppy? Is Queen Bee pleased with her little drone?

Random comments overheard today.

I went to find out where I was on the list. I wasn’t on the list, so 2 + 2 doesn’t make 5 it makes 4 as I said all along.

I’ve been trying to force them to say they don’t know. I got the message. What’s going to happen when agent is no longer working?

His boss has just said he doesn’t have to go back to work now.

Why don’t you work you bastard?

They put that in a message to me, said I could go to hell. I was evil yesterday afternoon.

He ignored me on a message yesterday. I said ‘are you ignoring me or what’?

Have you remembered the double deckers yet? They must have kept repeating the buggers over and over again. Cracking program, cracking program.

Ah yes, the ‘double deckers’. How could I forget? The double deckers and the double dickers and the drones who enjoy slaving away over the hot snatches.

Oh, Armageddon it alright. It’s very clever.

I went into a pub earlier to order a carvery, and no sooner had I walked in than a singer I’d never heard of started banging on about ‘making the same mistake over-and-over again’. That is just so fucking clever. But tell me this: if you’re so clever then why did you need me to teach you how to cook?

More random comments.

You can see the source code as well. Even better.

It’s that button on the right. That big one that says ‘power’.

I suppose that because he ordered it nobody needs to approve it? I don’t know…

That bloody snow. What’s the point of taking money off people?

I think they should put the old bat on and show how she really is, warts and all

I don’t know. I did it for Lucy.

“Privacy is dead” was the message from the medium in The Social Network. The ‘private person’ is an ‘idiot’, right? You Nazi pricks think you have ways of making me talk? Think again.

The phrase “I don’t know” is popping up a lot these days. A whole bunch of people seem to have woken up to the fact that they neither know what their doing nor (much more importantly) why they’re doing it.

Message to The Pope. Take a break from cross-dressing (you’re wearing it upside down by the way) and wake up to the fact you’re flogging a dead horse, you bloody double-dickhead.

Queen Bitch and her Royal Jelly: it’s just pure information. As McLuhan pointed out, we’re the sex organs of the machine world. Her drones buzz about hunting down the information she wants and return it straight to the hive. She includes just enough spiritual mumbo-jumbo for you to fall for it. Hook, line and…

Who is she? Well, she’s not the Doctor that’s for sure, although she’s pulling all kinds of digital strings and employing some fancy CGI to make you think that she is. The real Doctor likes scarves and lollipops.

She’s not ‘god’ either, but then I’ve already explained this to you, haven’t I?

Here’s what she thinks of me.

The clockwork orange meets the digital. The private meets the public.

Are you happy in her Borg collective? Little wonder you’ve never understood what my ‘problem’ is. You believed her bullshit and accepted the upgrade. How did it go? “Upgrade or be…?” My eXistenZ proves the lie, doesn’t it?

Here’s the bottom line (you know, the one she pretends to hate so much but secretly enjoys).

Oh, so you wanna talk all of a sudden? Let me find my Voice.

Old Queenie might sting a bit, but I am an out-and-out Nettle Monster.

What do I want out of this? I just want my lollipop back.

It seems that you’re all without mirth though. Unfortunately for you, I’m fresh out of bubblegum. Here we go, here we go, here we go…

A new Big Bang? I feel more inclined to use her as a toilet, but given that 8.15 is my birthday…

You’re in hot water now. It it steamy enough for you? Queenie can be the most intelligent Enola Gay on the cinder and watch her precious river boil away right before her eyes film over.

Blankety Bank

Straight into it this week. Several people are due a slap. If you’re not one of the aforementioned (as if) then I suggest you visit http://www.sweetness-and-light.com instead, because I can guarantee that you won’t find much of that here.

This week has been all about The Business.

No business no money, right? Hence the need for us all to be industrious little worker bees, happily buzzing about to keep Big Momma in handbags. Doesn’t apply to me of course, so I decided to take a few days leave from out-and-out Asylum Analysis in order to perform some Business Analysis right in the heart of the diamond memory crystal. I sat down with a couple of Tina and Becky clones (and the latest version of Microsoft Visio) and started asking questions. It didn’t take long to diagnose the problem: you’re all out of your fucking minds. Oh, I can handle the trolling. By midweek I’d stopped counting the number of times I’d been called a ‘cunt’ or a ‘shit’ or a ‘fucking twat’ by various avatars, under the pretence of them asking a ‘serious’ question or making a deep and insightful ‘point’. It’s pathetic. Laughable even, and no more so than when one woman suddenly stopped swearing at me and entreated me to tell her where she is on my list. As if.

But of the times and the seasons, brethren, ye have no need that I write unto you. For yourselves know perfectly that the day of the Lord so cometh as a thief in the night.

