Why thou shalt not sleepwrite about old news

I stole this entry's unedited photo from my comrade Ryan Baldwin (source), please I thank you thus forgive me:

Dear diary,

HOW exactly should I be expending my energies? . . . Oops, I did it again: should! — that word implies that I owe someone something, or like there’s an instruction manual out there which gives directions on how to live life.

Whereas we know that someone tore up that manual and burnt it.

Some people are worried about the environment; some people are not. Some people care deeply about who killed JFK; some people do not even know the name of my butler.

Right now in the US there’s this dilemma, centering on whether or not our US puppet conspired with Russia to gain the presidency; and some people think this is important whereas others couldn’t care less; and among those who think the “foreign influence” question IS important, there are some who say: CERTAINLY the prez is a plant; & meanwhile others say: FOR SURE the issue is a fabrication of the intelligence agencies.

What I find interesting is that there can be so much disagreement over a matter that seems so easy to daydream about.

I mean, it might be hard to prove whether a given number of parties conspired to act in a particular way; but can’t we at least say generally what we DESIRE from our country, &, on the other hand, what we wish to AVOID?

Let’s take the worst-case scenario and think it thru: Let’s say that the current prez is indeed the prettiest puppet that Russia ever bought. Now what? How do we expect that Russia wants our prez to dance? In which of the manners? Well, that’s for Russia to say. — And what is Russia, exactly? I give you the answer: Russia is a big place with lots of people inside.

So, which citizen does one ask, to find out a country’s will?

Here in the US, all you have to do is ask me, Bryan Ray: I’ll tell you all our hemisphere’s prime desires. I’m the brain-balls of America. I’m also its heart, and its conscience. I’m its soul, and its liver, and its eyes and ears as well. Therefore: What do the collective People of the USA want? I answer you again: We want peace and harmony between our own citizens; we want our citizens’ basic needs to be met; and we want to make an exuberant contribution to ART. (When I type it in caps like that, I mean the Art of the Whole Wide World.) We, the US, also want peace & harmony with citizens everywhere — that’s why we always cooperate and act diplomatically towards other countries, and we never fight war.

Russia, on the other hand, has no single soul to act as her spokes-poet, other than Tolstoy, who, altho still alive, is barred from helping our dimension. So I’ll have to act as Russia’s ad firm too:

What does Russia want, you ask? I, Bryan, the collective citizenry of Mother Russia, want exactly those things that you listed above for your own citizens, Mr. USA. Peace, harmony, and all the rest: we’re on the same page. I’ll click the “like” button on your text messages and share them on my profile page, if you do the same for me.

VERDICT

What I conclusively proved in this essay is that it doesn’t even matter if our current prez is a puppet, because the country who’s operating him desires the very same things for our world as we do.

The time to worry is if you see the prez starting to make some wars. Then you’ll know something’s up. If the prez starts warmongering, you can ask “Hey, who’s controlling this puppet, anyway? It can’t be the US people, because we don’t want warfare; and it can’t be the folk of Russia, cuz we too hate warfare. Ah, so it must be the intelligence agencies, working on behalf of the banks — cuz they’re the only entities who wrote “Please, more warfare!” on their Christmas List. They wrote it fifteen times; and then, in fine print at the end, they wrote “& please refill our alms-cup.” Cuz bureaucratic agencies are funded by the taxpayers; so it’s like when you were a little tiny boy who received an allowance from your parents: Five dollars per week, IF you did all your chores.

What a stupid idea: to ask the intelligence agencies to perform menial tasks. You don’t get hired to work in the intelligence agencies unless you’re smart. And what does a smart person want? NOT to do menial chores, that’s for sure. So it’s like that funny poem by Shel Silverstein, “How Not to Have to Dry the Dishes”, which ends like so:

If you have to dry the dishes
And you drop one on the floor—
Maybe they won’t let you
Dry the dishes anymore.

But how does a soul become pro-capitalism or anti-capitalism? I ask this because people always joke about the acronym C.I.A., which actually means Central Intelligence Agency (it’s the most popular among the agencies, cuz it does the most stuff real smart, like puppeteering the prez while blaming everyone else for doing so); the joke is that C.I.A. stands for Capitalism’s Invisible Army.

Now, I have friends who call themselves Conservative Republicans, and I also have friends who call themselves Liberal Democrats. And when I say “What do you think about capitalism: is it good or is it bad?” All my friends, regardless of their political stance, answer “Capitalism is good.” And when I reply to this: “Yeah but isn’t the world’s economy about as bad as an economy can be, considering that ALL countries, including our own, are in depressions even more severe than the GREAT Depression of the 1930s?” And all my friends answer as one, saying “No, the system that we have at present is not true capitalism. If we had true capitalism, everything would be perfect: I’d have your good things, and I’d have mine.”

