Archive for June, 2004

The Twelve Steps of TimeTravelers Anonymous

Wednesday, June 30th, 2004

The Twelve Steps of TimeTravelers Anonymous

1. We admitted we were powerless over TimeTravel and that our lives had become unmanageable.

2. Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to our proper time frame.

3. Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care the ElderGods as we understood Them.

4. Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves and each of our Past and Future Selves (While not under the influence of Morality Supressants).

5. Admitted to the ElderGods, to ourselves (including any PastSelves and FutureSelves existing in time frames that we could reach by telephone), and to another human being or a sufficiently Re-evolved Non-human being the exact nature of our wrongs.

6. Were entirely ready to have the ElderGods remove all these defects of character or at least replace them with relatively useful defect upgrades. And in time frames wherein Infinite Will pills are available, replace “entirely” with “infinitely”.

7. Humbly asked Them to remove our shortcomings or at least replace them with relatively useful shortcoming upgrades.

8. Made a list of all persons we had harmed, including Past and Future versions of said persons, and became willing to make amends to them all. And in time frames wherein Infinite Will pills are available, replace “willing” with “infinitely willing”.

9. Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others or the very SpaceTime continuum itself.

10. Continued to stay off of Morality Suppressants, take personal (as well as Past-Personal and Future Personal) inventory, and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.

11. Sought through Magickal Rites and UltraVoid Broadcasts to improve our conscious contact with the ElderGods, as we understood Them, placating them only for knowledge of Their Infinite Will for us (not porn!) and the power to carry that out or at least carry out finite approximations of it when restricted to time frames wherein Infinite Will Pills are unavailable.

12. Having awakened to our natures as ethereal matrices of vibrations from the UltraVoid as the result of these Steps, we tried to carry this message to other Time Travelers, and to practice these principles in all our affairs.

UVOLIM Emoticons Translation Manual

Tuesday, June 29th, 2004

UVOLIM Emoticons Translation Manual

/o!o/&&
I am sick of porn but masturbating to some anyway

://,://
Our circumstances are parallel

~/^/^/~
I just have or am just about to phase into MeatSpace from the UltraVoid and if I actually had feelings then violently nauseated would be at the top of my list and if I actually had a stomach then I would be violently ejecting its contents directly into the top of your sawed-opened skull (if you had a skull)

o!o, o!o, o!o,. . .(27) o!o.
I have just popped like 27 boners right now

`%?$?@’
Buzwhadt? (”Buzwhadt” is an exclamation of an emotion that begins as agreement but turns into confusion when you suddenly realize you don't quite understand what you are agreeing to. Usage: Jack: I would really love it if you came over here and repaired my plumbing. Jane: Yes, so would I. . .Buzwhadt?)

;}]
I am laughing politely and (pretty much) convincingly but if I had a soul and/or eyes and you looked deep into it and/or them you would see that I truly despise you

~!1}|{1!~
My tentacles are writhing in pain and/or joy and/or buzwhadt-ness

Infinite Will 4. Interrogations.

Tuesday, June 29th, 2004

Infinite Will
Episode 4 of 5
Interrogations

4.1. FPAQ (= FPAnswersQ)

You are in the hospital. You are in and out of consciousness. You hate hospitals, and as far as I can tell, you always will. The hospital is staffed by the stupid and you, who think yourself clever, congratulate yourself for your rapid discovery of where they secreted away your street clothes and precious stupid shoe computer.

You find your crap and you congratulate yourself for, among other things, surmounting the obstacle of your near sightlessness. Somebody has taken out your contact lenses. But not your third-eye contact. Though this contact is for telepathy, not navigation, you stumble through the forest of altered volumes revealed from a perch high atop an extra spatial dimension or two.

The human third-eye is a five-dimensional perceptual organ extending from the surface of the brain in a direction perpendicular to the familiar home dimensions of height, width, and depth. It is a periscope that lets you see “over” and into otherwise opaque three-dimensional objects. A two-dimensional-creature granted a periscope extending out into the third-dimension could see what’s behind locked doors and the innards of his fellow inhabitants of Flatland. You usually use your third-eye contact lens to effect telepathy through literal mind- (= brain-) reading. The third-eye contact lens perceptually endows you with broad-spectrum microscopy of neural events. You can perceive a person’s thoughts as bathed in emissions from x-ray to radio and all the colors in between. What your third-eye contact lens is not so great for is guiding you through the corridors of a darkened hospital without stubbing your toes and banging your shins on every available unyielding protrusion. You have a glimpse of your surroundings from the other “above” but it’s like steering a “you are here” arrow through a map in a mirror while dizzy from spinning. Seeing macroscopic three-dimensional objects with the third-eye contact is overwhelmingly distracting. Your visual system is flooded with data and it takes a Herculean effort not to just stare, drop-jawed and drooling, at the hyper-foliating fractals of your enormous new visual environment.

Your vision penetrates every wall of every room, the fabric of every garment, the membrane of every organ. It’s more than a little distracting.

To rise to this challenge of your concentration you attempt to ignite your infinite-will power, to synthesize an army of faux-selves to attend to the distracters while your primary consciousness juggles your targeted contingencies. You attempt to ignite your infinite will-power. And you fail. For the first time you realize exactly what you were brought to this hospital for.

4.2. The Dr. Smax FAQ

Q: Can I ask you a question?
A: Apparently. You just did.

Q: Can I ask you another question?
A: . . .

Q: Ha ha. Just kidding.
A: . . .!!!