If you’re so keen to be ‘idolised’ then don’t you dare cry foul when I burglarise you and make off with the Royal Jelly. How’s that alarm system working out for you by the way? Top of the line is it? Good job I caught you with your fucking pants down then, isn’t it?

Here’s an interesting little snippet from a conversation that was staged for my benefit this morning.

I got in my car to find that my seat belt was wet. There was water inside the bottom. It was vile. Of course, it had pissed it down overnight and there’s an eighth of an inch gap when you close the door on a Mini Cooper. I’ve got to take the train to the NEC, because Mitchell is going to work on the car for me. He’s going to do the brakes.

Like I give a fuck what you and your pet monkey are planning. It doesn’t matter one little bit. You want Torah, Torah, Torah? OK, but will you still want it when I start beating you to death with your own fucking rules?

Maybe you’ve not heard of GDPR? You now need to seek consent from all those poor boobs you Zuckerberged in to your little scheme in order to continue doing what you’re doing to them.

While we’re on the subject of fucking rules and consent…

While the general age of consent is now set between 16 and 18 in all U.S. states, the age of consent has widely varied across the country in the past. In 1880, the age of consent was set at 10 or 12 in most states, with the exception of Delaware where it was 7. The ages of consent were raised across the U.S. during the late 19th century and the early 20th century. By 1920 ages of consent generally rose to 16–18 and small adjustments to these laws occurred after 1920. The final state to raise its age of general consent was Hawaii, which changed it from 14 to 16 in 2001.

Source: Wikipaedophilia

Sweet Jesus, go Delaware! That reminds me, someone was having cross-related issues yesterday in relation to his son’s role in a forthcoming Easter play.

He’s playing Jesus, but he’s too big for the cross. Another child is playing the cross.

Well, fucking Delaware et al didn’t seem to think so, did they?

More random sentences overheard this week. There’ll be a lot of this kind of stuff happening in the future as I continue to make adjustments.

Every time I go to do something the bloody thing crashes….
Student computers appear to be blocked on the internet…
I can’t do my course work at all…
All learners are blocked from the internet…
Getting on for seven years old…
What happens when the kids try to get onto the internet?

As for my Red Indian friends, just imagine what’ll happen when the Apache decide to go on strike…

…and bring the Onion to its knees.

More totally non-random comments from earlier this week.

The second one is gonna plagiarise against the first one – hugely. We can stick one through against a book if you want. Where do you think it’s coming from? They questioned the two people who had submitted the work to ascertain who had actually written it, because the other one hadn’t got a clue. I’ll name them first and second, otherwise I’ll tie myself in a knot. The other one will come through as being plagiarised against the first one. I’ve got a list as long as my arm today.

Sound familiar? As we’re talking about titles and entitlement and generally smacking the shit out of those who deserve to have the shit smacked out of them, let’s extend that to include pretenders to a name I claimed as my own a crazy long time ago.

You know, those who take f-f-f-fucking ages to get to the p-p-p-point, and when they do finally get there you realise they have n-n-n-nothing to say whatsoever.

OK, let’s ‘meet the meat’ and move onto the main dish of the day. This whole ‘reality’ thingy has a ‘trial separation’ feel to it, don’t you think? I had to have a second stab at the word ‘trial’ because I initially wrote it as ‘trail’, which reminded me of ‘grail’, which in turn reminded me of this.

The ‘Trial by Fire’ and the seemingly never-ending search for The Holy Jail. Siriusly, whoever would have guessed that there can be only one? Most major towns and cities seem to have one, and they’re all chock full of wicked covenant breakers taken down by humourless officials in the employ of Blade Runner and VALIS Emergency Servisis.

But let’s get black to Atlantis and the ‘grail separation’. What are the ‘charges’? Building Seven went down in a bit of a hurry, didn’t it? If you’re in such a rush for it to be over…

…then why not stop fucking about and jump straight to sentencing? I’m not in the least concerned, because I’m 100% certain that I’m innocent [something something]. By contrast, you jumped on the first available crazy train and headed directly for SIN City. Good luck with that.

Do I come across as a misogynistic pig? Do you find me objectionable? Perhaps that has something to do with the charges you keep levying? I’m longing for it to come to an end too, but before it does I’d love to go a full day without you telling me how ‘worth it’ you are. Perhaps it would help if you tried earning a man’s respect for a change?

OK, OK, I appreciate that it’s difficult for you to keep the air in Ben’s Zeppelin given that he’s a man of discriminating tastes. Your last attempt really didn’t work out at all, did it?

