P is for Pigs
Posted on Mon Jul 23 09:32:00 UTC 2007
After B. got himself arrested I somehow managed to cleave a path through the madness, I found myself a route to follow, and then I began to crawl, clawing at the walls like a drunk half-blind decommissioned pinball machine on an incredibly vicious and introspective bender, singing old broadway show tunes about how it all went wrong.
Now if you can promise to keep it just a secret between the heat of us I swear to God I will tell you the absolute and complete truth about just what happened that regret filled and windblown night. As you have probably already deduced Holmes I was not “actually” on shore leave, well if you ABSOLUTELY must know I had jumped ship, and if I was a bit more plain and honest and straightforward about my life I would probably grudgingly confess that I have been recently (to my eternal and enduring shame) dishonourably discharged from the Queens Royal Navy, Ok so you caught me out.
What do you mean I was never in the Royal Navy?
Of course, I do tend exaggerate a little. The actual real story isn't that interesting. I was working as fisherman on a Russian sea trawler when some very hurtful accusations were made and I was forced to flee for my safety. Of course they couldn't make the charges stick in court, eventually D.A. he just drop the case entirely, now won't return my phone calls. You see, your average aquatic invertebrates like the, uh, let's pick an example completely at random: the East African penis-sucking vagina jellyfish are a very difficult fish to fry forensically, they don't tend to leave much physical evidence, no fingerprints, no hair samples, seem to disincorporated themselves down to a fine brown sludge real quick if leave them for too long in the sunshine, seem to disincorporate themselves down to a fine brown sludge real quickly for no real reason anyway, and, of course, they are as a race deadly deadly allergic to the smell of mustard gas. Poor bastards.
Still, I can honestly say I never raped that fat disgusting stupid bloated skank of a jellyfish, wouldn't even touch her with a ten foot pole, well you know I'm real sorry to hear that she died recently. Oh, really? Tell me more. Hmmm, so it was slowly, and she died cold, alone, afraid, crying bitter salty tears of immense and terrible remorse? And in great great deal of incredibly torturous pain you say? And you mention that this was all drawn out over a period of several extremely excruciating days? Exquisite. Yeah that really does suck but I guess random mustard gas attacks are just an unfortunate fact of life these days, it seriously could have happened to anyone. Man I can understand her trying to kill herself with a shotgun after the endless brutal fiery pain of the gas finally got too much for her weak and fragile mind, but to only succeed in blowing half your face off while still remaining alive afterwards! Seriously weak dude. I can't believe she lived for three days in that state after that. Hahaha. Funny how things work out.
Chronic mental incontinence, the irregular prolapses of the frontal lobes I was sometimes known to suffer from, and for which I was also very often and sometimes extremely horribly teased about – sometimes almost to the point of tears -- by other members of the ships crew.
Bodily over and out into the indifferent grasp of gravity that lay like an open mouth beyond the reassuring solid metal of the safety railing, tossing me overboard like an unwanted christmas kitten out out out into the freezing black Arctic ocean, naked, without even the compassion of a simple life jacket. Not even then as I cried and yelled and pleaded for my life through the very coldest mouthful of bitter brackish salt water and all the icy choking briney ocean spray, not even then would they condescend to impart by any speech or sign that even the slightest, the most unfounded and misheard chinese whisper of a outside chance remained left at all for me.
Desperately, so desperately I searched every steel inch of their deadlocked gintrap mouths, please let me find some tiny quiver of the lips or a barely discernible slip of he tongue I thought, there must exist in one of these men the merest wraith of a rumour of human warmth that might allow some faded shade of mercy or an insubstantial ghost of remorse to gather together it's ectoplasmic essences from the four corners of the abyss and rise however briefly to light my soul from the dark and gloomy dungeons of despair! I even prayed to God himself for a lightning bolt or a heavenly angel or indeed for any hint of help at all, just the smallest driest scrap of sustenance was all I required to feed and perhaps through nourishment grow my starving hope.
But Then! Then & Still! A Final insult! Still they spat their bitter last goodbyes at me from the demonic hell deck of that thrice cursed, twice damned, most treacherous treacherous ship like barbed and poisonous darts, and in their wry smiles and jeering I saw! Yes! Oh how horrible and ghastly and very very deadly sharp the harpoons of malice can sometimes be! For in their cold dead eyes and twisted gazes I saw plainly the sincere and contemptuous wish that their words actually would have the power to puncture my skin and then make me wallow on my side like a wounded balloon animal, slowly drowning and deflating in my agony while they looked on and watched, and if their faces were razors I would be sliced up quickly into long thin strips, some for packing and some for general utility, perhaps an elegant meat bow tie or two for dining out and of course delicate and expensive ribbons and curls of cured flesh for use only on extra special occasions such as upon a rare state visit from a Royal Personage.