Q: Alright, alright. Jebus. Um, so. WHAT WAS THE LAST THING YOU ATE?
A: The souls of vanquished enemies. And by enemies I mean “people who TYPE IN ALL CAPS.”

Q: Whoa, sorry dude. I just got these shoe computers.
A: . . .!!!

Q: Ok, um, What can you tell us about yourself?
A: That seems way too opened ended for a FAQ. Ask me something a little more specific.

Q: What is the seventh precept of Deicidal Reflexological Fundamentalism?
A: Basic Precept of Deicidal Reflexological Fundamentalism # 7 of 10 is that the most absolutely Vile and Evil thing that two or more human organisms can ever do is to touch the soles of their feet together for the touching of soles leads to the touching of souls and the touching of souls leads to the creation of a SuperDuper UltraEvil GroupMind which, if it isn’t God Himself, it is pretty damn close, and we will kill it and all those responsible for the creation of such an abomination. Now that you’ve got the specificity thing down why don’t you try asking a specific question about me?

Q: What is the eighth precept?
A: That one says “Sole touching that doesn’t wind up creating a SuperDuper UltraEvil GroupMind is still pretty gross and you shouldn’t mess around with that stuff. It will jack up your VEQ, so please, refrain.” Now that is the last question I am answering about the basic precepts of Deicidal Reflexological Fundamentalism. Don’t make me use Smjolnir on you.

Q: What’s that?
A: Smjolnir is my Bolt Throwing Hammer. The thrown bolts are “heightening,” not “lightning,” bolts.

Q: Oh, cool. I read an article about that once. Trans-cranial re-evolution radiation therapy, right? Non-surgical, non-nanotechnological IQ uplift?
A: You’ve got the gist of it.

Q: When are we gonna get that?
A: Not for another 59 years, or so.

Q: Does it hurt?
A: It totally fucking hurts. So why don’t you stay on track with the questions about me?

Q: Yeah, yeah. Ok. So, like, are you following this whole Past Pete, Slaughterhouse Pete, and Future Pete thing?
A: Of course.

Q: And, like, the whole Slaughterhouse Pete, Slaughterhouse Paul, and The Solipsist thing?
A: Sure. This is presumably leading somewhere. What, exactly, is the question?

Q: I don’t I get it.
A: . . .!!!

4.3. The Frequently Questioned Answering Machine

I used to get weird phone messages. Like, the phone lines would fuck up and two people having a phone conversation would somehow wind up being recorded on my answering machine. I was frightened awake one night from the weirdest sounds coming from the kitchen (where the answering machine was kept. Duh.)

Male voice: Oh yeah. I so wanna fuck my own brain now.

Female voice: Oh, what, fucking other people’s brains isn’t enough for you anymore? Where does it end?!

Male voice: It ends when all of the matter in the universe is arranged into one giant brain that fucks itself for ever and ever.

Female voice: And the orgasms?

Male voice: are, like, totally sweet.

Female voice: Filthy. Cosmically filthy. I so want your mouth on me right now.

Male voice: The only thing more filthy than the human mouth is the human mind. Oh, the infections I’ve suffered.

Female voice: I so want your mouth . . .on my brain

Male voice: You realize that’s a total violation of the ninth basic precept of Deicidal Reflexological Fundamentalism, don’t you?

Female voice: Oh, you mean the one that says “Non-sole touching activities that nonetheless eventuate in the creation of a SuperDuper UltraEvil GroupMind (like brain-eating, or whatever) also count toward your VEQ”?

Male voice: Yes that’s the one.

Female voice: Well, then, being in total violation of the ninth basic precept of Deicidal Reflexological Fundamentalism is the hottest fucking thing I can think of right now.

Male voice: You are my night sky

Female voice: I am your infinite negress

Male voice: Beautiful, dark

Female voice: and boundless?

Male voice: Oh yeah. I so wanna fuck my own brain now.

Female voice: Oh, what, fucking other people’s brains isn’t enough for you anymore? Where does it end?!

And so on, the whole conversation repeating over and over like that until the tape ran out.

4.4. Answers Frequently Questioned, or: I talk to Jebus like all of the time, or: Thy Will be Done, or: Darth God, Dark Lord of the Sixth

One of the best things about my ShoeComputer is chatting with really cool peeps like Jebus. I talk to Jebus like all of the time.

JebusInDaHouse: So the deal with the Sixth is that most of the misinterpretation comes from peeps’ failure to note the italicization. Big Daddy wrote “Thou shalt not kill” not “Thou shalt not kill.” Killing’s ok as long Daddy has a hand in it.
SlaughtyPee: Dude, that totally kicks ass.
JebusInDaHouse: Just wait til I explain how polytheism is totally consistent with The First.
SlaughtyPee: OMFG, LOL
JebusInDaHouse:Um, dude? The Third?
SlaughtyPee:Oh. Yeah. Sorry.
JebusInDaHouse:You are forgiven, my son.
SlaughtyPee: Wait. Are we talkin’ about The Ten Commandments or The Ten Basic Precepts of Deicidal Reflexological Fundamentalism? I get confused.
JebusInDaHouse: Arrggh! We are talking about The Ten Commandments!!!!
SlaughtyPee: Ha ha. J/K, dude. I knew that.
JebusInDaHouse: Once again, you are forgiven, my son.
SlaughtyPee: Sweet!

4.5. FPAQ (=FPAsksQ)

You are in the hospital. You are in and out of consciousness. You hate hospitals, and as far as I can tell, you always will. Though you have recently acquired infinite will, you have even more recently lost it. As indelicately as you slammed it into yourself, it was even more indelicately torn away from you.

