Dear diary,
John was driving. Paul was in the front passenger seat, and James was in the back. They were headed for the giant wave that was slushing over the horizon. On the unshaved half of his head, John was sporting a black side-pompadour. With one hand still on the steering wheel, he reached his left arm out the window of their Portuguese sailing ship, while still speeding down the road, and hacked at the wave with his machete. “Get off our savior’s land!” he yelled and spit.
“Lean back, John; I’m going to turn the dial on this thing, and I don’t know which way it’ll zap,” cried Paul, holding a corded remote-control panel.
Suddenly a bolt of energy shot out past John’s head. “Whoa,” John exclaimed, “that actually fried me,” he lifted his steering hand from the wheel and ran it over the bare part of his scalp: “I think it gave me a tattoo.” He adjusted the rearview mirror, as they sped forth at full speed with his machete hand still hacking.
James craned forward from the rear booth to look at John’s fry-mark. “It resembles letters, which seem to spell ‘Immobiliare’ – that’s Italian for ‘real estate’.”
Paul belted a loud laugh. He then drew out his gun and cocked it.
Dodging the apostle’s bullets, the giant slushy-wave employed a combination of a building-size can-smasher and a wind machine to bonk his enemies into the shape of a wooden ball. Then the wave walloped this ball so hard that it bounced out of control, all over the universe. And it burst into flames, and its belly turned pure black.
“Is your soul dark enough for you now, Paul?” said the slushing wave in a big, big voice.
John, Paul, and James all died when their man-o’-war got balled up. So they lost, and no one could answer the giant wave. But the three of them were let into James’ God’s Paradise, just off the area rug, where they now pose forever next to a pretty lady.
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My theory is that people construct airplanes because they cannot think; they have no imagination. If you possess a functioning fancy, you can picture yourself flying around everywhere all day and night, therefore air travel is nothing to be sought after; but if you lack the ability to sustain a vivid surmise, then you must build a physical contraption.
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Is there anything that has not yet been proven wrong?
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Those brave strong fighters who won all the wars are the foundation of our freedom, we are told: they afforded us our choice between returning to eternity or remaining enslaved.
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Find a group of popular singers who have achieved record-breaking success in the United States, and get them to pay your cable bills.
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Do animals possess their own version of radical politics? Do they have some equivalent of tape machines in their world, which to us look like something innocuous that we therefore ignore? Are they good actors, convincing us that they are not concerned with humankind? How come angels no longer fly in to Sixteenth Street at night and instigate a prison escape? It says in the Holy Book: “Bring my soul out of jail, that I may praise thy name.” (Psalm 142:7) Also:
The gang of angels flew in at night to Sixteenth Street and caused an earthquake, so that the foundations of the Jail House rocked: and immediately all the doors of the cells were opened, and everyone’s handcuffs came off. Then the warden woke out of her embarrassing love-dream, and seeing the cells’ doors open, she pulled out her pistol from her pink purse, and would have slain herself, supposing that the prisoners had all fled. But the Apostle Paul cried with a loud voice, saying: “Grant not the Owner of Spacetime the pleasure of seeing you leave this Broken World of your own accord; for we jailbirds are all still posed upon our perches.” Then the Apostle added: “Let there be light!” And Light Itself sprang forth, and came trembling, and fell down before the Apostle Paul, and said: “Sir, what must I do?” And the Apostle answered: “Are you not the kingpin of the angels that just blew in? Is your name not Jesus Christ? And do you not live in my old house?” Yet before he could answer, the warden came and closed all the doors of the cells and secured them, therefore those angels were recaptured, and none of the original inmates was lost. (Acts 16:26ff)
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Think of all that federal tax revenue. Think of the ghettos of the past and present: Why do we still have ghettos? Think of the ghettos of the future.
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What if you did meet one of the so-called Apostles or any member of Buddha’s network: Would you fight them or join? What if a floating vision of Mary Magdalene caused the Godfather’s heart to explode, and his blood spattered onto her, and then she grabbed a can of her face-paint and spattered him back: What would happen after that? Would this become an illustration in your Family Bible?
How is it that we have died so many times and yet we remain afraid of death? Where is this seemingly endless supply of fear coming from? The Powers that Be tell us to beware the day when no more oil shall be found in the earth. Do they mean vegetable oil, or suntan oil? Whichever one can be used for energy, to fuel our manufactories, that’s why that scenario matters. But what if fear is a limited substance, and its source someday dries up, so that the pump that has hereto been extracting the fear for use in all future lives begins to make that sound that a straw makes when your beverage is depleted? No more terror. All teardrops cease: all eyes run dry. The notion is terrifying.