So true capitalism is basically heaven. Gold-paved roads; skyscraper buildings made out of gold ingots; diamond waterfalls; super cheap products that sell really well; low inflation; trustworthy stocks; deregulated banks; moreover, the market cycle, which is expected to fluctuate (that is: to squiggle up & down), just keeps going up & up.

& Jehovah runs a shop that sells nice dresses. And Christ has a shop that sells wool. And Saint Peter is a butcher, and his shop does a whole lot of business, so he’s doing quite well for himself and his wife and three kids; and the ham that he sells is extremely savory.

Hmm… what else? Oh yes, and Metatron has a store that sells video games — all the cool systems that you remember from your youth.

So paradise is like being frozen in the 1980s as a rich individual with light-colored skin. And all the citizens are androids, so there’s never any riots: that’s why there’s no bars on any of the windows. And the jail is always way under capacity.

And they made the robots with stomachs, so they actually do need to eat, every once in a while. This solves the age-old problem of a fully automated society: “But robots don’t make purchases!” Yes they do. They do now. For if they neglect to eat, they’re given a sensation like discomfort — at least that’s what the programmers claim; and it seems to work, cuz I’ve witnessed many a bot sorta slumpt on the ground & slowly writhing outside of St. John’s Diner, when they cannot afford the mushroom soup. Lastly, if you’re wondering how efficient robotic digestion is, I’ll let you in on a secret: just unscrew their back panel: this allows access to the stomach chamber; now use a wooden spoon to ladle the contents back out: for the floor grates drain to the soup-vat. They’ll revisit your pub eventually, once you switch them on; yet, for now, they must return to work. (They all work in hell.)

& there was a big discussion, at last week’s meeting, about whether the inhabitants of heaven are happy. For CEOs can comprehend happiness only when it is viewed thru the lens of fornication. They’re quite physical beings, very hairy to the touch, those CEOs; not too adept at imagining things; and they get paid now more than 400 times the amount of a regular worker. But you’ve heard it said of old:

Ye do err, not knowing the scriptures, nor the power of God. For in the resurrection they neither marry, nor are given in marriage, but are as the angels of God in heaven.

[—the words of Jesus, according to Matthew (22:29-30)]

Nevertheless, I say unto you: the androids of God in heaven are new and improved. If you can invent something and then tweak it so that it runs a little better, back on Earth; then, why can’t the good LORD do the same, here in the afterlife? So this is how it plays out:

The male robots are equipped with a cylindrical pole at the base of their torso, between their legs; and the female robots are given a square-shaped hole at the corresponding region of their pelvis. And we even trained them to lie while securing a connection; because we know from Freud’s essay on da Vinci that if you don’t depict your subjects as reclining for the deed, it insinuates that their creator might prefer a type of doxy other than ortho. (What we did wrong, in our original build, was that we made the PEG square and the HOLE round. Now I think we finally fixed that problem.)

And as far as the rumor that all saints in heaven can shoot fire out of their privates: this is true. But it is not as fun as you’d think.

P.S.

Now where was I? Oh yes, the Mueller Report. Alright, so my old college buddy Robert Mueller writes this bestseller and gives it the catchy title Report on the Investigation into Russian Interference in the 2016 U.S. Presidential Election. It’s basically a comedic thriller, but very dry. This thing, I’ve heard, runs to nearly 500 pages. The backstory is as follows:

We were sitting at one of the outside tables at that pub near the place where the Mississippi intersects with the Minnesota River. Just over the horizon looms Antarctica, so the water from the former is riddled with ice chunks that look like froth from a milkshake. We see this chef trying to break into someone’s car using a coat hanger, and our tablemate Bruce yells “Hey, cook! We like your food! Thanks for your service!” (This scares the guy off — he disappears into the building thru one of those thick metal doors that they use to seal meat lockers.)

Now Mueller’s phone rings. I wanna say that his alert tone is a funny pop tune, but I can’t think of anything jokey enough to work — I don’t really follow the modern popular music — so I’ll just say that it sounded like a bird.