Oh! I would almost certainly take on too much water and probably sink down like a leaky cannonball! .
Actually that is also I lie I told myself sternly as I bounced like a cinder block down the unfamiliar city streets, crying great crocodile tears of cheap fake blood from the insincere bleeding asshole of my plastic liberal heart, senseless beating my stumpy semi-functional flippers uselessly uselessly over and over again and again against the yearning hollow cavity that lays alone and forgotten at the very cavernous epicentre of my empty wounded chest until, a miracle! I was -,at last! back at the apartment.
Which was quite fortunate actually, because being alone and intoxicated in a strange city is nearly always quite similar to my dear dead grandmothers five minutes in the microwave gasoline in an instant recipe for total and utter disaster. Fucking cops, they never seem to know how to mind their own stinking business. Those nosy-parker piglets will always seem to find some way to stick their inquisitive little snouts into your personal private feed trough, and then they will, predictably, have themselves a good solid sniff and a scratch and a roll around in the mud and filth of you. We was drinking steadily and had settled on a comfortable, gentle downhill slope, rolling gracefully like two old marshmellows down the sugar sweet tooth decay of inevitable and welcome decline, but things (almost always) (nearly inevitably) tend to start drifting a little bit sideways after a while, especially when you do occasionally forget from time to time to remember to remind yourself to keep your hands on, or even near the steering column. Seems to me life occasionally want to go altogether south for the winter, it's kinda par for the course I guess... I look away, my eyes stroll and strut drunkenly up and down the pavement, via my lecherous telepathic and leering gaze I fondle thongs, trace pantylines through the paper thin skirts of invisible women, but actually they ain't the ones that's invisible, but actually I'm the one – my vision has gone x-ray -- glance back, happen to notice that B. is being put into the handcuffs, shuffled like a mortal coil off into a waiting police car. Some mumblings about alcohol. Some kind of grotesque joke about a liquor ban violation. Who knew. Not us, obviously. Made a few polite inquiries and got myself nice big friendly police shove to the chest and a pushed away go home in compensation, not really a question, in retrospect more of a statement of intent:
“Excuse me officer, uh, I don't know if you were properly informed... I'm not precisely sure if you have yet received and read the urgent email I sent out this morning but THE STANDARD RULES DO NOT APPLY TO US”
Actually I never said that. Actually I said nothing closely, loosely, vaguely or even existentially related to or bearing even a slight passing I'm-legally-blind-and-squinting-into-a-halogen-spotlight similarity to that, even in the broadest and most universally inclusive sense
The cop simply wouldn't listen to reason and B. had to spend the night in the cells at the Pleasure of Her Majesty. Now I am not, it must be said, generally a huge fan of the constabulary. I mean I'm all for catching murderers and rapists and bicycle thieves and the like but, at least from this angle, the police certainly appear to expend far too much effort messing with the lives of fighting Joe Normal ordinary average “good cunt” model citizens like you and I and me and him. Those decent, hard working, god fearing bastard half-goat devil children of a dubious and an unknown parentage who toil tirelessly behind the scenes, often without gratitude, frequently at great spiritual risk to themselves, to make this county, nay, this world a better place.... those incredibly wonderful people such as Us, who only genuinely desire to be left alone and to be able go about our basic day-to-day activities in relative peace and calm and quiet and then to punctuate this vast and incomprehensible silence on occasion with bloody fist fights and heartfelt fireworks and the heroic self-sacrifice of those intelligent, moody and often explosive teenager rebels and maverick class clowns who so bravely gave their lives to a grand and often reckless social experiment, and who through their continual generous donations of that rich dark vein of superchilled quasi-stable magnatronic potential energy, generated in such enormous but unfortunately all to brief bursts during the raging neural storm that occurs in the tiny, almost non-existent window of time immediately after the beginnings of oxygen starvation but before total neural meltdown and the (often costly) surgical misadventure of elective sub-cerebral left hemisphere fossilization [this procedure should NEVER be performed for purely cosmetic reasons, the real and frequent risk of a sub-vegetative catatonic coma occurring in patients with an undiagnosed and quite probably asymptomatic Hemmingways condition has forced many a previously promising student of medical science to turn to “less savory” methods to fulfil his dreams.]
Generally useful and compelling results about the psychosexual nature of oxygen deprivation can be gathered across the entire spectrum of partial and total withdrawal profiles, a certain degree of “self-directed” experimentation is to be expected and (within reasonable limits) is encouraged by the faculty, Post-graduate students studying one of the “special topics” and advanced undergraduates who have a scientific, cultural or philosophical interest in what are sometimes called the “edge”, “fringe” or “theatrical” class of oxygen and orgone deprivation are strongly encouraged to consult with a senior member of staff about the nature, type and potential spiritual risks of their research before beginning any experimentation. It is EXTREMELY HIGHLY RECOMMENDED that you discuss with a member of senior staff the exact specifications of any technical and engineering requirements you will need BEFORE beginning the live test subject recruitment phase. DO NOT WASTE TEST SUBJECTS, science is not a joke, obviously there will be no more useful data to be gathered once the subject reaches the point of total synaptic collapse, except perhaps in the limited aesthetic sense or, of course, for those of you enrolled in special topic PHIL612.
