Virtual Bohemia

Blognovels by Anonymoses Hyperlincoln

Saturday, January 08, 2005

Chapter 13 - Dead Earth Society

November 8, 2004

Well, here it is, at the close of day, the close of week. Monday morning, already. Early early Monday morning. And I have been writing like a fool today. Wrote more today than I have on any other day, by far. I wonder if you know where I did all this writing. Not sure if I care one way or the other. Or whether or not I should care. Suffice it to say that the deed was done, and I’m not going to fix it. Not at this hour. If I do anything else it will either be hitting the sack, or selling my body on the streets. You’d be surprised how much this old frame can draw…when I have the right dress on.

Oh! Didn’t I tell you? I am a desperate housewife by night. The husband is such a sofa spud, and his wang is so intumescible these days that I see little, literally little, to stay home for. And so I go out. I’m not saying it is franchisable. I’m just saying that there is nothing you can do about it.

I can see that I am going to have to spend more time on this subject. It is just going to have to wait until I kind find the time and energy, and words, to splain it to ya proper.

Creating a new world. Heaven on Earth. That is our mission. But how? When? Where? What? Why? I don’t really feel like answering those questions right now. I feel like making some coffee. Let me take that back. I feel like drinking some coffee. I’d really rather someone else make it. But I guess I’ll make do. BRB…
Automatic Pencil

Letter to Nanowrimorons: (Meant endearingly, as I too am included within the set.)

Wow! You guys are writing some really cool crap. No, not "crap". Too pejorative. And "cool"...what a dated and dessicated term. And "you guys"? Are many not women? And what is this "are writing" Sh*t? Writing? Composing maybe. Crafting. But writing? People write grocery lists. God I'm so conflicted. Must be the debauchery...

I do like what I've read. Just don't know how to say it, all proper, and Sh*t. Grajiated da fith grade doe. Got me a pleroma!

So yes. Next time. Forward-looking.

Trolling for Zs...

I thought HD's hut was more like a mile away. Let me retrace steps... His mama lived in downtown Concord, right? Maybe it is five miles. Huh!

Glad this writing, I mean crafting, sharpens the mind so. I don't know if I'll ever eat hoecake again!

Peace through laundry,

To which I got this response:

Re: Charlotte Writers!
a bare two miles away from Concord, which he had visited frequently during his stay at the pond ...

Sure it was Concord. Having my own sleep deprivation problems, Nonny.

Prompting this pre-caffienated response from moi:

Re: Charlotte Writers!
He probly cawt the T...laisy bastert. Dem dam transexudentalists wuz awl into pubic trance-spurtation.
Trane bout ran thoo 'is dayem rockpile up air. Myta cawtit. Jumptit or sumpm. He wunt rite ya no. Massochoices libral an awl. Probly forst to live out dare. Sinnin as day dew.

How cum you no so mutch bout dat arear? Yuadam Yanker?
Wunnadem ghostwriters on da storm? Lotta suddeners is writers i heared. You look New Yawk to me doe. Upskate. Skinny Atlas, fingerleaks. Manliest. Woodstick.

Needa cuppa JFG, java for guzzlin'... for potable redneckdom.

How goethe?

Carpe caffiene!

Oh joy! Now I see that there are going to be a host of local writers writing about the current unpleasantness…

Re: Anybody else doing politically motivated writing?
I think it might be foolhardy to do otherwise...

Here we are, in the most important month in our lifetime. That is, if you think this election and the outcome are the most important.

So I'm gonna put it all on ignore, and write about the History of Sand. Politics gives me diarrhea. Bush is God, and everyone should just suck it up and genuflect before the Savior.

But seriously...I am, so to say, WAY excreted that so many Nanos are involving the current coup within their work. I certainly will and am. Hell, I've been doing so online since '94, why stop now? It is in my bones, my marrow, my bile, my snot. Well, maybe not my snot. Mucus. Yes. A much nicer word. Pen boy! Pen!

One fun thing I am writing about now involves the wife of a Bill Jamesian. Bill James is no William James. Anyway, she secretly votes for Kerry, and more secretly slips out with her wifely friends and, so to say, miscegenate, gangwise. This turns into an addiction. And a pandemic. Wild risibility ensues.

Of all the Nano novels being born, the political ones are top on my list. Keep me in mind when it comes time to sell...
And sign.

Do it! It needs to be done!