You are in and out of consciousness and despite your cleverness you will know only in retrospect the difference between hallucinations of the mundane and perceptions of the extraordinary. You will sort out only later what came before what. Your remembered present. Your imagined past.

Dr. Yamamoto is the neurosurgeon charged with reversing your auto-cerebral re-engineering. You wake up in the middle of surgery to a bunch of Japanese guys singing Karaoke. You recognize the melodies. They play some of your favorite songs. You love when the guitar break recapitulates the vocal melody from the verses. And as far as I can tell, you always will. The surgeons sing melodies you recognize, but words you do not. Over and over the words sung from behind their masks: Uvolim. Uvolim. Uvolim.

In post-op you fuck with the PCA ( = Patient-Controlled Analgesia) machine to see how much morphine you can get. You hallucinate badly. You wake up to people tearing wires out of your body. Which you realize is a dream. And then someone comes in and rips wires from your body, but then that was a dream too. You wake from a nightmare into another into another. You complain. They take you off the morphine and put you on Demerol. But still, your mind boils. You are recovering from neurosurgery, after all. You are tormented by figures, by voices. “Uvolim” again and again. Like that fucking “Redrum” kid from The Shining. Except, “Uvolim” is just as meaningless to you backwards as it is forwards.

You, who are so clever, have located your precious stupid shoe computers. Though you are no longer the magnificent multi-tasker you hacked your brain to become, as soon as your computers are laced up and humming against your soles you attempt to do everything all at once.

  • Locate prescription and reorder contact lenses
  • Googleplex “Uvolim”
  • Finish second draft of illustrated and annotated edition of The Ecstatic Exteriority of the Particularated Ego
  • Order Infinite Will Pills

You attempt all of these things but you are distracted. You are oh so distractible now. You have an incoming message. My T- (=tachyon) phone not only lets me place a call to the past (with unlimited minutes when both target and source time-frames are evenings or weekends) but it lets me TextChat with you on your stupid precious shoe computers.

FP: Hey.
SlaughtyPee: Oh, hey. What’s up?
FP: You have to stop the project.
SlaughtyPee: What? What project?
FP: Where/when are you right now?
SlaughtyPee: Shit, man, I dunno. I mean, I’m in a hospital right now, but I’ve had fucking brain surgery. And a lot of drugs. I’m a little foggy on the whole time thing right now.
FP: Fuck. Let’s see. Have I told you about the Twelve Step program I’m in yet?
SlaughtyPee: Oh Jebus, not this shit again.
FP: Listen. This is incredibly important. Step 8 of Time Travelers Anonymous says
SlaughtyPee: Yeah, yeah. It says that you have to make a list of all persons you have harmed, including Past and Future versions of said persons, and become willing to make amends to them all. And in time frames wherein Infinite Will pills are available, replace “willing” with “infinitely willing”.
FP: Yeah. And step 9 says
SlaughtyPee: Ugh. It fucking says that you have to make amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others or the very SpaceTime continuum itself. I don’t know why you bother me with this shit. I’ve never done Time Travel Pills.
FP: You will. Listen. I know the project you are working on. You have to stop the project.
SlaughtyPee: I have no idea what the fuck you are talking about.
FP: You. Have. To. Stop. The. Project.
SlaughtyPee: Arghhh! Dude! Shut the fuck up.

Study Questions

  1. Fill in the blank. Dr. Smax is to Future Pete what _____________ is to Slaughterhouse Paul. Explain your answer.
  2. That thing with the answering machine really happened. It only happened, though, when I lived in St. Louis. Did that ever happen to you? No, not the living is St. Louis thing. I mean the answering machine thing.
  3. The question of questions recurrently recurs in the “Infinite Will” story arc. In fact, the title of this episode makes reference to the act or process of questioning. Further, there’s this whole “Study Questions” thing and the recurring recurrence of the question question in these questions. What, if any, is the relation between willing and questioning? How, if any, is your answer to this question different from the last time around? Also: Recurrence. Discuss.
  4. So, are you getting the whole God thing? How about the stuff with the time travel? And all of the pills!? And the MongsterZ!?!? They’re toys! Get it? Crippled toys? Crippling toys? God-killer evading pill-popping time-traveling crippled playthings who would themselves dare to be Gods? Or GodZ? Explain in 150 words or less.


Next episode: Infinite Will Pills

I hate memes, but I <3 Ray Gunn

Sunday, June 27th, 2004
My Best Friend is
Our 29 common interests are: ballistic protein, consciousness, d/s, dynamic systems, explosions, geniuses, guns, kicking ass, limbic gymnastics, monsters, multiple orgasms, pete mandik, pleasure, posthumanism, power, rachelle cornell nashner, reason, rendering flan, rope, science, space, tentacles, the future, truth, victory, violence, visual art, warrrior k universal, zombies
Who is your best friend?
Username:
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Navigate Negative

Wednesday, June 23rd, 2004

Navigate Negative

She lies at my feet, on the beach. My bare feet. Hers. My bare body. Hers. She's painted blue. White sand on her skin. Constellations.

I stare at the sun. The shock of discovery. The shock of cold water. I honestly do not know, for a long moment. Is this sunset or sunrise? I stare at the red. The sun is a distant ignorant impersonal god. I feel its tepid thoughts on my skin. It is an eyeless face or itself a blind eye, turned.

Cold but burning. A hole in the center of my sight. Her skin is painted blue. With constellations.

Periphery. I see a bird fly from her face, but when I guide my focus to damage even dumb beasts fear I am spared by an after-image. Her hair spreads out from the negative sun. She's painted blue. With constellations.