Unfortunately many backward and less socially progressive jurisdictions still maintain some ridiculously antiquated ideas about the wide margins of error and safety required for non-consensual experimentations on humans . It is the position of this university that these entirely unscientific and superstitious researchers, “crackpots” basically, are in reality far more worried about possible malpractice lawsuits and certain factitious and non-existent “serious legal consequences” than they ever were about advancing genuine scientific progress.
The tabloids are packed full of “experts” and “analysts”, deceitful false prophets who often resort to using distorted statistics and “junk math” to prove their point, unfortunately for them the only method they have left available to “prove” their outrageous lies and obvious exaggerations. Resorting to common hyperbola, half-truth, hysteria and false scaremongering is socially irresponsible at best, and at worst it dangerously and potentially libellously overstates the carefully calculated risks any of these so called “undesirable transgenic mutations” ever occurring in the general population, mutations that are allegedly caused by the incredibly important psychosexual and pharmaceutical defence experiments conducted at this very university. There is certain concern amongst the school board that this could cause issues of negative publicity and loss of market share amongst the “crawls on all fours” and “functionally illiterate” sectors of our target demographic.
All parties concerned about the universities policy on human stress testing should be immediately be referred to Dr. McKiney's ground breaking 1917 paper entitled “Assessment of the Objective Medical Risks Extent In Both Real & Imagined Scenarios Of Certain Entirely Hypothetical Nervous Experiments And Upon The So Called 'Undesirable' Side-Effects Of Long Term Oxygen Reduction, Also Including A Brief Investigative Outline Of The Potential Use of Common Household Chemicals And Those FDA Approved Psychosexual And Psychoactive Contraindicators That Are Known To Exist For Oxygen And That Are Easily Available Over The Counter To The Properly Qualified Modern Experimenter” (a modern classic, still in print and available from penguin publishing)
Dr. McKiney also first pioneered the use of the now ubiquitous sony-hyundi mirco-portable whiskey distillery, this was the cheeky little miniaturised ethanol factory that so charmed and bedazzled the New York and Paris art worlds as recently as last Feburary, and as the new weapon de choice a la carte blanc avec je ne no parle le francis se se hombre iz le loco numero uno - as the French say this portable distillery has quickly become the kill-your-own-mother absolute “must have” fashion accessory of the season, the only micro-portable to ever have taken the Islamic world by storm. Any REAL suicide bomber with the slightest sense of style at all simply wouldn't be caught DEAD in anything else this summer, it also makes a great present for a angry punk or dreamy goth or perhaps as an (admitted) expensive toy for a younger mildly retarded niece or cousin. Indeed for for any radical serious about making his mark on the world this is the only revolutionary whiskey distillery to be personally signed, certified and inspected by both Fidel Castro and The Jimi Hendrix Experience.,
They hassle us and hassle us and still don't spend nearly enough time pursuing the actual, real, dangerous criminals, the really savage tied and suited untamed hooligans and the stealth thuggee killers and quiet acolytes of kali who come in the night in expensive sneakers on feet as gentle as the half-gasp half-laugh of an asphyxiated oyster choking on the irony and gagging to death on a fake pearl necklace or the raw muffled cough of a thirsty dust storm caught up in the process of cutting it's own throat like a helpless bandsaw sinking it's teeth so sorry and deep with with regret into its own plastic powercord jugular but oh just too bone dry and unlubricated and I guess I'm just far too goddamn stubborn to move or budge the slightest inch.
Here they come with their fancy store brought garrottes and look ma here it is! a total marvel of gleaming steel induced psychosis and chrome engineering! a modern sociopathic miracle of science! the diesel fuelled and completely portable six armed galloping noose, each noose arm comes in a range of muted pastel colours and swivels around completely independently on a precision balanced universal joint, created on computer and designed by pure logic from the ironclad laws of abstract mathematics, then laser cut to secret and precise specifications by the human interface experts at BMW to strangle and smother and crush and kill and suffocate with the soft roar of a blanket of sand crashing down as silent as miscarriage or that terrible wonderful pregnant half-beat pause that exists only for this short short moment between the wonderful possibility that shines and smiles the fear and innocence I always see sparkling inherent in the gangling adolescent limbs and eyes and lips of secret and unspoken crush and words expressed a hope a dream a perhaps requited lust
beat – beat – beat
oh here it is: that rotten crushing
i-think~i-might-have-crapped-my-pants-again
smell of loss and defeat and hurt and oh wow now I remember why this sucks so much as all the humiliating reality of pain and failure swells up real sad and sour and then bursts the parasite sickness of
crawl-away-now-and-die-you-fucking-loser
straight into your guts, an instantly recognizable foul taste
oh-my-god-i-suck-so-much
you used to get sometimes in the back of your throat returns immediately the very second you open your mouth and SAY ANYTHING when she's around, and you realise, and you realise as you slip like a famous spoon thief into an ancient and antique cutlery cupboard that you're just a simple dust mite falling asleep between two granite bedsheets tucked snug into a cold stone mattress that was originally carved by hand as one solid chunk of rock cut from the stolen heartwood of the very first primeval mountain ever to be framed and moulded by the mind and eye of God and like the policemen themselves we are restless and we gurgle quiet nightmares of the roar and crash of sand.