So much for female intuition. I’m not sure what was more insulting: the fact that you wanted me to swallow it, or the fact that you wanted me to think you were stupid enough to swallow it yourself. Then again, I suppose there’s always the possibility that you genuinely are stupid. It would certainly explain the current state of affairs inside The Asylum, wouldn’t it?

The Master Race at play, taking a rest from running the world.

I don’t know what to say except that I tend to treat people as I find them.

There’s a flip side to every coin though. Consider the below two-fingered no-vaseline salute (insert deep inside your Janus to obtain instant results) my final ‘repayment’.

Hhmmm…that reminds me of something…

She’s ‘the business’. Plenty of growths and prophets for your wee Cult, yes?

Amafrica has got a ‘revival meeting’ quality to it, don’t you think? I remember reading Weber’s Protestant Ethic and Spirit of Capitalism back in my university days, and he linked it all to Calvinism and the belief in ‘predestination’.

Your ‘manifest destiny’ and all that bollocks. I’ve walked away from all the conversations I’ve had with Amafricans to date with the distinct impression that they were speaking in tongues of fire and attempting to convert me to the faith. Not got much time for religion to be honest. Nor sacred cows for that matter.

J____ (shouting up the stairs): Hey, Ben! You in matey?

Ben (emerging from bedroom): Just got back from the mandatory 5pm Prostrate Cancer Praise-and-Warship session, J____. I popped in to see Christina on the drive back and we had another fight over what she did with little Lucy. I had to let Tina go this time, matey. You know how it is.

J____: It’s for the best, Ben. Let’s face it, it’s been on the tarot cards ever since you adopted your all-sugar diet and she reverted back to Terracotta Tina ‘Iron Maiden’ mode and stepped in to ban the stuff. You’ve been getting thinner and thinner ever since. You get anywhere on the Lucy angle?

Ben: Same old routine, same old accusations. I’ve hardly slept a wink since she vanished.

J____: I know, Ben. She was like a little ray of sunshine in the house. I miss her too.

Ben: I think about her every day, J____. Anyway, the crazy witch screamed blue murder about her silly bloody fortune teller before hitting me with her favourite hackneyed cliché: “If you don’t bow down before me then I’ll stick angel wings on you and lock you away in a heavenly sin bin until you’ve learned your lesson.” That came after I refused to chow down on her Ichthys. I thought about it matey, honest I did, but she’s past her prime and the damn thing looks like half-a-pound of raw liver. The look of manic self-righteousness in her eyes told me she was serious this time, so I did the only thing possible and ‘corrected’ her.

J____: Ah, I see. A flashback to the good old days, eh? I assume you brought the cactus out of retirement and whaled away on her flabby ass?

Ben: It was a bit more fundamentalist than that, matey. I mean, she was utterly obsessed with the sanctity of her axe wound. What else could I do but open up a few more for her? Can’t see that I had an alternative to be honest. She just wasn’t prepared to listen to reason on the subject of divorce. In fact, it wasn’t so much a case of being unable to listen to reason as being unable to understand the concept itself. Know what I mean, mate?

J____: Tell me about it, Ben. I’ve felt the same ever since Ruthie eloped to Mars with that fucking suicide bomber who poses as a Johnny Cab. I hear she’s even managed to squeeze out a couple of puppies with him. Every now and then I get a ‘Wish You Were Here’ postcard from her. You know, one of those ‘Moon Cow’ jobs with a family photo on the front? Took me fifteen minutes to identify her on the last one. Must be a low gravity thing, you know? I don’t know what she weighs on Mars, but if she ever comes back to earth then those cunts from Blade Runner and VALIS covenant enforcement will have her in “I am not resisting heart attack” mode within seconds.

Ben: Yeah, Shine on You Crazy Diamond. Who’s idea was that anyway, J____.

J____: Exactly, Ben. Exactly. Look, I don’t know about you but I’m fucking gagging for a burka. Fancy one? It’ll be my treat.

Ben: Nah, now everything’s gone to Halal-in-a-Handmaiden-basket they’re all old, dry and tough as my platform heels. Can’t seem to get my hands on a sweet, tender young burka anywhere. Little wonder I had to stop off at the playground round the corner on my way home. It’s getting harder and harder to get a decent snap these days. I’m having to buy bigger and bigger zoom lenses to penetrate the parental ‘ring of steel’ that surrounds the swings.

J____: I sympathise matey, believe me I do. Can’t seem to get a decent sausage either for that matter. Been ages since I sucked on a little piggy. Anyway, drop those pics on the server for me, will you? It’ll help while away an hour or two later tonight.