“Hello?” Mueller barks into the receiver (we’re all a little drunk, as we’re celebrating twenty years in the espionage industry) — “What’s that you say? There’s been a crime? Or there HASN’T been a crime! What exactly do you want me to do? I’m with my friends Bryan and Bruce; they biked over here to meet me in the Depths of Mendota, and we’re celebrating our twenty-year anniversary as spies on the U.S. payroll. We’re gonna go ice fishing later, once this froth on the river coagulates; and we’ll keep drinking throughout the evening, so I don’t know how much use I’m gonna be to ya… Say what? NO, Mendota Depths not Mendota Heights!!! You think I’ll be able to slap together 500 words overnight, while we’re trying to ice fish and celebrate with tankers of booze? Hmm, I guess I can try. What’s that you ask? Yeah, Bryan’s right here, you wanna speak to him?” And Mueller hands the phone to me: “They wanna speak to you. It’s the Feds.”

(Bruce meanwhile is waving his hands frantically and mouthing the words “I’M NOT HERE!”)

So I nod and address the caller “This is Bry.”

“Hi Bry, this is Samantha — you remember me from the barge?”

“You mean that floating nightclub in the flooded area where we couldn’t bike to yesterday?”

“Sharp memory. Yeah, I was the one with the Russian accent. The reason I dropped the accent for this phone call is twofold: First, I’m afraid the line is tapped; Second, I’m a double agent: I work for both the US and USSR…”

“But the USSR is no longer with us. It passed away around the same time as my father DOUGLAS TRUMPET SENIOR…”

“Ha, ha, ha. You make funny joke. Anyway, I need you to keep an eye on this Mueller fellow — you know him well?”

“Yes, we went to college together. And we’ve spent two decades working in the spy industry, so we’re practically Partners in Crime, if you believe in the Common Law.”

“OK, good. So, like I said, I’m gonna need you to motivate your friend intensely: this is not like back in the days when you two used to stay up all night cramming for exams, and then go to class the next morning still intoxicated and pass all tests with flying colors. This shall be different. You’re going to have to bring a typewriter with you into the ice shanty, into the bobhouse, and make sure that Bob (that’s your friend’s Christian name, nyet?) gets this report finished. It’s a piece about Russia. I want him to keep the characters, the plot, and all the rising action rather ambiguous. Don’t let the story end too quickly. Milk it out, for the maximum amount of awe.”

“Will do,” I say; “now would you like to talk to Robert again, before we hang up?”

“No, that’s OK; I’ve said all that I need to say to him — but is Bruce with you guys?”

“Umm…” I hesitate, & then turn to look at Bruce, who’s still waving his hands, yet more frantically now — he even hoarsely whispers: DO NOT TELL MY WIFE I AM HERE!

“No, Bruce is absent from our company, da?” I say, while winking at Bruce; “He’s at the Farmer’s Market instead. I envision him buying a variety of Hmong produce to mix into a mushroom soup for the robots.”

“I don’t believe you,” says Samantha.

*

So, later that evening, I nudge Mueller and say, “Better get started on that paper. Those five thousand pages aren’t just gonna write themselves!”

So he shuffles over to the corner of the hut (the aforementioned bobhouse), where we’ve set up the black plastic folding table and the typewriter; and there’s a sheaf of legal paper stacked at tableside left.

Several hours later, the paper sheaf is now at tableside right; for Mueller has finished his report. He hands it to me, & I page thru it:

“Looks good,” I say.

So we pack up our fishing supplies, exit the shack, & head down the mountain. At the base we see the citizens of the US & Russia dancing & playing, basically having a good time together.

Mueller is furious: “Gimme that report I just composed!!!” he growls thru clenched teeth, “I wanna tear it to shreds!!!”

But I calm him down and remind him that it’s very important that we turn this report in to the proper authorities, so that they can make it available to the news media. “Take a deep breath; do a little bit of yoga or something, to help yourself relax,” I say. “You’ll be glad that you didn’t destroy your report in anger, please believe me.”

So we pace thru the crowd of people; till, at long last, we arrive in Washington, the bosom of Columbia; where we turn in our report to our Big Boss Man.

“Thanks, guys,” he says.

Long story short, the report is published: & it’s a hit! Next day, in all places of employment, everyone gathers around the water-cooler to discuss its meaning, & to quote their favorite passages. This is one of those moments in life where you just KNOW that you and Mueller did the right thing again. And, you think to yourself: There’s a lesson in here somewhere — I just have to search a little harder to find it.

The best thing about this episode is that the search, in and of itself, was a lighthearted pleasure: it was a reward of its own. In fact, if you had to live this life over again, you wouldn’t even want to remember the conclusion of the matter, or to be able to grasp the truth. It might even be amusing to relocate the entire, ice-covered landmass of the South Pole so that it abuts the mouth of the Nile.