Let's state things plainly: the police are not your friends. They are not my friends. They are not here to protect you or to help little children cross the street or any of the other usual recycled newspaper bullshit. The police are the coercive arm of the government and they exist only to enforce government policy. Failure to comply with “the law” will, if you are caught or captured, bring with it the usual harsh penalties for non-cooperation, prolonged torture of both the external and internal genitalia, permanent banishment to one the dead and fire swept hellish outer demon worlds that exist only in the howling dusky twilight juxtaposition of pre-conscious and post-transincorporeal temporal states, Power flows, sincere and brutal, a straight up tough love punch from the blunt end of a chainsaw powered fuck truncheon. And if for some reason, any reason, THEY decide that they want to fuck with you they definitely most certainly can, and they will: fuck you deep up inside the ass, they can put a massive kink in your colon at any moment, at any instant or time of the month they like. As it stands you probably already break a thousand million minor pointless laws every single day without ever even realising it, every single second you are nothing more than a common criminal, a remorseless and relentless footpad committing an entire liquorice assortment of crimes and criminal acts -- one smashed plate is all it takes to be left living permanently in a state of sin.
I'll bet you four troy ounces of gold bullion that some wretched worthless “concerned citizen” type neighbour is right now peering nervously over the back fence, they could be, right now, spying on you anxiously from behind a parted sliver of drawn and quartered curtain, waiting, watching, desperately breath-less-ly eager to report any apparent irregularity or slight infraction of the rules directly to the proper authorities forthright and forthwith, thus claiming for him or her or (more likely) itself the prize, a soft quilted pincushion in heaven, a top secret awards ceremony at an undisclosed location for the informant of the month. I know! I too find the very thought that these people ACTUALLY EXIST outside the limited world of television commercials both completely bewildering and repulsive in the extreme, but we must earnestly try to not merely avert our eyes away from ugly sights if we prefer to see with clarity. It is true that my previous experiences with the police have not made for very many happy memories. Who knows what “disorderly behaviour” means anyway? To be honest I think that if we just legalised, say, everything, the crime rate would quickly plummet down to nothing.
Anyway.
I didn't manage to get my spade** on because apparently we were (and I kid you not) “too drunk” to gain entry to the bar. Too drunk! Well, I ask you. Completely ludicrous. Obviously the bouncer was just an incredibly poor judge of character.Looks like they'll hire any old kind of villainous scum, riff raff trash or human garbage to stand on the door these days. Contemplated escalating my complaint, perhaps by placing a phone call to customer services or maybe even writing an angry letter to the manager but at that late stage of the game I could barely stand upright so I decided I might have to give it a miss.
Still, they lost an extremely valuable customer that night and I hope they are very sorry for it.
I am a truly reprehensible beast: got myself drunk on other peoples booze, calmed myself down on other peoples benzos: I even smoked a nice clean hit of someone else's meth. Ended up having an interesting conversation with this chick who used to be an apprentice professional dominatrix. Four hundred dollars an hour and you don't even get a happy ending. It's crazy.
I <3 AUCKLAND
** New Zealand slang meaning to hit on or make a pass at, comes from “laying the groundwork”
Now if you can promise to keep it just a secret between the heat of us I swear to God I will tell you the absolute and complete truth about just what happened that regret filled and windblown night. As you have probably already deduced Holmes I was not “actually” on shore leave, well if you ABSOLUTELY must know I had jumped ship, and if I was a bit more plain and honest and straightforward about my life I would probably grudgingly confess that I have been recently (to my eternal and enduring shame) dishonourably discharged from the Queens Royal Navy, Ok so you caught me out.
What do you mean I was never in the Royal Navy?