I drop the rock I've held forever and turn away. I cannot steer by these, or any, stars.

Copyright 2004 Pete Mandik

Infinite Will 3. Did I Mention The Part About Your Brain?

Saturday, June 19th, 2004

Infinite Will
Episode 3 of 5
Did I Mention The Part About Your Brain?

3.1. Head Over Heels

KarenD is doomed. KarenD is going to live for ever. KarenD is doomed to live forever. KarenD is a recovering time travel abuser. She’s got versions of her self jumping all over the time stream. The current version is stuck in a recurrent 3-year time loop. She’s fated to experience the last three years of her life over and over again. Many of the Karens have called it quits. The ones that have gone cold turkey while in the current time-frame I know as Karens A through D. Well, “known” for the recently late KarenA.

I’m dimly aware that KarenD is doing quite the number on me. Dimly aware of her head bobbing. Dimly aware of her wet and ragged exhalations around my cock. But I can’t be bothered to give her my full attention. I have recently acquired infinite will power and I am infinitely indestractable. I’m working on a project that my will will not release me from until its completion. I toe-type furiously on my ShoeComputer while KarenD sucks me off. “I” attend to her efforts by setting up a simulation of myself in my frontal lobes to administer appropriately-timed “ooh”’s and “ahh”’s while my primary consciousness burrows a hole through a wall of increasingly intense foot cramps. I’ve got work to do.

On, I work. I’m working on. . .

I’m an ACRE = Auto-Cerebral-Re-Engineer. ACRE’s redo their own wiring to suit their tastes instead of letting their brain salads be tossed by the contingencies of nature and nurture. There are about as many kinds of ACREs as there are modifiable brain systems. Some peeps are addicted to certain emotions: for instance, the Amygdaloids are into TAAM = Total Anger Anti-Management. A few of the suicidal/stupid types go for the PFDS = Pleasure Fucker Death Scenario. Cranking their pleasure center to maximum output, they convulse in a ball of pure joy, not eating, not drinking, not responding to any stimulus besides their own neurochemically secreted happiness until they expire. Me, I’m a control freak. I’ve tweaked the executive control functions of my frontals to be able to run simulations of myself so that my primary consciousness can attend to a task without distraction.

On. I’m totally on. I’m working on. . .

“Ahh,” my simulated self says. “Oooh.” “Oh, fuck.” “Oh, FUCK!” My whole body goes tense and KarenD correctly perceives a cause for alarm.

“What’s the matter, baby? Baby? Are you ok?”

“It’s nothing.” Through clenched teeth, an obvious lie.

My simulated pleasure has failed utterly, the pain from my foot cramping crashing everything. Everything. Everything, that is, but my will to keep working. Though they can barely move, my increasingly unresponsive typing toes are assailed by a torrent of motor commands. My frontal lobes are tweaked to create a new simulation of myself to manage any potential distractor non-task events. My primary consciousness is buffered against distraction by an infinite army of potential false-selves. The pain pops each dispatched simulated self like a soap bubble but as each one collapses another is sent in its stead. Trying to keep any kind of meaningful track of the actual situation is like trying to keep an eye on only my nine-hundred-and-ninety-ninth reflection while I juggle torches on a unicycle in a hall of mirrors.

My body is totally rigid as KarenD works her hands all over me, tracing the gradient of tension to its source. She tries to press her thumbs into the rocks in my calves. Tries to bend my iron ankles. “Oh, baby,” she says as she starts unlacing my shoes. Tears flow as I try to hold my shoes on by force of will alone.

I was working. I was working on. . .

KarenD’s on the phone. She’s off. “They’re on their way. It’s ok, baby.” Jebus. A fucking ambulance.

The hall of mirrors inverts. Becomes a pit. I fall.

3.2. VEQ = Vileness and Evilness Quotient

Basic Precept of Deicidal Reflexological Fundamentalism
# 5 of 10:

Let be known as “SuperDuperUltraEvil Blasphemer” any who suggests that the importance invested in the 10 basic precepts of Deicidal Reflexological Fundamentalism apparently contradicts the claim made in precept 2 about the first and final truths being wholly contained in the 59 propositions of Meditations on the Ecstatic Exteriority of the Particularated Ego.

Basic Precept of Deicidal Reflexological Fundamentalism
# 6 of 10:

Let be known as “Vile and Evil” any who would add to or subtract from the 59 propositions of Meditations on the Ecstatic Exteriority of the Particularated Ego and/or the 10 Basic Precepts of Deicidal Reflexological Fundamentalism. Let it be known that emendations, annotations, and illustrations all count toward your VEQ = Vileness and Evilness Quotient.

3.3. Terror Alert

ShoeComputer owner. An increasingly high-risk lifestyle. Terrorist acts of the Deicidal Reflexological Fundamentalists. DeRFs. The DeRFs believe. Ill health arises from ShoeComputer usage. The foot/computer interface constitutes a noxious stimulus to the vital reflexes of the feet.

Worse.

The DeRFs believe. Everyone’s souls will.

Everyone’s souls will become hooked up into one big soul, sole-soul, group-mind, hive-mind. God-on-Earth. The DeRFs have killed. The DeRFs have killed God. Several times already. The DeRFs have killed and the DeRFs believe. This group-mind over-soul will be the resurrection of an abomination.

The DeRFs believe that the last resurrection of the abomination occurred. Occurred when canibalism, especially brain-eating, was popular. The DeRFs believe. According to the DeRFs, memories are passed on planaria-style if you eat someone’s brain. Eat a sufficient number of brains, and you be come a god-like being. Eat the brains of a bunch of proto-gods, and you jerk yourself up onto an even higher rung of the cosmic ladder.

