“To be continued…” That’s what I should have written at the end of yesterday’s entry, because I composed a fair amount of additional paragraphs after the point where that entry now stops; but I ended up banishing this extra text from the rest cuz I thot it was lousy. Yet when I re-read it afresh today, I remarked to myself “Why did you cut this? Sure, it’s lousy, but that’s your forte: lousy writing. I say put it back: it’s passably keepable; that’s my two cents.”
So I answered, saying: “I can’t just simply ‘add the deletions back in’, as you say, because the entry’s already published. And writing on these modern blogs is like etching decrees in marble: it’s nearly impossible to change or to blot what you’ve declared, once you’ve declared it: ‘Quod scripsi, scripsi’.”
Pilate said: “What I have written I have written.”
(John 19:22)
But then I answered myself, “OK, well, let me make a proposition.” And I said, “Alright, go ahead and propose to me.” And I said, “Why don’t you just command the multitudes of your readership to consider the following text in light of your previous text; then provide a hyperlink to the aforesaid, and just paste the deleted continuation after this intro. That way you don’t have to labor to explain all the in-jokes and references to the stuff that you were writing about yesterday, which the text is riddled with; and you can just lazily unleash this filler as an additional entry of its own, and basically get paid for doing nothing.” “I like what you’re saying,” I said. So here’s the lousy part of yesterday’s entry — I’ll paste it after this entry’s obligatory image.
Dazzling visual
Reflections
on the body text that went missing:
So what did I learn from my experiment? I learned that you can’t create a person without creating a job; also vice versa: you can’t have jobs without people. For a thankless task without an employee to do it is like a leaf pluckt from a fake plant: it cannot grow mysteriously without any robots to inflate its green material. But perhaps what we call “power” and “force” and “energy” are just things that are being pushed around by extremely small machines. Cuz the wind doesn’t just blow wherever it wants: something’s forcing it to go in this or that direction.
I also learned that if you’re smart, you’ll keep your job, even if it is degrading and a dead end. The life of a rabbit might seem attractive as viewed from the window of an office building, but remember how the same rabbit appeared after its date with the electric trolley. That’s the price of freedom.
And I learned why those four foxes that I saw in our yard last month never appeared again — it’s cuz they were made into that fur coat that we hypothesized getting stolen by naked animals above. For the animals were ashamed of their natural state, for they had eaten from the tree of democratic socialism. As it is written:
Man gave names to all the rodents that have bushy tails, and to the fowl of the waters, and to every hopping amphibian with long legs from space; but for Man there was not found anything to worship. For God was still dead.
And Zarathustra, this tall tale’s teller, sprinkled some sleepy-powder on Man (this is the same brand of sedative that the Sandman and Morpheus use to molest their victims), and Man fell asleep. Then Zarathustra went inside the thots of this character that he had fabricated, and he read his mind; and he found one weird-looking soul inside the womb of an imaginary monster, and he slew the thing with his sword, and reached into the wounded abdomen and pulled out the soul, which was a tiny fetus whose mane was barely aflame (because its monster who was gestating it was slain before the soul could be brought to term and pounce upon the decor of the mind of Man), and after nabbing the soul securely in his fist, Zarathustra zipped up the flap of the monster’s abdomen with his free hand, and then re-inflated the monster by blowing into its nostrils, so that it rose and sorta loomed there tentatively, like a false god created to frighten the populace; and the soul, which Zarathustra had taken untimely out away from the creature’s mock-uterus, he painted to look like a new type of animal, and then carefully positioned her on Man’s belly while he slept. Then he clapped his hands loudly so that Man awoke, and Man looked, and behold: some type of creature, very fuzzy and cute, was there poised on his belly.
And Man said, “This is now very scary that I have dreamt this thing, which is now alive. I fear that it needs to use the litter box — for all things that eat of the tree of life produce some form of litter. And no longer shall I refer to this thing as ‘it’ and as ‘lagoon fugitive’ but I shall imagine that it possesses one of the genders in our two-party system, so that it shall be a female, ‘she’; and I shall call her name Tygress, because she was born straight out of my forehead, and my true name is Senhor Tyger Kat, tho my foes call me Man.
