what i’ve learned from The Rona

I believe that this pandemic has served as a reminder for us all that alls we can ever really do is trust in Our Lord. And when that fails, alls we’s can do is to come up with a new apologetic delusion, so that come next pandemic, we’s can all put our trust in The Lord, so that when that fails, we’ll remember to come up with a delusional apology, and there ain’t nothin’ says it cain’t be the same one we done used for the last pandemic, so that way we’ll be ready, willing and able to put our trust in The Lord, come next pandemic. Blessed!

Poop Monkeys

People don’t know this, but we are constantly ingesting the tiny, fertilized eggs of a little-known species of monkey. The species in question is so small, in fact, that like a tapeworm, at birth they are capable of passing through the anus of their human host.

Once eaten, the ultra-sticky seedpod of the embryonic primate first attaches itself to the stomach lining. Eventually, smooth muscles of the digestive system work the egg down into a labyrinth of intestines where it reattaches itself through both sets, again and again, only to be worked free by the relentless force of peristalsis within our gut.

Finally, the protective outer structure of the incipient organism finds itself in a fecund environment of the second stage of the human colon. Here, the exterior protective coating of the seed begins to deteriorate and soften, providentially producing a slimy-slick coating that will ease the organism’s exit through the sphincter’s narrow aperture.

Upon birth, people almost never notice the miraculous creation of this particular animal. And as they are embedded in a copious covering of human excrement, this super-diminutive subspecies has been disregarded by high-minded scientists who consider themselves too lofty of social stature or else are simply too lazy to do the exhausting work of searching out these incredibly prolific yet wonderful creatures. As such, the very existence of the animal in question has been given the dubious distinction of lore, castigated and ‘debunked’, as has become so popular in the current culture, and relegated to realms of conspiracy theory–the product of an over-active imagination emanating from what’s left of some mentally deficient author’s warped and entropic mind.

Poop monkeys are not to be confused with sea monkeys, a completely fictitious being.

In conclusion, one wonders whether, now that the reader has been enlightened as to processes and origins of these minuscule monkeys that come out of our butts, will new insight produce any lasting change in perspective as inspired from a worldview or gestalt seemingly derived exclusively from out of those same strictures and confinements, i.e., from seeing the world out of one’s own butthole?

Working on ‘Browncloud’; The story of how i made millions developing my fart-recognition software.

The perspective from the 1%: “what’s the point of there being all these people if we aren’t realizing a high rate of return on each individual unit of consumption?”

The perspective from the 99%: “what’s the point of staying healthy if it’s not for going to work [school, so that later I can go to work, better]?” *(also see; protest, movement)

so back to work, not because it’s a good idea, or safe or what’s best for everyone–or, diametrically, what’s good for planet earth–but because it’s who [what] we are and without business-as-usual, what would we become?

we have reached the limits of our power to suspend disbelief regarding the value and purpose of human life itself.


ya cain’t spell ‘ignurnt’ without ‘i’ and ‘yew’.

today’s poop/fart joke is dedicated to the participation-trophy generation, who’s belief in their collective belief that watching youtube videos not only counts as a substitute for studying and actually reading books, but also accounts for their intellectual superiority over all preceding generations–by virtue of a cultural adaptation that replaces literature with text-speak, video games and netflix, have mercifully managed to produce a group of young people worthy of their predicament. rather than trying to offer advice or even counsel on the connection between human language and intelligence–not to mention individual liberty, rather than attempting distinctions between positivist collections of fact versus wisdom, instead i wish them luck on their chosen path as semi-literate econo-slaves.

impoovementwhen, after having diarrhea, you finally drop a solid.

Chief Seattle said it too

first, a quick cheapie of a joke; Crap-top: when you take your computer into the bathroom with you.

now that’s been exorcised, on to how the current crisis presents the perfect opportunity to expose the existential trap otherwise known as humanism.

if i said to You: “i see an upside to this whole pandemic thing,” collective-you would likely call me out as a monster, assigning labels such as psycho or sociopath without having a clear idea of distinctions between the two and finally relegating me to well-worn associations with Hitler. deja-pooh.

when i point out how much carbon has not been pumped into the atmosphere over the past few months, a new categorical imperative derived from the superimposition of social media-as-superego would autonomically propel a mass virtue signaling that outlines our newest addition to the DSM; collective narcissism.