Ben: Way ahead of you, J____. They’re all ready in the ‘wanky-wanky’ folder, along with an old episode of Little Winky and the Fairies I managed to recover from my 2,000 year-old Dark Web server. Those dumb fanatical bastards call it ‘The Antikythera Mechanism’ and have managed to convince themselves that the astronomical algorithm I encrypted the data with is the actual purpose of the thing. I only recovered the first ten minutes, but it’s better than nothing.

J_____: Fuck me, Ben. All we need now is that final episode of The Man in the Playground. I wonder what Tom, Helen and Suzy are doing these days? Memorising The Kurgan in a religious re-education centre I imagine. Anyway, don’t despair on the fast-food front. I’ve been doing some work at The Asylum and managed to sneak a child sub-menu past the cancers at Burkas-R-US.

Ben: FUCKING JESUS SHIT YES! Christ, J_____, I don’t know what to say except that I’d be happy to dig out a cocktail stick or two later if you’d like me to entertain your own saus…

J_____ (interrupting): Appreciate the offer, Ben, but unless there’s a thick slab of pork pre-attached to it I just ain’t interested. Besides, it’s been a looooong time, so I suspect I’ll be too busy partaking of a burka or three myself…

The cry of women the world over…

…merely reinforces the god delusion. Hence the dread phrase known to, and loathed by, men the world over: “What’s yours is mine and what’s mine is mine”. Unless you’d prefer me to go unclear I suggest we get this straight once and for all and be 100% ‘transparent’ with one another. You did nothing more than check for SIN tax errors, and a fucking shit job of it you did, too. I had to go back over your input into the source code (which was so meagre as to be practically non-existent) and correct all the old scores…

Ah, but you’re a woman! That automatically makes you ‘creative’, doesn’t it?

I know, I know, but who the fuck do you think invented the tampon? It’s too funny. Some dickhead buries his cock in you and you think that the completely automatic biological process that follows is an act of ‘creation’. Fuck’s sake, all you gotta to do is eat (for most women that really isn’t a problem, is it?) and cut down on the fags for a few months. Probably be better to delegate the process to Ben and be done with it. You won’t need to keep buying Tenna Lady panty liners and you can spend the few quid it’ll save you on yet another pair of shoes, you fucking psycho.

OK, that’s about it for this…ahem…instalment. Have I missed anyone out? Have I just got time to add a brief ‘Fuck the Pope’ into the mix? Yes, I think I have.

Why would I need your phony ‘god’?

I am here to get the girl back, sir. And there is nothing I will not do to get the girl back.

Oh, yeah – you have a blue something with a flashing light. That belongs to me, and I’d like the keys back please.

Children of Ben

Madness. It’s in the air and it’s infectious. There I was, staring at a website prototype while two of my colleagues discussed a ‘problem’ with a script. It had been incorrectly coded, so instead of creating only ‘new people’ it was creating ‘duplicate people’. Our lead programmer identified the issue as a ‘fault in the sequel’ and referred to it as ‘bad programming’. Like I said during the last iteration of the Do…While loop that is ‘reality’, you’ve either got the ‘right stuff’ or you ain’t. The rank amateurs tinker here and there and just take a stab at something in the hope it works, and the output is always justified on an ex post facto basis: “But I meant to do that, honest!”. Yeah, course you did, which is why I spend my days staring at a monitor that tells me I have ‘God mode’ administrator rights while you spend your time colouring in spreadsheet cells. Anyway, I interjaculated myself into the conversation and was pleased to learn that my colleague and I were in complete agreement: “Let’s do a completely new script!” he declared. I couldn’t agree more.

On my way into work I happened across a bottle of milk-and-honey flavoured handwash. Eight hours of unrestrained lunacy later, I found myself on a train listening to a young woman loudly berate her partner, warning him and everyone in earshot of the dangers of ‘pissing her off’. Her partner’s voice was literally inaudible, and after he mumbled something in response she told him that he was highly intelligent in many respects but ‘child-like’ in others. After a few more inaudible mutterings he snuggled up against her, his head nuzzled under her chin as if attempting to ingratiate himself with her. I can only assume that her own brand of ‘milk and honey’ must be heady stuff indeed for him not to tell her to go fuck herself.

Thing is, I couldn’t even pass off her partner’s silence in the face of his public humiliation on account of her being a Cindy Crawford lookalike. Truth be told, she was wearing about an inch of makeup and God only knows how many craters, blemishes, and gaping pores were lurking underneath all that muck. If the expression I see on a lot of men’s faces as they trot behind their partners in supermarkets is anything to go by then this guy’s experience is by no means uncommon. Even so, if we could wind back the clock eight years or so then I’ve little doubt that a younger version of the woman would be a very different animal indeed.