Of course, I do tend exaggerate a little. The actual real story isn't that interesting. I was working as fisherman on a Russian sea trawler when some very hurtful accusations were made and I was forced to flee for my safety. Of course they couldn't make the charges stick in court, eventually D.A. he just drop the case entirely, now won't return my phone calls. You see, your average aquatic invertebrates like the, uh, let's pick an example completely at random: the East African penis-sucking vagina jellyfish are a very difficult fish to fry forensically, they don't tend to leave much physical evidence, no fingerprints, no hair samples, seem to disincorporated themselves down to a fine brown sludge real quick if leave them for too long in the sunshine, seem to disincorporate themselves down to a fine brown sludge real quickly for no real reason anyway, and, of course, they are as a race deadly deadly allergic to the smell of mustard gas. Poor bastards.
Still, I can honestly say I never raped that fat disgusting stupid bloated skank of a jellyfish, wouldn't even touch her with a ten foot pole, well you know I'm real sorry to hear that she died recently. Oh, really? Tell me more. Hmmm, so it was slowly, and she died cold, alone, afraid, crying bitter salty tears of immense and terrible remorse? And in great great deal of incredibly torturous pain you say? And you mention that this was all drawn out over a period of several extremely excruciating days? Exquisite. Yeah that really does suck but I guess random mustard gas attacks are just an unfortunate fact of life these days, it seriously could have happened to anyone. Man I can understand her trying to kill herself with a shotgun after the endless brutal fiery pain of the gas finally got too much for her weak and fragile mind, but to only succeed in blowing half your face off while still remaining alive afterwards! Seriously weak dude. I can't believe she lived for three days in that state after that. Hahaha. Funny how things work out.
Chronic mental incontinence, the irregular prolapses of the frontal lobes I was sometimes known to suffer from, and for which I was also very often and sometimes extremely horribly teased about – sometimes almost to the point of tears -- by other members of the ships crew.
Bodily over and out into the indifferent grasp of gravity that lay like an open mouth beyond the reassuring solid metal of the safety railing, tossing me overboard like an unwanted christmas kitten out out out into the freezing black Arctic ocean, naked, without even the compassion of a simple life jacket. Not even then as I cried and yelled and pleaded for my life through the very coldest mouthful of bitter brackish salt water and all the icy choking briney ocean spray, not even then would they condescend to impart by any speech or sign that even the slightest, the most unfounded and misheard chinese whisper of a outside chance remained left at all for me.
Desperately, so desperately I searched every steel inch of their deadlocked gintrap mouths, please let me find some tiny quiver of the lips or a barely discernible slip of he tongue I thought, there must exist in one of these men the merest wraith of a rumour of human warmth that might allow some faded shade of mercy or an insubstantial ghost of remorse to gather together it's ectoplasmic essences from the four corners of the abyss and rise however briefly to light my soul from the dark and gloomy dungeons of despair! I even prayed to God himself for a lightning bolt or a heavenly angel or indeed for any hint of help at all, just the smallest driest scrap of sustenance was all I required to feed and perhaps through nourishment grow my starving hope.
But Then! Then & Still! A Final insult! Still they spat their bitter last goodbyes at me from the demonic hell deck of that thrice cursed, twice damned, most treacherous treacherous ship like barbed and poisonous darts, and in their wry smiles and jeering I saw! Yes! Oh how horrible and ghastly and very very deadly sharp the harpoons of malice can sometimes be! For in their cold dead eyes and twisted gazes I saw plainly the sincere and contemptuous wish that their words actually would have the power to puncture my skin and then make me wallow on my side like a wounded balloon animal, slowly drowning and deflating in my agony while they looked on and watched, and if their faces were razors I would be sliced up quickly into long thin strips, some for packing and some for general utility, perhaps an elegant meat bow tie or two for dining out and of course delicate and expensive ribbons and curls of cured flesh for use only on extra special occasions such as upon a rare state visit from a Royal Personage.
Oh! I would almost certainly take on too much water and probably sink down like a leaky cannonball! .
Actually that is also I lie I told myself sternly as I bounced like a cinder block down the unfamiliar city streets, crying great crocodile tears of cheap fake blood from the insincere bleeding asshole of my plastic liberal heart, senseless beating my stumpy semi-functional flippers uselessly uselessly over and over again and again against the yearning hollow cavity that lays alone and forgotten at the very cavernous epicentre of my empty wounded chest until, a miracle! I was -,at last! back at the apartment.