The 25 most important lessons so far

Progress Charlotte was holding its annual picnic at French Park, on Hippie Hill, on August 13th this year so as to coincide with two major events; Valenween and The International Festival of Safe Sex, which was to take place this year at an unpublicized naturist resort somewhere in the mountains of North Carolina.
Valenween, for those of you who do not know, is a fairly new, underground holiday which serves several aims. For one, it occurs at the midpoint between the two holidays that are most distant from one another. At least that’s what the creators claim. I’m not convinced this is the case. But who cares what I think? I am low totem on the man pole…which reminds me of a poem I have yet to write, called:
Low Totem on the Man Pole
I dunno. Has a ring to it. A pregnancy. How bout that! Just like a marriage!
So Valenween is a break from the doldrums. But it is also a break from the heat in many places. And since this is the case, it has been advised that people celebrate Valenween…out of doors. And at night. Get out of the house, turn off all the electricity, and air conditioners, and discover and mingle with your neighbors. Party down! Which leads me to another reason for Valenween…
What is the problem with Valentine’s day? Answer? It is so damn cold.
What is the problem with Halloween? Answer? It is often so damn cold!
On neither occasion would it dawn on most people to shed their clothes, although some people brave it out on Halloween.
August nights are different. It behooves one to shed their clothes on Valenween, and it too is encouraged. How far you go is up to you. Many just wear bikinis, teddies, thongs and such. Some actually bear all. Last year a few guys and gals painted their nude bodies and wore only paint. It is expected that that will actually be the norm this year, but we shall see. There is supposed to be some Valenweenies at French Park this year, and so the interplay of Valenweenies, Safesexers, and Charlotte progressives should bear some eyesome entertainment. A value at thrice the jack.

Iraq and Vietnam

There was a joke going around at the time of the 2004 election that went like this:

Q. What’s the difference between Iraq and Vietnam?
A. Bush had a plan for getting out of Vietnam.

Tell me lies about Iraqnam
(based on a poem by Adrian Mitchell)

I was run over by an SUV one day.
Ever since the Selection I've walked this way
So stick my legs in Hummers
Tell me lies about Iraqnam.

Heard the Wingnut screaming with hate
Couldn't find myself so I went back to Slate
So fill my ears with Limbaugh
Stick my legs in Hummers
Tell me lies about Iraqnam.

Every time I shut my eyes all I see is Plames
Made a blog entry and I carved all the names*
So coat my eyes with football
Fill my ears with Limbaugh
Stick my legs in Hummers
Tell me lies about Iraqnam.

I smell someone learning, hope it's just my brains.
They're only dropping daisy-cutters and daisy-chains
So stuff my nose with cocaine
Coat my eyes with football
Fill my ears with Limbaugh
Stick my legs in Hummers
Tell me lies about Iraqnam.

Where were you at the time of the crime?
Down in Camp David drinking slime
So chain my tongue with Coors Lite
Stuff my nose with cocaine
Coat my eyes with football
Fill my ears with Limbaugh
Stick my legs in Hummers
Tell me lies about Iraqnam.

You put your bombers in, you lock your conscience out,
You take the human being and you pissed it all about
So scrub my skin with Oil
Chain my tongue with Coors Lite
Stuff my nose with cocaine
Coat my eyes with football
Fill my ears with Limbaugh
Stick my legs in Hummers
Tell me lies about Iraqnam.

November 10, 2004
Arafat is Dead

I knew this month would bring big surprises, and although this one was not all that unexpected, still, one may sometimes misunderestimate, as the President says, the effects one’s death can have on the world. In this case, I cannot imagine there will not be all manner of weirdness happening.

Birthdays and their Meanings

Liz Dart was planning on letting her birthday go unnoticed this year. She was a 10 of clubs, and was also entering into the latter half of her 40s, and yet had the heart of someone half her age. Temperamentally, she was an INTJ, although her J was kept in check by healthy doses of alcohol, which had the effect of loosening her moral strictures, which she might otherwise be inclined to foist upon those with whom she had public intercourse.

November 11, 2004
Veterans Day in Veteran’s Park

Veteran’s Day is upon us, and since it is, I think it only appropriate to consider what it means to be a veteran, especially now that we are, once again, at war.