Become God of the MongsterZ: Collect Them All.

I will. The DeRFs believe.

The primary holy scripture of all Deicidal Reflexological Fundamentalists is Meditations on the Ecstatic Exteriority of the Particularated Ego.

The DeRFs blew a chunk. Out of the Empire State Building. 34th Street and 5th Ave. City authorities voted on a nanotech solution to repair the damage. Self-replicating concrete depositors and steel secreting mecha-zoans were supposed to re-grow. The damaged portions of the sky-scraper. But in a mild gray-goo scenario, the replication-termination protocols imprinted into each nanoassembler were ignored. Giving rise to a concrete cancer. The oblate spheroid protruding from the side of the building is a tumor with a diameter about one quarter of the height of the building. The DeRFs hacked the nanotech. After the tumor’s expansion finally halted, its outer surface rearranged itself into the shapes of giant glowing red letters facing the Hudson River. From the New Jersey banks across the river from MidTown, you can see, if not read, most of the 59 propositions of Meditations On The Ecstatic Exteriority of the Particularated Ego.

3.4. Crap from Friends and Associates

To: Behavior Girl
Fr: The Solipsist
Cc: Slaughterhouse Pete, Slaughterhouse Paul, Dr. Smax, KarenB, KarenC, KarenD, Buck Nood, Snak Dugbeets
Subject: I am going to eat your brain.

Old lab-lore has it that planaria flat worms can be trained to run t-mazes. They learn that a nutrient is at the first left at the end of the hall.

I am going to eat your brain.

Chop up the learned worms and feed ‘em to some novices. Memory is ingestible: the little fuckers now know what their meals memorized.

Are you paying attention? I am going to eat your brain.

If memories survive the blender and the gullet, I’m thinking that more than a few of your mad skillz will too.

I am going to eat your brain.

Some say memories can be encoded in mitochondrial DNA. Your knowledge goes deep into your tissues. It will survive a thorough mincing. It waits for me. And I will eat.

Did I mention the part about your brain?

I get a lot of crap email from people I know. Does it count as spam if you know the person? It sure fucking does.

Study Questions

  1. What is Slaughterhouse Pete working on? Have sufficient clues been given?
  2. The question of questions recurrently recurs in the “Infinite Will” story arc. To wit, the title of this episode is itself a question. What, if any, is the relation between willing and questioning?
  3. Who is Behavior Girl? Any connection between her and any of the Karens? And Snak Dugbeets? Come on: “Snak Dugbeets”? I worship Snak Dugbeets. Comments? Questions?

Recommended further reading:

Snak Dugbeets Trivia: Snack Dugbeets’ first appearance was in “blink-per-minute-ratios.”


Next Episode: Interrogations

Infinite Will 2. Time Travel Pills.

Thursday, June 17th, 2004

Infinite Will
Episode 2 of 5
Time Travel Pills

2.1. MongsterZ

I have recently achieved infinite will power and I will utilize it (plus some time travel pills) to become, once and for all, God of the MongsterZ.

Basic Precept of Deicidal Reflexological Fundamentalism
# 3 of 10:

The most Holy Book and revelation of the first and final truths of Deicidal Reflexological Fundamentalism is Meditations on the Ecstatic Exteriority of the Particularated Ego, which has 59 propositions, each of which is obviously and literally true and let be known as “Blasphemer” any who dare say otherwise.

MongsterZ were die-cast toy vehicles popular when I was a kid. MongsterZ were decorated to look like, or at least be evocative of, classic monsters from film, fiction, and folklore. The basic shapes of the vehicles weren’t particularly special – they were just replicas of extant cars, trucks, planes, tanks, and what-have-yous. They all had four wheels (even the planes and tanks) and their axle lengths were identical so that they would fit on the tracks of the various MongsterZ racing sets. Thus there was no consistent scale across the MongsterZ, rendering the Blacula Boeing 747 about the same size as the Bride of Frankenstein VW Bug.

The MongsterZ also all shot missiles. Defying all reason, but much to the satisfaction of boys ages 4 to 14, missiles were shot by not just the tanks and the planes but also, for instance, by the dune buggys, the unicycles, and the golf carts. Each of the MongsterZ sported a single-shot spring-powered red plastic missile launcher.

The absolute coolest aspects of the MongsterZ - those which inspired religious levels of zeal and covetousness in almost all boys from ages 4 to 14 (and no small amount of girls) - were the multi-colored metallic paints and holographic foil decals that made each vehicle into a monster vehicle. The decorative exterior was the essence of each of the MongsterZ

The first production run of MongsterZ was. . .

The Klassic KreatureZ of the Kinema
The Dracula Dragster
The Frankenstein Fire Engine
The Werewolf Station Wagon
The Mummy Humvee
The Bride of Frankenstein VW Bug
The Blackula Boeing 747
The Creature of the Black Lagoon Suburban Utility Vehicle

The MongsterZ quickly became the hottest selling toy of all time. Many attributed this success to the MongsterZ’s aggressive (if not down right belligerent) ad campaign. The motto was “Become God of the MongsterZ: Collect Them All.” The ad showed a kid who became happier and more godlike as he acquired more and more MonsterZ. The MongtserZ’s glowing essences swarmed out of their chassis and into his ever brightening aura. As the souls of more and more MongsterZ were devoured he became larger, more fearsome, his eyes glowing, his smile of satisfaction ever broadening and then convulsing into a rictus of pure ecstasy, his eyes rolling into his head and eventually exploding into a catastrophe of lasers and lighting bolts. He became the Blind Idiot God of All MongsterZ and, glued to our television sets, we desperately wanted to become Him.