Your mandatory response would invari-evitably emphasize the cost in human suffering, placing the premium there, on its avoidance (along with Your universally centered part in it), rather than any consideration of potential parity from a polar bear’s perspective, i.e., the suffering of mass extinction. infantile, self-serving tweets attributed to any number of pseudo-individuals, some of them even holding high public office–ensue and substitute for substance, Your cue to hitch the wagon.

and while the old, weak and sick were being culled from an almost comically overpopulated herd, you’d bleat and blether on in parasitic positivist mantra: “…scientifically informed political solutions to meet the challenges of climate–blah, blah, blah,” while privately pining for the moment You jump back into the conditioned confines of combustion units in transit back to Your place within The Machine. good time to catch up on texting.

meantime, the spirit of Jung hears the spirit of the earth: “if this is how y’all want it (b/c apparently The Earth is a southerner). if coronavirus is what it takes to keep you two-legged vermin in check…if you’re not, with all that glorious intelligence, artificial or otherwise, ready, willing or able to perform the relatively simple task of self-regulating your population…if owing to either cowardice in avoidance of basic laws governing the fear of change and leading to an arrested development, or else the clinging to hopelessly archaic belief-delusions lead to childishly obstinate refusals and abject, willful ignorance, either way, the failure to reconcile philosophy on the scale of a species becomes, for Us’s anyway, a matter of self defense then, Ze guesses. so take that, fuckers!”

to put it simply then, humans are unequivocally in a position wherein the earth benefits by our disadvantage and destruction, so get used to it. even if this turns into another drawn-out-nothing, like small-pox or the others, or into something different, something worse…as long as the net feedback–the message to the earth is: “virus equals cleaner air, fewer humans mean fewer toxins,” as long as the ‘if’ doesn’t change, expecting a different ‘then’ amounts to a new, alternate, coronavirus-edition-definition for ‘insanity’.








Paradox, Pussycat.

Once there was an orange tabby who had the relatively common misfortune of being born unwanted. Despite the circumstances, the tabby in question was quite unique, being born female, as this trait is rare for her breed, occurring at only around twenty percent.

One day, the tabby’s luck changed. Starving, cold, and being out-competed by her own siblings for whatever food that could be found, her desperation had honed the survival instinct to flawless.

So when a hapless human happened by, unsuspecting, distracted and self-absorbed as always, the malnourished and undersized tabby attached herself like a Beggertick or, somewhat more appropriately, like a Calico aster. A different human had recently died, a more fortunate one.

They say that stray cats always show up following a death, but this tabby didn’t actually know that someone had died. She didn’t ‘know’ that she was a stray, or even a tabby-cat, most probably, but she knew something. She was very smart. She sensed weakness, and by that, opportunity. In her pitiful state, she could spot a sucker from a country mile, which is good because this story takes place in the country.

It would turn out the real patsy was a different human still. This human was the most fortunate one so far. This human was configured such that he could just barely identify with other humans at all. He found it the easiest, most natural thing in the world, however, to relate to authentic animals of all kinds, but especially to certain breeds of domesticated cat.

It was yet another human, arguably an even bigger sucker who, rendered  temporarily insane by the disease of mourning, temporarily, more or less–a different human decided that this particular tabby should remain. There had been several predecessors who’d been more and less fortunate.

Unfortunately, circumstances were such that although the tabby was allowed to remain, she was not permitted to live with the human who was predestined and predisposed to worship her properly and most of all, the aforementioned and self-described, most fortunate ‘cat-savant’.

So the tabby was fostered for several years by a broken, semi-wicked step-mother who never loved her but did provide excellent care for the tabby, during which time she grew quite fat. It was also during this time that the love between the tabby and the savant enlarged to the point of corpulence.

She was very pretty; almost entirely orange with excellent striping, big green eyes, and pink toes with freckles on them. She had a congenital glandular condition that caused her to emit putrid odor from her hindquarters fortnightly. These excretions were in fact of such a disagreeable and unpleasant variety that they elicited unanimous rejection from all proximate humans. Heartbreakingly, emotional exile was even the response forced upon the cat-shaman.

This odor is not her fault, nor the maladaptation at its existential core. And neither is blame to be ascribed for the inevitable abandonment in response to her semi-regular and problematic discharge, nay the difficult and often painful vicissitudes outlining the life of our protagonist. All culpability lies with her creator. It is god’s fault. The End, but not really. She’s asleep on the blankey.