Which was quite fortunate actually, because being alone and intoxicated in a strange city is nearly always quite similar to my dear dead grandmothers five minutes in the microwave gasoline in an instant recipe for total and utter disaster. Fucking cops, they never seem to know how to mind their own stinking business. Those nosy-parker piglets will always seem to find some way to stick their inquisitive little snouts into your personal private feed trough, and then they will, predictably, have themselves a good solid sniff and a scratch and a roll around in the mud and filth of you. We was drinking steadily and had settled on a comfortable, gentle downhill slope, rolling gracefully like two old marshmellows down the sugar sweet tooth decay of inevitable and welcome decline, but things (almost always) (nearly inevitably) tend to start drifting a little bit sideways after a while, especially when you do occasionally forget from time to time to remember to remind yourself to keep your hands on, or even near the steering column. Seems to me life occasionally want to go altogether south for the winter, it's kinda par for the course I guess... I look away, my eyes stroll and strut drunkenly up and down the pavement, via my lecherous telepathic and leering gaze I fondle thongs, trace pantylines through the paper thin skirts of invisible women, but actually they ain't the ones that's invisible, but actually I'm the one – my vision has gone x-ray -- glance back, happen to notice that B. is being put into the handcuffs, shuffled like a mortal coil off into a waiting police car. Some mumblings about alcohol. Some kind of grotesque joke about a liquor ban violation. Who knew. Not us, obviously. Made a few polite inquiries and got myself nice big friendly police shove to the chest and a pushed away go home in compensation, not really a question, in retrospect more of a statement of intent:
“Excuse me officer, uh, I don't know if you were properly informed... I'm not precisely sure if you have yet received and read the urgent email I sent out this morning but THE STANDARD RULES DO NOT APPLY TO US”
Actually I never said that. Actually I said nothing closely, loosely, vaguely or even existentially related to or bearing even a slight passing I'm-legally-blind-and-squinting-into-a-halogen-spotlight similarity to that, even in the broadest and most universally inclusive sense
The cop simply wouldn't listen to reason and B. had to spend the night in the cells at the Pleasure of Her Majesty. Now I am not, it must be said, generally a huge fan of the constabulary. I mean I'm all for catching murderers and rapists and bicycle thieves and the like but, at least from this angle, the police certainly appear to expend far too much effort messing with the lives of fighting Joe Normal ordinary average “good cunt” model citizens like you and I and me and him. Those decent, hard working, god fearing bastard half-goat devil children of a dubious and an unknown parentage who toil tirelessly behind the scenes, often without gratitude, frequently at great spiritual risk to themselves, to make this county, nay, this world a better place.... those incredibly wonderful people such as Us, who only genuinely desire to be left alone and to be able go about our basic day-to-day activities in relative peace and calm and quiet and then to punctuate this vast and incomprehensible silence on occasion with bloody fist fights and heartfelt fireworks and the heroic self-sacrifice of those intelligent, moody and often explosive teenager rebels and maverick class clowns who so bravely gave their lives to a grand and often reckless social experiment, and who through their continual generous donations of that rich dark vein of superchilled quasi-stable magnatronic potential energy, generated in such enormous but unfortunately all to brief bursts during the raging neural storm that occurs in the tiny, almost non-existent window of time immediately after the beginnings of oxygen starvation but before total neural meltdown and the (often costly) surgical misadventure of elective sub-cerebral left hemisphere fossilization [this procedure should NEVER be performed for purely cosmetic reasons, the real and frequent risk of a sub-vegetative catatonic coma occurring in patients with an undiagnosed and quite probably asymptomatic Hemmingways condition has forced many a previously promising student of medical science to turn to “less savory” methods to fulfil his dreams.]
Generally useful and compelling results about the psychosexual nature of oxygen deprivation can be gathered across the entire spectrum of partial and total withdrawal profiles, a certain degree of “self-directed” experimentation is to be expected and (within reasonable limits) is encouraged by the faculty, Post-graduate students studying one of the “special topics” and advanced undergraduates who have a scientific, cultural or philosophical interest in what are sometimes called the “edge”, “fringe” or “theatrical” class of oxygen and orgone deprivation are strongly encouraged to consult with a senior member of staff about the nature, type and potential spiritual risks of their research before beginning any experimentation. It is EXTREMELY HIGHLY RECOMMENDED that you discuss with a member of senior staff the exact specifications of any technical and engineering requirements you will need BEFORE beginning the live test subject recruitment phase. DO NOT WASTE TEST SUBJECTS, science is not a joke, obviously there will be no more useful data to be gathered once the subject reaches the point of total synaptic collapse, except perhaps in the limited aesthetic sense or, of course, for those of you enrolled in special topic PHIL612.
[ Practical interpersonal ethics for surgical researchers, a brief outline is included below for those interested, a more complete summary is available in the Philosophy students guidebook.
A 'hands on jump in and get dirty' introduction to understanding the fluid ever changing nature of modern medical morality in this often complex, very high stress and frequently ethically ambitious cut-every-corner-you-can dog-eat-dog-eat-dog world of results driven performance based surgical research. Practical, realistic surgical experience, performed live “in the field” in actual public hospitals will quickly sketch for the student in broad thick brush strokes a rough outline of the many common moral dilemmas encountered in the surgical research field today. Students will be expected to quickly learn and adapt to the dominant corporate values of moral expediency and no-nonsense pragmatic ethical compromise. You will discover the overwhelming importance of intellectual flexibility, learn how to avoid becoming too “ethically rigid” and find out how to get yourself out of that difficult “ethical rut” .