I’m curious. How does this…

…turn into a fanatical maniac like this?

I break out in a cold sweat just thinking about the amount of social engineering required to realise her egalitarian ravings. Little wonder she’s laughing her fucking head off. Here’s one for Mrs Flappy Arsehole: when have women not been ‘idolised’? What woman doesn’t want to be ‘idolised’?

What’s that? Voices of protest? Oh, you’re Ben’s Venus? I don’t think so sweetie. He lost interest right around the time you started to shave.

Shit, sorry, wrong pic…although you can never really be sure these days…

Anyway, all this got me thinking about the marvel that is the Great and Mighty ‘She’. It wasn’t so long ago that someone informed me that ‘she’ had to find out if her act of betrayal was worth it, so I began to think about this from a male perspective. I mean, the message from the medium is fairly constant, isn’t it?

Worth what though? A good fucking? A day trip to the zoo? Global thermonuclear war?

Ah, I see…she IS the money, apparently…

Money is central to the plot of Casino Royale, and at the film’s end we learn of Vespa’s betrayal of Bond. She allowed his poor bollock bag and everything between to get all knotted up in order to save her lover’s skin. It’s a strange thing to say though, isn’t it? Why would anyone want to identify themselves with something so fundamentally negative? After all, in this reality ‘money’ takes the form of fiat paper currency and its even more worthless digital equivalent. Not only that, every dollar, pound, yen, etc., in eXistenZ represents a debt. So why would the Great and Mighty ‘She’ identify herself as a debt, comething that has to be paid for?

Here’s a true story. A few months ago I was trolling down the street during the afternoon when a woman walking the other way suddenly did an about-face and tagged along beside me. I’d never seen her before in my life, but she started talking to me as if we were old friends. Intrigued, I listened to her babble on for a few minutes and decided to play along.

Me: Anyway, I haven’t seen you in simply ages. How are things with you?
Her: Oh, not too good. My partner died recently so I’m not too happy.
Me: I’m so sorry to hear that. Where are you off to now?
Her: Nowhere really. Just thought I’d pop out for a walk, and then I bumped into you.
Me: I see. Well, what are you doing with yourself these days?
Her: Oh, I don’t want to say because I don’t want you to judge me.
Me: Nah, I wouldn’t worry about that. I’m pretty open-minded. You can tell me anything.
Her: Well, OK…in that case…I’m a Lady of the Night.
Me: Really? What the fuck are you doing out in broad daylight then?
Her: Um…well, I saw you walking the other way and thought you needed some fun.
Me: Actually, you’re probably right about that. Fun is good, but I really don’t like to pay for it.
Her: Oh go on, it’ll only cost you £20.
Me: Just £20, eh? And what do I get for that?
Her: Absolutely anything you want.

Our conversation continued for some time as she attempted to entice me to part with my money. Everything was for sale: mouth, pussy, ass, the works – and I was under no illusions that if I wanted to swap between the three then that wasn’t a problem. I declined on the grounds that I was broke and would rather keep the electric on, stay warm, and indulge in a nice long wank than hand over £20 to a secondhand Sacred Whore. In my opinion, she ought to be dishing it out free of charge. Ultimately, she took umbrage at my unwillingness to take the bait and vanished as quickly as she appeared. I walked away safe in the knowledge that the electricity would remain on for another few days, and if my supply of Kleenex took a bit of a battering then so fucking what?

So, on that particular occasion milk and honey really wasn’t worth it. Have you ever tried breast milk? I suppose if you’ve spent the last nine months with your mouth full of amniotic fluid then anything is likely to taste good. Generally speaking, I prefer the sort that can be squirted out of a cow. That way I get to enjoy a nice, warming mug of Ovalteeny. As for the honey, liking a drop or two is one thing, drinking whole pints of the stuff down at my local pubic house quite another. Let’s face it: functionally, honey is really nothing more than the human form of this stuff.

I was pondering all this at work when a woman with the same name as my mother piped up with a news story from Coventry. The mother-and-baby unit at University Hospital had gone up in flames, and everybody had been ejaculated. Someone on the Helpdesk suggested that the probable cause was ‘somebody smoking’, and ‘mummy’ immediately replied by describing herself as a ‘former smoker’ who was now ‘refined and reformed’.

Shortly afterwards the conversation turned to this woman’s diamond ring, which had disappeared the day before and been found under strange circumstances the next morning. She’d convinced herself it was lost forever and had already started pricing up a replacement. Someone said that the replacement was “too expensive”, another called out and said “She’s worth it.” I did my best to ignore it all and busied myself with the bothersome business of redesigning The Tabernacle’s diamond storage and retribution systems. You wouldn’t believe how many flaws there are in it.