The second production run of MongsterZ was . . .

The JapaneeZ GiantZ
The Godzilla Go-cart
The Gamera personel Carrier
The Mothra Lear Jet
The Mechagodzilla Helicopter
The King Ghidora Ice cream truck
The Mecha Ghidora Unicycle
The Smog Monster Monster Truck

By the end of the second production run, not only were MongsterZ still the hottest selling toy of all time, but the manufacturer, MongCo, was becoming the wealthiest toy manufacturer of all time. Also at this time, however, MongCo found itself at the center of intense controversy. The shit hit the fan at the beginning of the Christmas shopping season where, in a period of three days, no fewer than ten MongsterZ related murders were reported. Most of the murders involved schoolboys shooting, stabbing, or garrotting each other during playground struggles over MongsterZ trades gone wrong. But one of the murders involved parents struggling over the last few packages of MongsterZ at an understocked toy store. The controversy and ensuing public outcry was largely focused on MongCo’s advertising tactics. MongCo was accused of every moral fault imaginable ranging from blasphemy to being responsible for America’s losing the World Wars on Drugs II and III and Info War II.

The controversy’s only noticeable effect was to direct even more attention on MongCo and drive up sales. Toy stores were depleted by insane and semi-sane shoppers intent on aiding their sons’ and daughters’ quests to become Gods and Goddesses of All MongsterZ. However, the kids’ primary concern was what the next production run was going to be. The majority speculated that the inevitable choice would be Kreatures of Kontemporary Kinema. No one predicted that the third production run would actually turn out to be. . .

The Elder GodZ and their ServantZ
The Azathoth Blind Idiot Chariot
The Nyarlathotep Nightmare 1948 Nash Ambassador Coupe
The Shub-Niggurath Fertility Golf Cart
The Yog-Sothoth Space Time School Bus
The Cthulhu Dream Cycle
The Fungi from Yuggoth Yugo
The Shoggoth Protoplasmic Panzer Tank

Being relatively unfamiliar with the Lovcraftian Cthulhu Mythos, 4 to 14 year-olds were initially hesitant to dive into Production Run III. Sales picked up, however, after rumors circulated of occult and paranormal occurrences associated with the new MongsterZ. Foremost among the rumors was the allegation that if five Production Run III MongsterZ were situated at the points of a pentagram and their missiles fired simultaneously thus describing an aerial pentagram with their intersecting trajectories, then one or more actual ElderGods would be summoned to do the bidding of the missile-launching Junior DarkArtists. Turns out, this rumor was totally true. Many kids were slain or driven insane by the annoyed ElderGods. Authorities cracked down hard, forcing a halt to Elder GodZ production and confiscating inventory. MongCo was allowed to release Production Run IV, which was the initially anticipated Kreatures of Kontemporary Kinema. Having had a taste of the ElderGodZ, however, rendered the kids entirely unimpressed with the new MongsterZ. Worse, for both the kids and MongCo, the kids continued to find ways to hurt themselves and others with the toys. And even though sales were declining, there was a sharp increase in choking deaths and eye injuries due to eye-ward missiles and inhaled wheels. There was a general recall on the MongsterZ and they were replaced with hobbled versions that had pegs for wheels and non-shooting faux-missiles.

A black market arose for non-hobbled MongsterZ, especially for the legendary and confiscated Elder GodZ. Over the years, as I grew into an “adult,” my obsession with MongsterZ only increased. I had to Collect Them All. At any cost.

2.2. Past Pete

I’m getting better at being able to simultaneously walk and toe-type on my ShoeComputer. Walking’s important because the impact-induced mechanical deformations of the heels drive the piezoelectric generators recharging the capacitors (capacitors which make for wicked-cool tazers in a pinch). I’m on 42nd Street and 8th Ave when I place my order. By the time I get to 34th Street and 5th Ave, a bike courier has located me by the GPS broadcasting from the little thingies at the ends of my shoe laces. (What the fuck is the word for those things?)

Basic Precept of Deicidal Reflexological Fundamentalism
# 4 of 10:

Let be known as “Blasphemer Plus” those who take delight in pointing out that nowhere in Meditations on the Ecstatic Exteriority of the Particularated Egoappear the words “foot,” “reflex,” “massage,” or any of their cognates.

I sign for the package and duck into a Queequeg’s. I grab a table without ordering. I tear open the crappy brown card-board box and reveal yet another box. The inner box is slick with lamination and bears in promising sans-serif “Take pills. Travel in time”. Dude. That’s the first and last bit of English discernible in any part of the packaging. The accompanying literature is all extraterrestrial gibberish as are the tiny symbols printed on the pills themselves. From what I can figure by looking at some of the drawings of pills grasped in tentacles, and pills popped into what I hope to be mouths (dude, these may really be time travel suppositories for all I know), before swallowing you are supposed to twist various portions of the pill to select the target time-frame.

This is going to be a total crap shoot. How do I know I’m not going to wind up in a dinosaur’s asshole? I do not care. I am desperate. I am reckless. I am a reckless bad-ass mother-fucker. Here goes. I twist, pop, and wait. The Queequeg’s shimmers and dissolves.

Reality resolves and I’m in a darkened room. Mother fucking jackpot: I recognize this as my bedroom from way back when. A fat teenager sleeps in the bed. I don’t know when the pill is going to wear off, so I don’t wait to start rifling through various drawers and boxes trying to remember where I left my MongsterZ. The sound of the ruckus frightens Past Pete bolt upright. Cowering behind covers, his bulging eyes peek over the top.