( oh, and if you are one of those “braniacs” who think it sounds “all to easy” a few extra difficult real life ethical “mind twisters” are available to solve for extra credit, for those especially advanced or adventurous students a series of real blood and guts conscience crushing morally brutal “nut busters” are also available on expression of interest. Go talk to your professor of elective microsurgery for more details – GENUINE INQUIRIES ONLY, NO TIME WASTERS PLEASE! )
The second half of the course will focus on modern surgical methods for the transcendence of physical pain and suffering. We will focus on the importance of recent discoveries by noted linguist Noam Chomsky who has recently deconstructed Kants famous work “Critique Of Pure Reason” to reveal a new, ethically transgressive surgical subtext, previous unknown until Chomsky published his ground breaking research paper in the well respected journal of experimental forth wave post-feminist semiotic studies, “S1GNS, KUNTZ &T4BLECL0THS”. Later in the semester students will also discuss Thomas Aquinas' promising early attempts to develop a primitive form of modern neurosurgery, and also the various reasons for his subsequent spectacular and very public failure to achieve his goal ]
Unfortunately many backward and less socially progressive jurisdictions still maintain some ridiculously antiquated ideas about the wide margins of error and safety required for non-consensual experimentations on humans . It is the position of this university that these entirely unscientific and superstitious researchers, “crackpots” basically, are in reality far more worried about possible malpractice lawsuits and certain factitious and non-existent “serious legal consequences” than they ever were about advancing genuine scientific progress.
The tabloids are packed full of “experts” and “analysts”, deceitful false prophets who often resort to using distorted statistics and “junk math” to prove their point, unfortunately for them the only method they have left available to “prove” their outrageous lies and obvious exaggerations. Resorting to common hyperbola, half-truth, hysteria and false scaremongering is socially irresponsible at best, and at worst it dangerously and potentially libellously overstates the carefully calculated risks any of these so called “undesirable transgenic mutations” ever occurring in the general population, mutations that are allegedly caused by the incredibly important psychosexual and pharmaceutical defence experiments conducted at this very university. There is certain concern amongst the school board that this could cause issues of negative publicity and loss of market share amongst the “crawls on all fours” and “functionally illiterate” sectors of our target demographic.
All parties concerned about the universities policy on human stress testing should be immediately be referred to Dr. McKiney's ground breaking 1917 paper entitled “Assessment of the Objective Medical Risks Extent In Both Real & Imagined Scenarios Of Certain Entirely Hypothetical Nervous Experiments And Upon The So Called 'Undesirable' Side-Effects Of Long Term Oxygen Reduction, Also Including A Brief Investigative Outline Of The Potential Use of Common Household Chemicals And Those FDA Approved Psychosexual And Psychoactive Contraindicators That Are Known To Exist For Oxygen And That Are Easily Available Over The Counter To The Properly Qualified Modern Experimenter” (a modern classic, still in print and available from penguin publishing)
Dr. McKiney also first pioneered the use of the now ubiquitous sony-hyundi mirco-portable whiskey distillery, this was the cheeky little miniaturised ethanol factory that so charmed and bedazzled the New York and Paris art worlds as recently as last Feburary, and as the new weapon de choice a la carte blanc avec je ne no parle le francis se se hombre iz le loco numero uno - as the French say this portable distillery has quickly become the kill-your-own-mother absolute “must have” fashion accessory of the season, the only micro-portable to ever have taken the Islamic world by storm. Any REAL suicide bomber with the slightest sense of style at all simply wouldn't be caught DEAD in anything else this summer, it also makes a great present for a angry punk or dreamy goth or perhaps as an (admitted) expensive toy for a younger mildly retarded niece or cousin. Indeed for for any radical serious about making his mark on the world this is the only revolutionary whiskey distillery to be personally signed, certified and inspected by both Fidel Castro and The Jimi Hendrix Experience.,
They hassle us and hassle us and still don't spend nearly enough time pursuing the actual, real, dangerous criminals, the really savage tied and suited untamed hooligans and the stealth thuggee killers and quiet acolytes of kali who come in the night in expensive sneakers on feet as gentle as the half-gasp half-laugh of an asphyxiated oyster choking on the irony and gagging to death on a fake pearl necklace or the raw muffled cough of a thirsty dust storm caught up in the process of cutting it's own throat like a helpless bandsaw sinking it's teeth so sorry and deep with with regret into its own plastic powercord jugular but oh just too bone dry and unlubricated and I guess I'm just far too goddamn stubborn to move or budge the slightest inch.