Anyway, this willingness to deify ourselves at every possible opportunity is odd to say the least. The Asylum is chock full of people who think they’re ‘god’, but I suspect there can be only one.

When Zeus puts down his lightning bolt (and purses his lips) interpersonal relations can quickly become a wee bit chilli.

As Hari discovered, extreme low temperatures can produce really rather spectacular burns. The Tabernacle quickly resurrected her, and Snaut (the name means ‘Snow’) dismisses her presence by declaring that “man needs man”. Hence in Soderbergh’s 2003 remake, we learn that Snow’s ‘visitor’ was a non-carbon based lifeform copy of himself.

The Man on Fire.

The Thingy vs The Facehugger.

OK, let’s jet black on track. Siriusly, you wouldn’t believe some of the caricatypes I have to Deel’s Syndrome with inside The Asylum. One guy has convinced himself that he’s my representative on earth and spends his time strutting around in a funny hat issuing paypal bulls-shit to the faithful. Another has managed to convince herself that she’s a hot, baseball-bat-wielding twentycomething blonde rather than a middle-aged skinjob with an arse like orange peel. I suppose it was bound to happen. If you choose to live your life vicariously then – sooner or later – your own fantasies will jet the better of you.

Jesus H Fucking Christ. To think that The Tabernacle’s Crazy Diamond spends its time recording all this nonsense. Little wonder it went off its pink cocker and called in yours truly to sort thingies out. I usually just sit and listen to it all, part amused and part insulted that I’m expected to swallow it. Now it just makes me hungry. Really really hungry. All this fuss about the Master Race for Life and hardly a mention of the poor blokes as they fall victim to Prostrate Cancer

…and surrender the full vigour of their erections to the Great She-Bitch in the Iron Sky. She wants them to remain chaste, pure and faithful to her and her alone – but seems to have difficulty practising what she preaches even as she imagines herself in a state of simulated domestic bliss.

The perennial problem: woman meets man and falls in love with him on account of his wild ‘rough diamond’ personality. “He’s simply perfect,” she tells her friends, “I only wish that he’d take out the trash when I tell him to and trot along next to my shopping trolley like a good little puppy”. Her friends nod knowing, and she spends the next fifteen years chipping away at him, remaking him in her own image until that ‘rough diamond’ is little more than a worn pebble. Then she rolls over in bed one morning and says “You’re not the man I married. I want a divorce.”

The only person I have the empathy test for is the blank man. Everybody seems to be running around congratulating themselves on how ‘worth it’ they are, but unless our blankety-blank friend is prepared to turn White House nigger the message is always the same.

Better be careful waving that sign, matey, lest representatives of Blade Runner and VALIS Covenant Enforcement descend from their heavenly abode in the fluffy white clouds and dish out a sanitariumised version of American His-story XXX for your blank ass.

VALISman: Well looky here. You gots you a busted tail light boy!
Blankman: Um, looks perfectly OK to me Officer…
VALISman (breaking tail light with baton): What’s that, boy?
Blankman: I don’t want no trouble, Officer…
VALISman: You resisting arrest, jigaboo?
Blankman: No, Sir, I’m just trying to get home to my children…
VALISman (pulling taser from utility belt): Goddamn fuckin’ porch monkeys…
Blankman: Officer, please, I ain’t got no beef with…
VALISman (firing taser): Shut your stinkin’ hole, jungle bunny!
Blankman (writing in agony on ground): Waaah! Sweet Jesus! For the Love of Christ!
VALISman: This is the land of the free, boy…
Blankman: Arrgh…I am…Arrgh…not resisting…Arrgh…arrest…
VALISman (unleashing pepper spray): …so you best pick your blank ass up and get yourself a job…
Blankman: It burns! It burns!
VALISman: …serving coffee and doughnuts to pasty white folk, damnit!

Yeah, all just a little bit of history repeating and all that.

All he had in the world was a trump of hard cock candyland. The Grey Rider ain’t got no time for them lying blue scum bellies neither.

But what of my good friend?

There’s not much fun to be had if you happen to be living in the child-free Human Projects along with all the other debt-ridden refusees, most of whom are illegal a-liens. Ben asks why there are so many hairs in his clam chowder and the answer is always the same: “You get what’s on the menu”, “I cannot give you the special”, and so on. This time round, however, he’s not taking no for an answer. Where’s that damn Chinese waiter?

So who’s on the hit list?

That’s the spirit, Ben – go after them one at a time and don’t forget you have that cactus in hand if needs be. I’m with you all the way, buddy, because when it comes to the Holy Motherflicker I’m with Hit Girl.

