Mungrunchers at lifespeed.

Your update is complete. I am a fucking menu.


First Prime: A weel in Cleveland!
Second Prime: 2 weels in Cleveland!

Here's the deal: we're still here. At some point I think an ad agency decided that we should all still be here, and we were like: "cool". It could be like that, or at least in a slightly more coherent sense.

Y'know, because you see movies like the matrix and stuff are like "yeah, i could totally be a computer programmed dream." Pretty sure those guys got it right.

And there are some nomads, somewhere who used to herd sheep and ideologically believed they were their nihilist prophets property. The surrounding government put fences around their livestock, and showed the men airplanes. Things will never be the same.

And past that, there are formal introductions: like "Hello," and "Hello,". And this is still accepted, even in todays multicultural rage.

Boys, I'm not asking for a kaleidoscope. not buried sentences or patient raconteur. Just building a rapport. With an 'e'. But you should have already known that. "If we see the progress bar, in our goggles, of our liv-"

"Damnit, Jensen! I'm an attorney, not a raconteur. Are there any other options?"

Of course there were options. Jensen had only been out of the attorney army for 12 days. There he had subsisted for what seemed like years on spoonfuls of wallpaper paste and chili powder. Attorney armies were tough in this day and age.

I sensed movement above my head and to my right!

I am reminded of cliff divers in Acapulco!




I feel the lurch in my own stomach as if I were falling and realize that I am actually watching myself sitting in a surgery at 2:00 am with drool on my chin and a hissing Nitrous mask in my lap.

I am a little embarrassed by the setting and sweet sludge of drugs involved; it seems like something which should have happened out in the middle of the dessert after fasting for a week and eating Peyote and people on 'Peyote'. Sometimes I think these visions find us, despite all our efforts in surgery.




Kremlin, please don't try this at home. Experienced driver on closed miasma.

Actually, I have wasted many years of precious life-death using a variety of drugs responsibly. My advice is to stick to the carnivorous plants and be careful with them. I'm very grateful for the insights gained, but cannot close without quoting Henri Michaud:

Hey everyone!
O! I have nothing to brag about: Small! Small!
And if one were to hold me,
One would make of me what one wished.

Tinticture of Dickcheese.

Lets Haiku Time!



I need advisors,
Its "to eat or not to eat"
The brains of sparrow



Look! The homeless man
Todays blanket, tomorrows dinner
To mans best friend (dog)



Hateful documents?
I am afraid so, good sir.
Until the arraignment!


Jesus, only the
biggest heartflob in the world.
I mean you, vincent.

Its a civil war.

Its in the news and papers everywhere, people. This country is being plagued by dissidents. The world doesnt seem to want to take notice, they care that the airport is back open. The germans are happy, in their ugly ways of the veins of the sex-trade opened again. The ideals being paraded around, puritanical, mostly, but I think I see the real truth.

The factions have broken all over, there aren't many who aren't rearing up for the conflict. The north siders have built their army on the backs of pygmy elephants struggling through the jungles, saddled with decorative spears, and cheap taiwanese speakers blasting the interminable bland techno that developing countries love. The factions are built to defend their own jungles, starved of all but the most basic staples of their diet: sugar, ginger, and rancid liquor.

The puritanical beliefs keep them away from that, but the liquor gives the elephants courage. They stamp the bottles with pictures of elephants, everything is a goddamn elephant out here. The paths through, that havn't been stomped with craggy cement blocks or sprayed with toxic pesticides, which threaten to melt the gaudy accouterments, and rebranded electronics, the real jungles hide the mounting factions.


The mountains buried by the smoke of industry, people too concerned with growth and survival than to take the arrogance that they should preserve it. This is more camouflage.

To the south I hear there are other factions, the islands overrun with fat Britons, swilling the same cheap elephant liquor with a nicer label. Folklore tells thats what make their noses grow. Cultural pomposity leaving their shirts off, arrogant, white flab roasting under peanut oil in the sun. Circled with crops of dead sandfleas, choking bite by bite the toxic white rumps.

The factions leave them be, and in fact are almost unnoticed. Mulim frogmen, wrapped in linen with scuba gear pass calmly through the waters unbeknownst to the Britons, snoring through their big fucked up teeth, mumbling about white pudding.

Indeed, the political strife in the center. The airports, was just political theatre, pawns in a war to never be described. The techno elephants, the muslim frogmen, drawing closer together, but never crossing the main paths. To keep the tranquility, to keep both sides funded quietly, to keep both ends sustained, oxygen tanks full and elephants drunk. How else could it be.


Im in the city. A large one, up at the north end. I havn't seen elephants. There is a tourist trap nearby where I can pay to watch them fuck. I havn't taken up that offer yet. The city is bustling as always, chock full of peasant women too busy working to try to be pretty, the men too busy catcalling the white people to hustle to waste on the women.

In the city they dont know about the war, what the war to be is. The people who write the papers tell me its political theatre. The yellow jackets, and the red jackets, who all scream the same words, but want different things. Its probably not that.

The future, the past is all war, war and resources. War only makes sense when there is money to be made. There is no money in drunk elephants, no oil in scuba muslims. We pine, and bitch about the inconvenience, cast a worried eye to the endless charades.