“W-w-wha. . .,” Past Pete stammers. “What are you doing here? Who are you? What do you want?” The poor DumbAss is out of his mind with fear. I flip on the light. “Hey. Chill, man. It’s cool. It’s me. I mean, you. I mean, I’m you from the future.”

Though I’m older and thinner, the resemblance is pretty damn obvious and young DumbAss here isn’t a total idiot. He comes around rapidly. “Wow. Future Pete?”

“No,” I say. “But I talk to him like all of the time.”

“Wait. What?”

“Oh, sorry hold on. Ok. Yeah. To you, I’m Future Pete. But seriously: I’m no Future Pete. You, dude, are Past Pete. I’m Slaughterhouse Pete.”

“Wait. What?” Past Pete stands up out of bed now to get a better look at me or something. He’s in his tighty whiteys and a Bat-Winged-Skull-Chickens concert tee. He reaches out with a pudgy paw to grasp my ripped upper arm. This is getting a little gay. I wince at his touch.

“Hey, back off man. I’m in kind of a hurry here. I need the MongsterZ. Where the fuck did I, I mean, you, put the fucking MongsterZ, man?”

“M-M-MongsterZ?”

Oh fucking Jebus. “Yeah, MongsterZ. You know: ‘Become God of the MongsterZ: Collect them All,’?”

“Oh yeah. I got rid of those about a year ago. That’s kid stuff. Besides, I traded them for the first ten issues of the Behavior Girl and The Solipsist comics. Remember?”

What the fuck is this kid talking about? “What the fuck are you talking about?” I have no fucking idea and the room is getting a little shimmer to it. I’m getting pretty pissed. I feel weird, and figure that the pill is wearing off. But mostly, I’m just pissed.

“Thanks for ruining my life, asshole.”

Past Pete gets this shocked/placating look on his face and reaches out to touch me again. I punch him hard in the Adam’s apple. He falls to the floor and cries like a little girl.

I feel a click and a vibration in my gut and the room dissolves. I am fucking out of here.

Study questions:

  1. What, if any, is the metaphorical significance of MongsterZ and the author/narrator’s quest to become God of the MongsterZ?
  2. Seriously, dude. What the fuck is the name of those little thingies at the end of shoelaces? This is going to drive me nuts all day.
  3. Whoa. I just realized that the DeRFs, like, kill God and stuff and I said, I mean, the author/narrator said he wants to become God. Well not God, but God of the MongsterZ. Foreshadowing? Or co-inky-dink?
  4. Your answer to question 3 cannot be anything along the lines of “see my answer to question 1.” I’m not giving you any other hints. What? Who just asked whether 4 is a question? That, my friend, is the question. Ha ha.

Suggested further reading:

Meditations on the Ecstatic Exteriority of the Particularated Ego


Next episode: Did I Mention the Part About Your Brain?

Infinite Will 1. Space Spam.

Tuesday, June 15th, 2004

Infinite Will
Episode 1 of 5
Space Spam

I have recently achieved infinite will power, and this is my story.

I have recently achieved infinite will power, and I am infinitely indistractible. This means that the only thing that can possibly get me to stop any given task is its completion. Although, if you want to offer me sex, drugs, or money, we can see what happens. Ha ha. Just kidding. I have recently achieved infinite will power, and I am infinitely indistractible.

I have recently achieved infinite will power, and this is great for a productivity nut like me. Also great: the ShoeComputers upon which I currently type. With my toes.

In order to use ShoeComputers there are two main skills that you have to acquire. The first is chord-typing with your toes. Just as it takes, say, three fingers to make a note on a saxophone, it takes, say, three toes to type a character on a ShoeComputer.

The second skill that you have to acquire to use a ShoeComputer is learning to “see” through the soles of your feet and thus make sense of the information on the push-pin-array sole-monitors pressed against your arches. Part of the training for the shoe computers involves wearing a camera on your forehead while blind-folded. The camera drives the sole-stimulator arrays delivering unto your feet about as much information as a medium-rez black-and-white vid screen would deliver unto your eyes. You collect a bunch of bruises getting used to your blind-sight, but once you are all trained up you are good to go for watching vidz, surfing the web (and SpaceWeb), and even doing image manipulation through your feet.

I know I said that there are two main skills, but I guess there is a third. Big toe right for cursor manipulation and big toe left for click/select.

Ever since I ordered my SpaceSuit (It’s not a clown suit. Shut up.) off of the Space Internet, I get tons of spam. Space Spam. Mostly advertisements, natch. My feet get pretty fucking sore going through all of this Space Spam.

Poly Priaprastic UltraViagra
MindFoam
Third-Eye Contact Lenses (already got one)
Smooth Enemas (already got lots)
ShoeComputers (already got one)
ShoeComputer Printer Cartridges (huh?)
Infinite Will Pills (hmmm. . .)
ElderGod Money Scams (those fuckers)
Time-Release Time-Capsules (Time Travel Pills!).

Other spam I get includes the newsletters and other electronic dispatches from various whack-job organizations: religions, philosophies, movements, cults. Fucking MindViruses one and all. My faves are the ones from the Deicidal Reflexological Fundamentalists or, as I like to call them, The DeRFs.

For example:

Basic Precept of Deicidal Reflexological Fundamentalism
# 1 of 10:

Deicidal Reflexological Fundamentalism is a natural healing art, based on the principle that there are reflexes in the feet which correspond to every part of the body and that God once existed but He exists no longer because by promoting the natural health of the human foot and, thus, the rest of the human organism, we killed Him.