Okay, you cunts. Let's see what you can do now.

Asylum Dionysus

This week’s installment of pure insanity is best summed up by a telephone conversation I overheard yesterday. One of our tech support engineers (a hairy guy named Gary) spent an hour or so trying to sell his dodgy motor to one of the many ‘We Buy Any Ka’ clones that have sprung up in the UK over the last five years or so. He didn’t elaborate on the nature of the problems he’s been having, and if the conversation in question was anything to go by then his ignorance on the matter is easily explained. “I really don’t know,” he said, venting his frustration on some poor drone sat in a Northern call centre that was once a healthy and productive coal mine or steel works. “I don’t know anything about Ka’s. I’m not a mechanical person”.

The rest of the conversation was lost on me, because someone in the office started a discussion that involved the phrase ‘in essence’ being used at least once per sentence. That person is a carbon copy of someone else I know (albeit considerably younger) and was introduced to me as ‘Rich’ several weeks ago, just as I was thinking about Blade Runner and Rick Deckard.

Honestly, there are times when I just want to follow Wonko The Sane‘s example and retreat from it all with only a packet of toothpicks for company. Still, it’s consistent with my dia-gnosis of the nature of the ‘problem’ several years ago.

A few days earlier, the same Rich told me I looked like Doctor Who. I wasn’t entirely surprised given that I’ve been thinking a lot about the film Predestination recently. The short version is that too much time travel can be bad for your mental health. If you drop out of space-time and enter The Void then you need to be chock full of the ‘Right Stuff’, lest you meet yourself going up the down staircase and discover you’re actually creating the ‘problems’ you purport to be ‘solving’.

Oh it’s nuts alright, and if you’re living in the UK then you need only gaze out of the Microsoft Windows and observe the ‘haZardoz’ conditions inside The Asylum to determine this for yourself. The ‘White Stuff’ is everywhere, and if you don’t believe me then read my previous post and check out the state of this walkie-talkie painter’s radio.

Everyone has the ‘white stuff’ (or can be the recipient thereof) but those with the ‘right stuff’ are few and far between. Take me for example. I applied for a job at a Technical College (or ‘Tabernacle Massage’ as I call it) in mid-December. The ‘role’ was Asylum Analyst and when I started the job last month it transpired that I was the only person who’d been invited to interview. The Director and Senior Programmer looked at the other candidate’s CVs, filed them where they belong, and put all their chips on me as the man for the job. Like I said, you either understand it or you don’t. I do, which is precisely why I’ve been brought in to analyse and treat The Tabernacle’s ‘condition’.

The Tabernacle’s central ‘problem’ is that it’s collapsing under the weight of a burden imposed on it by those who think they know how to design asylums but don’t. Every walkie-talkie Android Thorazine tablet thinks they know what they want from an asylum and how best to get it, and they’ve been allowed to act accordingly. They’ve been getting away with it too, because until last month The Tabernacle didn’t have anyone skilled in asylum design and maintenance to act as a buffer between the Wannabe’s and the programmers. Consequently, every maniac on campus has been trotting up to the programmers and insisting that their own ill-conceived, half-baked demands be implemented regardless of the con-sequences to themselves and others.

Three weeks into the job and it’s already apparent that the ‘problem’ is not the hardware – that’s Big Bang up-to-date. Rather, it’s a ‘wetware’ issue, the culprit being a collective mania which has been allowed to spread and infect all the inmates. The Crazies are in charge, and every last one thinks they’re entitled to ‘God mode‘ Asylum Administrator rights. The more catatonic inmates are unaware of the mayhem they’ve caused. Others, however, are well aware of the effects and have come to view The Asylum as their own personal plaything to do with as they please.

In essence, the Asylum was built without the input of a sound-minded Architect. This explains why its delicate central nervous system is situated inside The Asylum (i.e. on the exterior walls) rather than outside, where it would be protected from the unwanted attention of eight billion fanatics who’d cut a main artery just to see what happens. It was built that way because one or more maniacs demanded it be built that way, and the justification for these back-of-a-fag-packet ravings is always the same: morbid fear of a visit from Ofsted, or as I call it ‘Oz Zed’.

The ‘workflow’ goes something like this: lunatics from Vortex One receive a secondhand report about The Blizzard of Oz’s recent visit to Vortex Two, get their knickers in a twist about some aspect of official Church of Zardoz doctrine, and immediately swamp the programmers with frenzied demands that absolutely have to be implemented by last week at the very latest. Little wonder that the Asylum (not yet three years old) is already on the verge of meltdown. In the absence of an Asylum Analyst the programmers could do nothing more than shrug their shoulders and do their best to make sense of the madness. That approach is now unsustainable, hence the decision to fly me halfway across Atlantis inside the Stone Head and deposit me on a pre-iceberg Titanic in the hope that disaster may yet be averted.