Dead Earth Society

A group of yahoos from beyond the blue oasis of Mecklenburg had formed a group called Dead Earth Society which they claimed “provides a alternative to all the world’s bullSh*t.” They believed in a flat earth. They wanted all poets dead. And they thought the earth to be dead, and free for our taking. The Dead Earth Society had finally crystallized their ideas into a newly released book called “Yourn Kampf”, which promised to be the hick version of Hitler’s classic misanthropic exhibit-A.
To celebrate the publishing of the book, the Society has rented out Buford’s Fireworks Shack and were holding a bonfire, replete with hot dogs, marshmallows, and hand-wrapped baking taters, which you could toss into the fire and fish out later with a stick. If you don’t mind lobsterpicking minute boluses of edible starch from bituminous coal swaddled in blackened aluminum, you’re in for quite a culinary surprise.
I was there to cover the event for my blog, which was dedicated to such things. I called the blog “Southern Picaresque”, and it was pretty much true to the name.
“What’s so picturesque ‘bout dis dam place I don’t know…” said Susie Sue Tanner who had motorcycled in from Gaffney with her boyfriend, “Meatstick”, who had gone to take a leak behind the dumpster.
Shaking his dick as he walked, Meatstick, who had overheard our conversation, reiterated his bitch’s concern. “Yeah. You cawl this picturesque? You outta see ire trailor community back in Gaffney. Now dat dair is some eye candy ryt dair. Don’t git no purdier dan dat.”
Adoringly, Susie Sue wiped the tobacco off the sides of his mouth, and gave him a big hug. “Yeah, we liv’n in heb’m. Hell, the seb’m eleb’m zonely a pisspot away. 24 ires! Don’t git no more uptown dan dat!”
“An thair coffee. Shuuuweee! I’d crap a half mile in cubic parallographs to piss my mornin lips across the warm oceans o’ dat Sh*t, I’ll tell ryt nah!” Meatstick slapped his knee with one hand while gymastically mining boogage with his other, pinky extended as propriety dictates.
As in a swoon, my enthrallitude was bisected by the sudden tonitruation of conflatulence. And any scientist knows that conflatuation is strictly verboten around fireworks, as there have been incidents where smoking lounges have gone up in a puff after some Mexican food produced an incidence of conflatulation, and coupled with the tight quarters, and faulty air circulation, produced conditions ripe for such a conflagration. And the flashpoint created a whoof! that could be heard for miles around. Dogs went nuts. Cats were no where to be found. Those close were rendered impuberal, hairless, by the shear heat of the blast. It was a wonder that the only people who died were those trampled in the stampede of fearful hominids. Nothing worse than fearful hominids. Nothing to fear but fearful hominids. Fear creates enmity. The need to react. Self-control suffers. Stampedes occur. Unwise retaliations. Love does not retaliate. Fear is not love. As John says, “Perfect Love casteth out all Fear.” We should cast out all fear-mongers.

Then another explosion. Then another. And another. Then a series of explosions. Suddenly I could see that something had gone terribly wrong. A chain reaction of explosions erupted as boxes of fireworks submitted to the surmounting heat and fire. Chaos and confusion broke out. Hominids began panicking.

“Well, I ain’t staying around here!” I thought, and quickly ran back to my car and drove off. Ten Years After was playing on 95.7 “The Ride”.

“I’d love to change the world…but I don’t know what to do…”

“What am I doing? Once upon a time, I wanted to change the world, but I didn’t know what to do. Here I am in a situation where I can change the world, and I do know what to do. And yet I am driving away from the problem, not toward it…
“Fuck it.” Changing the channel. “I’ll yell at Foolwell instead.”

Foolwell was a wingnut wacko, sometimes called “The Prick in the Balloon” because of his weird habit of air ballooning overtop festivals and such, and preaching the gospel according to Foolwell…which always seemed to emphasize the “giving him money” aspect. And one often wondered whether or not he had done what Ben Franklin once did, which was to insert his own bogus book into the Bible, print it up, as he was most able, and then argue points with people, then show the proof from the bible which he would then produce, then open to the Book of David, the Book of Jedidiah, or some other such concoction. Foolwell was not above such antics. In fact he might do it for purely selfish, financial reasons. Foolwell loved his Mammoney!
And now Foolwell had a radio show. Why it’s on now!

“My brothers and sisters. Pray with me now that we might once and for all end the scourge of Liberalism from our God-given Nation. And may the bell of Nationalism ring out on Tuesday in that voting booth, when you vote for every Republican in sight, and if you don’t know which ones I am talking about dear sinners, please call in, or visit our website at dubya dubya dubya (Aw God I cannot get enough of that blessed name!)then ya punch in God’s America Patriots dot com, and we’ll send you a list of people whom you can trust. Good American stock. No Frenchifried girlie men or metrosexuals either. Stout men. Meat eaters. Men who like sports and Nascar. God’s kinda men.
So to help our cause I need you to help me. You see I have been talking to God and he told me that you can help me expand his voice by expanding his mouth, which is my mouth, since he talks through me, and the way you do that is you pay for it. You stretch that mouth. You stretch open that wallet. And let God out. Let God outta yer wallets, good folks, good clean Christian folks, I know you wanna do it! Do it for Jaezus.
I’m praying now. Praying that you feel God talkin’ to ya. And he’s talkin’ to ya. And he’s saying, he’s saying…I’m getting his signal now…he’s saying:

Ana nathrok, oefess bethod dathial thaienveigh.

My God! What the Hell was that?

Suddenly commotion could be heard coming through the radio, and Foolwell seemed strange, disjointed, in shock.

A voice is heard, which sounds to be a voice in the control room. Undiscernable.

But I didn’t say that, Bobbie. I mean, it was coming through me.

Anonymoses was amazed that they hadn’t cut the signal. But he was even more amused by the fact that Foolwell, who professes to having God speak through him, totally freaks out when God actually does!

“What else is on?” Anonymoses was A.D.D. Attention deficet disorder. Spoze ya figerd dat out awlredy. Probly awlso figerd I wuz gonna slip bak into da owld tawk, venchully. Rite? Haint gunna duit! No haint! Caint! Aint got no time!
Anonymoses heard voices too, but they were from the deepest, most inbred backwaters of Appalachia. He thought back to that Emergency Room visit in Stumptown…overhearing talk of an implant.


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