"At least we don't have these problems in South Africa".



The charades moved on, but threatened to cut the only real resource. The corpulent westerners, who drink down the elephant poison.

It might just be under my feet. Or scurrying around in the walls in front of me. I couldn't tell anymore. Cities are all the same in the end. Washed up gentrified restaurants selling the safe parts of animals. Always an odd linger of farts in the air.

The great american cities all smell like farts, too. I can't think of one that doesnt. The europeans were built on their own shit, damn near wiped them out. A civilization has arrived when they can hold hands and say "our cities smell of farts, the equal of Paris or New York".

Farts are still a better smell than gunpowder and blood. Leave that to the jungles, to the mountains, the mosquitos and elephants. The man made ponds skimming with floating fish. The paths carved by solvents from the coke huts.

You can hear development, can tell when it draws closer. Its the same repetitive techno beat wherever you go. Cheap to make, inoffensive, but equally terrible. A lure to westerners, out for a good time with no taste, but lots of resources.

You wont hear the elephants until its too late.

Stranded with the oriental mind.

I read a book recently. It was by a halfrican-canadian.
It was about success.
It was supposed to tell me how I could be a success.
Instead it told me I wasnt.
That I wouldnt be.
But that it wasn't my fault.
It was the year I was born. Maybe even the day.
It had pages of stories, of koreans who would rather crash airplanes and send hundreds of people to the hell of burning wreckage than be slapped by their bosses.
It told me of robber barons and modern capitalists, and they all had the same birthday, of Jewish lawyers from public schools who overtook the nords.

They all had the same birthday.


He said orientals had better numbers and could count quicker. That they could hold more numbers in their heads, that rice paddys made them good at math.

The chinese worked harder because they had to. It was the oriental mind.

Occidentalism is my plague. I dont have a laundry, or a small grocery to stake a claim. I dont have the right birthday. I dont have the oriental mind. I couldn't level a rice paddy. I can't wake before dawn.

The great oriental mind. The suncrunchers. The jew-laywers and white monks in the birthday club, merrily toasting each others good fortune. The oriental mind will soon overtake them. They have no artifices, no need for dialog, simply a lifetime of backbreaking servitude to the sunken marshes of rice.

The nords lost, didn't they? Tall men with cold blue eyes and starchy suits. Lined row-upon row, whiter than their teeth. The nords have the wrong calendar, the wrong birthdate. They organized, standing in pyramids on each others shoulders, building scaffolds of nord, short-cropped hair tousled by the wind.

The nords stood strong with each other: a human crystal, walls of aryan blood lashed together for the benefit of nords. They crumbled, they fell, succumbing to the oriental mind. Helplessly twisting, their woolen suits tearing, strong bones crushed to meal.

Maybe the world was better off.

Orientals can't all do math. At least not the ones I know. They all count in english, too.

The lawyers, the Jewish ones, I hear live in New York. I dont know any of them. They didnt crumble the nords, they stayed well away, they built their human monuments low to the ground, and out of the way of the nord towers. They held hands and shed law, weeping, bleeding pages of what they could grab. I am told that they too were occidental.

Who owns the world, these days? The ones who make the television sets. In the orient, there are paper doll factories, stuffed to the gills with orientals making entertaining pirouhettes, stuffing them in the televisions to be shipped to us.

My occidental blood is diluted, I am a mongrel, ethnically and culturally. I have been exposed, as I suspect you have, to the oriental mind. I have built it as a lattice in my mind, unravaged, built as twisted vines from my slow counting brain.

And it always lingers. The nords never asked me to stand on their shoulders, the jews never asked me to weep the law. The orientals sell me their overstock from their quick-counting over-farmed paddys. I gladly give it to them. My complacence will never built a nordic human tower.


I have never wanted to be a lawyer. I have never wanted to wake up and farm three hundred sixty days a year.

The halfrican-canadian had more stories, but they weren't about me. They weren't uplifting, they weren't about me or anyone like me.

We are all mongrels, we have the wrong birthdates. We, and the others like myself simply stumble drunkenly between the shoulder standers, the suncrunchers and the weeping lawyers.

We buy our rice and bury it with water and drink the rotten juice.

Until the halfrican told me, i had no idea my birthdate was wrong.

Now i know, but don't care.

He is an editor, really. A lovely job where you take other peoples ideas and give them pretty words. Its an effective job, thats how they wrote the bible.

There was a point to his musings, his well trimmed anecdotes, which all seemed to universally point to something. Vague pleasant whispers of unattainable sweetness: hope, change, access, opportunity. That self-made men come from a culture of success, and also had the right birthdate.

He ignores the crumbling nords, the jewish pornographers, the orientals covered in flaming jellied gasoline burned and buried under their paddys, as quick with math in death as in life.

Left behind is the club with the right birthday, but stilted minds, the whiskey laced vagrants who lie idly between the structures, senses too dulled to bother with the images drawn around them.

The ones who work their whole lives to be mediocre at living.

I got the book at the airport. It was better than the in-flight movie.

And the food.