Ha ha. Check this one too:

Basic Precept of Deicidal Reflexological Fundamentalism
# 2 of 10:

In the beginning God created all feet and all non-feet, especially the feet and non-feet of the original Deicidal Reflexological Fundamentalists who went on to promote the health of all feet and through the feet, the health of various non-feet. Also, they killed God. And though God has been resurrected on several occasions (at least 3 or 4 times that we know of) we keep on killing Him.

In case you are thinking that all this DeRF stuff is off topic and I am demonstrating my distractibility thus contradicting my previous claim to infinite will power, well, I’m not.

I have recently achieved infinite will power, and this is my story.

Study questions:

  1. Feet are the unifying concept linking shoe computers with reflexology. What contrasts and commonalities are intended to be highlighted? In your answer, avoid the whole religion = past and technology = future thing because that is so played.
  2. In the previous question you were specifically instructed to avoid something. But maybe that was a trick. Hmmm? Ha ha. Just kidding.
  3. Wouldn’t it be totally cool if there were a character named Infinite Will? You know, like William? (And, oh yeah, and check this: His dick would be fucking huge!)
  4. The author/narrator has taken to peppering his tale with various precepts of the Deicidal Reflexological Fundamentalists. What up with that, yo?


Next episode: Time Travel Pills

MindFoam

Saturday, June 12th, 2004

MindFoamTM: Thoughts On the Go.

MindFoam thinks, so you don’t have to. And in its newly designed aerosal can with elongated aplicator tip, you can get instant thoughts into all sorts of hard reach inferences.

MindFoam works on tough, hard to resolve issues. Its perfect for

  • conundra
  • paradoxes
  • and even antinomies

Use ClassicMindFoam for all sorts of demonstrative reasoning and new MindFoamPlus for difficult to formalize ampliative inferences.

Sub Specie Aeternitatis 5. God Bombs.

Thursday, June 10th, 2004

Sub Specie Aeternitatis
Episode 5 of 5
God Bombs

A God Bomb is a Pint of Guiness with a shot of Holy Water in it that you chug as fast as you can while administering Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation to one of your temporal lobes. Compared to the nanotech touch KarenD got, TMS is like getting a sledgehammer to the side of the head.

Nikolai passes around enough “hammers” so everyone can drop their God Bombs at once. (”Hammers” are what God-Bombing kids call the Info-War II Russian Military surplus Electro-Magnetic Pulse pistols retrofitted for use as portable TMS devices. The gun barrels are so blunt and the grips are so long that they really do look like small sledgehammers.)

We get Nikolai to do a “three. . .two. . .one. . .” for us while we stand around with hands head-high and elbows out, our pints poised at our lips and our “hammer” pistols to our heads Russian-roulette style.

“. . .Go!”

It’s all snap and crack and Paul’s God Bomb goes wrong. The sharp ozone cuts through my nose cologne. With the sparking and the arcing and the quivering and the bulging eyes I figure Paul for a Molotov Chihuahua.

Droppin’ God Bombs while wearing third-eye contact lenses was perhaps not the best idea in the world. My telepathic link to Paul makes my God Bomb blow up in exactly the same way. Not being an electrophobe, though, I don’t wet my pants like Paul does.

I had always suspected, but now I know for sure: when God Bombs go wrong your mental state gets a mile high before the arc resistance is sufficient for the ionized gas to quit conducting.

We’ve blown a hole in the ceiling of the bar and in the ceilings of all of the units above. No one above us was hurt, fortunately (and how weird would it be if a plane got hit?) but they angrily peer down through their smoldering holes to see the source of the bolt from below.

Here’s what there is to see:

The Slaughterhouse boys’ scalps are burnt bald but we’re otherwise relatively undamaged. The Karens’ hairs stick out in all directions. KarenC is in ecstasy but I’m guessing more from the electro-pyrotechnic display than from any seizure induced unity with the Oneness of All Being. She’s stomping her boots and clapping her hands like a little girl. The other Karens are a bit more dramatic. KarenB is flopping around on the floor making high-pitched dolphin squeals and KarenD is down on the floor with her trying to hump her leg. Though their reactions are various, it’s quite clear that Karens B through D are having a fine time.

I’m the first to notice that things aren’t looking so hot for KarenA. I’m shocked at the sight of her.

Slaughterhouse Paul: Ugh, with the puns.

Slaughterhouse Pete: You telepathically said “ugh.”

I yell, “Care-en-uh” and my concern is sincere, though it’s a little too late for that now. No one saw it happen, but KarenA yanked on her ninja brain strings.

It’s only now that my temporal lobe seizure kicks in and it’s only now that I actually notice the other customers, the ones that are neither Slaughterhouses nor Karens. They scramble out the bar clutching their jacket fronts closed against the cold, their shoulders hunched to pinched points, muttering something about the unfortunate antics of “the neurotrash.”

Cold air blows in from the opened doors making steam rise from the front of Paul’s pants. The bridesmaids start sobbing. Maybe in a different frame of mind I’d feel bad and sad. I look around, thinking about this crew, the Karens’ loss and the imminent sorrow of KarenA’s unmentioned family and unnamed fiance, but I’m deep in the grip of my seizure. The gaze that falls upon the pissed pants, Paul’s steam rising toward the scorched ceiling holes, the blood and the Guiness and the brains on the floor, the crying of the Karens — this gaze is the gaze of God. I see it all as exactly where it all has to be. I see it all sub specie aeternitatis. And it is good.

It’s all good.


© 2004 Pete Mandik