Epilogue 2/0 - SPACE ALIENS HIDE MY DRUGS!!!
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*** BIENFAIT NUTLY NEWS SPECIAL ***
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*** KILL THE CHILDREN !!! ***
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Introduction By:
A DANGEROUSLY CRAZED VIOLENT PSYCHO KILLER TO BE NAMED LATER
It is with great fondness and trepidation that I recall the wonderful
summer days spent on the ball diamonds of Austin, Texas, in the late
1970's.
Behind the dugout, under the stands, sharing a quick toke with other
members of Armadillo World HeadQuarters' jock-supporters--fans and
players of the legendary PSYCHO KILLERS, widely recognized as the most
dangerous-to-themselves opponents in the history of the Grand Game, no
matter where or how it was played.
Slapping David Byrne upside his Talking Head for Bogarting the Belushi
and then realizing that his momentary lapse in proper drug-addict
ettiquette was a result of his attention being rivetted to some
terrifying incident of reality taking place out on the ball diamond.
Seeing the outfielder nonchalantly digging his toe in the dirt at the
edge of the infield as a conference took place on the pitcher's mound
between the other members of the Austin Police Department ball team.
Watching in horror as the outline of a small finger could be seen poking
out from the dirt as the outfielder prodded his spiked toe in the dirt,
and then watching it being covered again, as he unconsciously tapped it
back down in the dirt.
Knowing that you should have taken little Delbert's body to the river
and washed it down, with Tex Thomas & the Dangling Wranglers singing, "I
Am Washed In The Rum of the Lamb" softly in the background, according to
the instructions Rocky Erickson had received from Mars through the
fillings in his teeth after stepping out of the elevator on the 13th
floor, only to find himself in a vast wasteland of the mind where fear
and superstition coming from the Real (TM) floors of his brain structure
would sometimes cause him to doubt the voices.
Hearing C.J. Parker, The County Mountie, drunkenly singing the ending
strains of the chorus of 'Armadillo (Are You Sure Jesus Done It This
Way?)':
"And they catch those fly-balls on the head.
And they never steal second, they steal first instead,
Cause they learned all those moves that they make,
From Panama Red."
I don't wish to end up boring you with the youthful reminesces of a
doddering, senile old fart reliving the Glory Days in a time and place
where mental instability was honored and valued, whether it was C.J.
Parker singing about drug-induced mental instability of the Psycho
Killers, or Kinky Friedmann singing the praises of organic mental
disorder by hosting a Charles Whitman Memorial Reunion bash, with the
Texas Jewboys playing their harps in the background...
Where was I...?
Oh yes, I don't wish to end up boring you, but I'm a doddering, senile
old fart, so what the fuck can you expect, eh?
The way this relates to CRYPTology is...
At the end of MeatSpace lies...the Crypt!
"Everybody want's to go to heaven, but nobody wants to die."
"Nobody gets out of here alive."
"I cooked Belushi's last spoon!"
These are just a few of the song-titles which reflect the inherent
understanding of the muse that the rotting MeatSpace carcasses of the
CypherPunks will eventually turn to dust, but that the stench of their
vile, sick and twisted, 'shunned by every decent citizen' ideas and
philosophies will live on eternally in the biosemiotic evolution of
analogue life-forms crystallizing into the digital bits and bytes which
will exist forever in the CyberSpace home of virtual reality, the
Eternity Server.
It was a lack of the esoteric understanding held by the Circle of
Eunuchs (AC/DC Rules!) Bienfait Nutly News reportwhores which led to DC
(Direct Current) journalists to proclaim the "Death of the CypherPunks,"
not understanding that the Toad was not dead, but had merely turned into
a Handsome Prince whose experiences in the bath houses of Sif Fiasco had
led him to realize that Human Gus-Peter should be shared with all who
wished to drink from the spigot of his knowledge, male *and* female,
regardless of whether or not they were wearing panties.
Where was I...?
Oh, yes...
The sudden appearance of Bubba Rom Dos at the celebration for the
Pull-It,Sir Prize certain to be awarded for the, as yet, unwritten,
"KILL THE CHILDREN!!!" Bienfait Nutly News Special, reminded those
gathered of Bubba's infamous quote, "If murder is to have any meaning at
all, you must kill your friends."
After singing a few verses of Bang! Crosby, Deathly Still & Gnashing
of Teeth's hit song, "If you can't kill the one you love...kill the one
you're with." the reportwhores suddenly became stone-cold sober and,
realizing that the Canadian Author is Stone-Cold Crazy (TM), instantly
realized the true import of the Canadian AuthorTitty's efforts to drag
the InfoWar being waged in CyberSpace down into MeatSpace (where they
could kick the Author's sorry ass), by the confiscation of the physical
tools which he used to mirror analogue life onto the digital plane,
Electronically Forging ahead, past the historical boundaries of
MeatSpace Identity, into the Multi-User Persona Paridigm where
TruthMonger and [YourNameHere]@dev.null are free to live together in
peace and discord...
Excuse me. I had to pause for a breath...
Anyway, Armed Thugs With Massive MeatSpace Weaponry (TM) have a
deathly fear of being transmorgified into Mental Midgets by the
UnComprehensible InConceptual Distributed Digital Artistry (TM) taking
place in the parts of the brain used by the muse-- which go far beyond
the part of the brain where their own elevator stops, and they can go no
further, because taking the stairs isn't in their job description and
would probably get them in trouble with the union.
Accordingly, they strike out like primitive savages at that which they
do not understand, using their heavy clubs to destroy the tools which
digital muses use to spam the MeatSpace Reality of the Decent Folk (TM)
with the '8 Words George Carlin Can't Say On The InterNet' :
1. Shit
2. Piss
3. Fuck
4. Cunt
5. Cocksucker
6. Motherfucker
7. Tits
8. Comstockery
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From: Wordsmith