And Man, in imitation of his original, caused a slumber to fall upon Tygress, and she slept deeply and soundly: and he opened the velcro overlap to the right of the battery panel, and he removed about a handful of D.N.A. sparkles, and closed up the fur instead thereof; and these D.N.A. sparkles, which Man had extracted from Tygress, were fed to the scanner and then transferred via wireless Internet to the 3-D printer, and a safe copy was made, and it was stored under the file named “Mirror”; then Man brought the copy unto the Tygress. And he arranged the two so that they were facing each other, like those twin cherubs in paradise that hide God’s cadaver.
And Man said, “Tygress! wake up, pretty lady — look: I brought you a pet! What are you gonna name her?”
And Tygress yawned a big yawn, which turned into a roar, and said: “Her fur is fiery just like mine: she shall be called Tygress Slave, because she was taken out of her Master (or Mistress, rather, since all felines are feminine; but I’ll stick with Master, as the term Mistress lacks the same punch). For this reason, all the slaves (since I can infer that there shall be many more where this came from) shall pay dearly for their basic needs in life, because I came first — or, to be boringly accurate, something else came first; then eventually Man inherited this place; but Man, my old flame, got batted aside by my claw, and I usurped the land and claimed it officially and forever: thus I’m the owner, and I make the rules.”
And they were hot, the animals, and they knew it; but they weren’t one bit ashamed. The Tygresses burned bright within the nighttime forest. Cuz the owner hadn’t yet forced herself upon the subservient populace, so they had no clue what horrors rutting can lead to.
Now when that rightmost Tygress saw that her slave was good for labor; and that rent could be charged for use of the jungle; and a tree that grew freely from the ground (who knows why) produced leaves that could be sewn together and sold as clothing for an additional profit; also that all the edible items, or “foodstuffs”, which were lying about everywhere, could be restricted for the purpose of extortion, Tygress unholstered her label maker and began to dispense stickers with prices printed on them; and she fastened these tags upon all the merchandise of the wilderness.
For her entrepreneurial eyeball’s lid unclosed, and she grasped at once the capital that lied about her simply waiting to be harnessed, and all the labor that was ripe to be exploited; so the Tygress slaves were told that in order to participate in the economy, they must sew leaves together from the surrounding trees, and make themselves aprons and lab coats. And room and board shall cost them thus and so. (“Those who don’t work, don’t eat.”) And they built a transport system out of bamboo serving trays and wicker furniture, and used coconuts for wheels; and they purchased high-quality cable from Germany to serve as jungle vines, which they employed to power their electric transport system; and all this cost them a fortune. And Tygress Prime always charged extra for “service with a smile”.
And they heard the noise of their tall tale’s teller Zarathustra rummaging in his pleasure-dome at the back of the jungle, near the doors of the garage where he chose to keep his “garden” (a lab room camouflaged with synthetic greenery): and Tygress was forcing her copies to mate, and she was at the top of the heap, pouncing upon them & clawing & hissing, plus threatening her underlings with written documents to collect all funds from the other Tygresses. And she piled her hard-earned wealth sky-high in the corner of the ever-burning Amazon, right between the scented rivers.
And Zarathustra called unto his own creation and chanted fearfully: “Tygress, Tygress!”
And she said, “What.”
And he said, “Lama sabachthani! Look what you’ve done to my paradise: it’s a hell-on-earth now!”
And Tygress said, “Yeah, it wasn’t easy. These other felines whom thou gavest to be with me are all welfare queens, I discovered; thus I created many jobs for them to do, and an economy that (and I quote) “works for them” (that’s how I spun it); plus they all go to church now, so that acts as a harnessing mechanism to restrict the movement of their imaginations. Mind-forged manacles, as Blake calls them. I convinced my fellow Tygresses to take instruction like horses: I warned them that any form of self-governing is akin to savagery, and taught them to equate civilization with ownership. Thus their goal is to become Real Men, like my maker whom I slew.”
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