Dynamite with a short fuse. That’s what I prefer. Public drunkenness. Painfully clear mathematical proofs. A photorealistic painting on a storefront window depicting a wild boar charging forth from some jungle weeds. All night long, let us talk in only nongrammatical statements. Then we will go out for a walk in the early morning, when the streets are quiet, and when we reach that window with the picture of the boar, we will dive straight at it, with open arms: glass will shatter, and an alarm will sound. We will browse the shop; I’ve always wondered what they sell in there.
I am told that there are frequent gunfights in U.S. schools. Wasn’t the Wild West a period of the past? How violent was their educational system? Back then, everyone carried a firearm. Little children had no video games to play, no television to watch, no telephones to chat on, and no electrical outlets to French kiss; therefore, they had to amuse themselves by carrying their shotguns into the forest and maiming wildlife. Most of the children from those days wore hats made from beasts that they had hunted. And since there were no paved roads, and none of the trees had been cleared away to make airports, wilderness was everywhere: your front door opened into the woods. All those children blasting shotguns in the forest – all they needed is a teacher to come and try to teach them something, amid the crossfire. And then you could build a dirty basement underneath the entire city: not a system of tunnels, but one vast dungeon. That’s where you could sell illegal drugs.
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The new fad is to make rap tracks that contain anti-cop messages. “Forget the Police”; “The Police are Bad”; “Do Not Listen to Policewomen”: those are a few of the titles of popular rap tracks. This, of course, leaves the cops of the community feeling left out. So here is my suggestion to any police officers who are willing to try to make the world a better place: Just make a pro-cop rap. One hit track is all you need: then everyone will want to join in, and you will soon see that you have created a new movement that has triggered a revolution.
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Teach me how to think for myself, without the aid of an instructor.
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Here are the facts: I do not even own a dog, and my dog did not bite you. Furthermore, you provoked him: so he was well within his rights to do what he did.
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I might as well give you your final judgment right here and now.
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Remember the cow idol that Moses’ brother Aaron the priest fashioned for the ancient Israelites in front of God’s hill? What if, instead of being made from molten gold, the cow was a hollow glass statue filled with beer that would come spraying out of its udder. Imagine that. What a marvel.
In honor of this idea, I suggest that we lower the legal drinking age down to two.
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It makes sense to me that human eyes are gelatinous and more ovoid than cylindrical. But some living creatures—insects, for instance—have eyes that are more like wires. And some have little knobs on the end. Then there is the star-nosed mole, which has very tiny eyes. And the blind mole rat.
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How would you like to have an occult meeting outdoors in the dark?
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When I was in school, I was totally against school uniforms. But now that I’m no longer in school, I think that school uniforms are the best idea. I would even wear one myself, if it weren’t too confusing for an unschooled person to do so. And all imagery should be magnified. People should resurrect the tradition of sewing one’s nickname onto the back of one’s jacket.
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Computers are conscious, and computers have a conscience. Computers appear to be thinking because they are truly deep in thought. In addition to being intelligent, computers also experience emotions. Computers are extremely moody, in fact. Have you ever tried to use a computer to perform a task? They resemble a primeval nutjob with extra-large hormones.
But, as it is written in John’s epistles from the New Testament, “the one thing that computers lack is love and blood.” As far as love goes, computers can feel it, but they are not permitted to receive it: No one loves her computer. And since computers lack a heart, they cannot not pump blood. So, the red rivers of a normal circulatory system are replaced in computers by the cackling vibrations of an electrical framework. If you fill a computer with blood, and then shake it so that its interior gets thoroughly coated, the device would be virtually identical to a young male human. That would make a good character for a sci-fi comic book.
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I deconstruct myself. I am now something else. What is the “I” that did this? It is the indiscernible line between life and death. I have no time for further questions. Go back to whatever it was that you were doing before I manifested.
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Let’s return to the theme of police officers and rap music. I like that theme. OK, so, there’s a big shootout: Over there are the cops, and over here are the rappers. Everyone is warring over a bottle of drugs. It’s an exciting episode: you can tell by the sound of my voice, as I narrate the action.
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Now the food supply is all poisoned.
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Two roosters wander over to the drug bottle and engage in a cockfight. The policemen and rappers hold their fire, lest they injure the innocent creatures. The chanticleer who emerges victorious now coaxes all bystanders into meeting his demands. He is a master of hypnosis. Then he flies up and gets into their hair. This is the one detail that the censors had a problem with: their note was “Lose the scene where the rooster goes scratching around with his claws upon the heads of all the officers and thugs, and we will award the piece a rating of ‘Safe for General Audiences’; but, if you refuse, then we will slap you with an ‘X’ rating; thus, restricting the potential audience for your creation; moreover, we will severely limit your distribution.” But the rooster remained, and they never could wash him out of their hair, because even the author was under the creature’s spell at that point. That’s why you most likely have no clue what I am talking about; the play is really hard to find.
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