Here they come with their fancy store brought garrottes and look ma here it is! a total marvel of gleaming steel induced psychosis and chrome engineering! a modern sociopathic miracle of science! the diesel fuelled and completely portable six armed galloping noose, each noose arm comes in a range of muted pastel colours and swivels around completely independently on a precision balanced universal joint, created on computer and designed by pure logic from the ironclad laws of abstract mathematics, then laser cut to secret and precise specifications by the human interface experts at BMW to strangle and smother and crush and kill and suffocate with the soft roar of a blanket of sand crashing down as silent as miscarriage or that terrible wonderful pregnant half-beat pause that exists only for this short short moment between the wonderful possibility that shines and smiles the fear and innocence I always see sparkling inherent in the gangling adolescent limbs and eyes and lips of secret and unspoken crush and words expressed a hope a dream a perhaps requited lust
beat – beat – beat
oh here it is: that rotten crushing
i-think~i-might-have-crapped-my-pants-again
smell of loss and defeat and hurt and oh wow now I remember why this sucks so much as all the humiliating reality of pain and failure swells up real sad and sour and then bursts the parasite sickness of
crawl-away-now-and-die-you-fucking-loser
straight into your guts, an instantly recognizable foul taste
oh-my-god-i-suck-so-much
you used to get sometimes in the back of your throat returns immediately the very second you open your mouth and SAY ANYTHING when she's around, and you realise, and you realise as you slip like a famous spoon thief into an ancient and antique cutlery cupboard that you're just a simple dust mite falling asleep between two granite bedsheets tucked snug into a cold stone mattress that was originally carved by hand as one solid chunk of rock cut from the stolen heartwood of the very first primeval mountain ever to be framed and moulded by the mind and eye of God and like the policemen themselves we are restless and we gurgle quiet nightmares of the roar and crash of sand.
Let's state things plainly: the police are not your friends. They are not my friends. They are not here to protect you or to help little children cross the street or any of the other usual recycled newspaper bullshit. The police are the coercive arm of the government and they exist only to enforce government policy. Failure to comply with “the law” will, if you are caught or captured, bring with it the usual harsh penalties for non-cooperation, prolonged torture of both the external and internal genitalia, permanent banishment to one the dead and fire swept hellish outer demon worlds that exist only in the howling dusky twilight juxtaposition of pre-conscious and post-transincorporeal temporal states, Power flows, sincere and brutal, a straight up tough love punch from the blunt end of a chainsaw powered fuck truncheon. And if for some reason, any reason, THEY decide that they want to fuck with you they definitely most certainly can, and they will: fuck you deep up inside the ass, they can put a massive kink in your colon at any moment, at any instant or time of the month they like. As it stands you probably already break a thousand million minor pointless laws every single day without ever even realising it, every single second you are nothing more than a common criminal, a remorseless and relentless footpad committing an entire liquorice assortment of crimes and criminal acts -- one smashed plate is all it takes to be left living permanently in a state of sin.
I'll bet you four troy ounces of gold bullion that some wretched worthless “concerned citizen” type neighbour is right now peering nervously over the back fence, they could be, right now, spying on you anxiously from behind a parted sliver of drawn and quartered curtain, waiting, watching, desperately breath-less-ly eager to report any apparent irregularity or slight infraction of the rules directly to the proper authorities forthright and forthwith, thus claiming for him or her or (more likely) itself the prize, a soft quilted pincushion in heaven, a top secret awards ceremony at an undisclosed location for the informant of the month. I know! I too find the very thought that these people ACTUALLY EXIST outside the limited world of television commercials both completely bewildering and repulsive in the extreme, but we must earnestly try to not merely avert our eyes away from ugly sights if we prefer to see with clarity. It is true that my previous experiences with the police have not made for very many happy memories. Who knows what “disorderly behaviour” means anyway? To be honest I think that if we just legalised, say, everything, the crime rate would quickly plummet down to nothing.
Anyway.
I didn't manage to get my spade** on because apparently we were (and I kid you not) “too drunk” to gain entry to the bar. Too drunk! Well, I ask you. Completely ludicrous. Obviously the bouncer was just an incredibly poor judge of character.Looks like they'll hire any old kind of villainous scum, riff raff trash or human garbage to stand on the door these days. Contemplated escalating my complaint, perhaps by placing a phone call to customer services or maybe even writing an angry letter to the manager but at that late stage of the game I could barely stand upright so I decided I might have to give it a miss.
Still, they lost an extremely valuable customer that night and I hope they are very sorry for it.
I am a truly reprehensible beast: got myself drunk on other peoples booze, calmed myself down on other peoples benzos: I even smoked a nice clean hit of someone else's meth. Ended up having an interesting conversation with this chick who used to be an apprentice professional dominatrix. Four hundred dollars an hour and you don't even get a happy ending. It's crazy.
I <3 AUCKLAND
** New Zealand slang meaning to hit on or make a pass at, comes from “laying the groundwork”