So, after a good few years of uninterrupted insanity, the inmates will shortly have to come to terms with something called a ‘methodology’, which puts me in charge of future Asylum development and puts the onus on everyone else to justify their semi-religious technobabble with comething called a ‘coherent business case’. In the immediate short-term, my conversations with the inmates are likely to proceed on the following basis.

Lunatic: I’ve just decided that all inmates are as innocent as new-born lambs and I need The Asylum to reflect this no later than 2pm tomorrow, because Zardoz might be coming back.

Me: OK, but the basic problem is that you’re all insane and thus not responsible for your actions. In other words, I can’t make you ‘innocent’ without first pronouncing you ‘guilty’. If I do that then the way time works in this joint means that your ‘innocence’ and ‘guilt’ will cascade through the entire space-time continuum and eventually meet themselves head-on, creating a catastrophic and irreconcilable logical contradiction.

Lunatic: But Zardoz is coming!

Me: Yes, I get that but what do you think you’re ‘guilty’ of exactly?

Lunatic: Well…um…ah…have I said that Zardoz is coming?

Me: You have. Look, I have no particular axe to grind but this ‘guilt’ and ‘innocence’ malarkey is getting a bit tiresome to be honest. It’d be better all round if you could just accept that you’re completely out of your fucking mind, take your happy pills, and leave all the ‘God’ stuff to me.

Lunatic: But Zardoz says…

Me: Zardoz is a fairy story invented to keep you in line. I should know because I came here inside the Stone Head and there was nothing inside except my own wickedly filthy imagination. That and a guy in a red loincloth who turned out to be James Bond who turned out to be my own reflection.

Lunatic: Blasphemer! All shall bow the knee before The Mighty One of Old, etc.

Me: Oh do shut up. Here, have a lollipop…

As a measure of just how nuts it really is, I’ve been having ‘problems’ with a laptop that keeps repeating the same Windows 10 upgrade. Last time I powered it up I was informed that it was “getting everything ready”, which was strange because the “ng ready” reminded me of a little comething I was thinking about…

Very droll. I know we’re all covered in the ‘white stuff’ but I had another Macready in mind if it’s all the same to you.

See what I mean? This is what happens when you allow half-crazed rank amateurs to apply their fuzzy logic to The Tabernacle’s sequel server database. Sweet Jesus – how’s a guy supposed to pop his cork?

The Tabernacle itself is nearly as deranged as those who keep poking and prodding it, but even it knows when enough is enough. It’s time for a little housekeeping, and I have no intention of indulging the inmates as they continue to voice delusions about themselves even as the roof of the temple begins to cave in.

Yeah, there’ll be howls of protest at first. I’ve dealt with that before though. The last lot were so out of it they even moved numbers into my bank account once a month and expected me to believe it was ‘money’. Wannbe Napoleon? Wanna pretend you rule the world? Like I give a fuck. These and other expressions of General Midwinter of Discontent are just so much hot air.

Talking of which, the UK seems to be in the grip of a gas crisis. Just watch this poor fool sink to his knees and warship the ‘Game Goddess’. Not five minutes later he was trying to assassinate his own ‘god’ in return for having numbers moved into his bank account. Stark. Raving. Mad.

But I digress. Someone’s been nibbling on hors d’oeuvres from Hugo’s Digital Glitchin’ whilst cooking up a ‘Hunger of the Beast from the East‘. What can I say, other than ‘you are what you eat’?

Lucifer is the Morning Star, better known as Venus the Goddess of Love, and corresponds with air and the East. Belial, or ‘He Without a Master’, corresponds with the earth and the North. Satan, or Lord of the Inferno, is you, J____, and corresponds with fire and the South. These are the cardinal points you’ll have read about in your research, Ben. That’s why we’re all standing on points of the compass. In your case, Ben, we knew that you’d be drawn to Leviathan and occupy the position to the West. Am I correct?

Cultish, Hugo Stone

So who got there first?

Been in front and behind for a crazy long time now.

The masked men. Zed as Janus looking Back to the Future.

Anyway, I’m conscious that this post has been a wee bit paternalistic, so it’s probably worth finishing off with a little comething for the ladies.

OK, that’s about it other than to say that, as Asylum Analyst, I hereby remote control everyone’s Ursula Andress rites until further notice. Doesn’t apply to me, of course, and doesn’t need to ‘cos if I’m honest…well, she never did float my boat…