Thursday, July 31, 2003

take my tired ass to tuilp land and tour such academic conferences as are easily accessible by train and don't interrupt my legal recreation much. i like that academic drone. like twelve tone it is peaceful to me (adorno was sooo full of shit he couldn't hear shoenberg (sp?) as muzak). mostly i'm gonna tour academia so i can sneer at the motherfuckers for being so lame they take their money from grading children. i have learned from a combination of veblen reading and sant ambroeus working that as behavioral modifier sneering is where it's at. oh and ain't i waiting for the first motherfucker justifies himself with: "i don't grade children. i only teach post-graduates." that one's getting an upside the head pop. from: 'freedom's just another word'.... 1:58:17 PM    comment []

bishops of the episcopal church of the united states of america: i am holding you responsible for the bush presidency and this war. ya'll the fucking social workers of capitalism and the henchmen of that windsor bitch. priests of st. john the unfinished: you too, motherfuckers. yeah, ya'll talk and talk, but you still strutting like suits. like frederick jameson (sp?) at duke. talk talk talk. i know perfectly well i can travel in my wayback hypernovel machine and find me concentration camp guards mouthing the fucking gospels even as they're raping little jew girls and shoving their mommas into ovens. i don't give a fuck what you say i wanna see you walking. i wanna see how you stand. i'm gonna campaign for dean and then for whoever might beat that bush piece of shit but whatever the outcome i'm gonna go stand away from this fucking country. it makes me tired. notes for 'letter to a young clergyman wannabee'..... 1:41:51 PM    comment []

clyde loved a young bison named arthur and they romped together the purple plains. then the indians killed arthur and clyde became one of the angry twisted dyspeptic (sp?) buffalo who watch. but clyde's eye was not attuned to cowboys. the cowboys came and they killed everyone. and clyde twisted into the ether and became a god. and clyde said: "let there be ukuleles." and there were ukuleles. {oh bishops of the episcopal church of the united states of america: my momma who has loved your church a lifetime would rather play the slots than hang with ya'll. oooh. it don't look good. i passed on your church a long time ago and i'm likely the one waiting for you when you get to hell. greeley, in his column in the daily news yesterday says it doesn't look like bishops have it in them to take responsibility for themselves. course he's referring to papists, but truly i have found all the religions and sects of abraham to be much alike. i had some priests i was steppenfetchin' for the other night and these motherfuckers flaming like wildfires and practically pinching my ass. whoa. ya'll best realize this is a glass house world now. some of us always cursed with the ability to look into your skank motherfucking hearts but i'm guessing technological development gonna enhance that ability in a whole new multitude of the young. you ain't gonna have no secrets to conceal.} fragment of the empire of dr. bienke/ notes for 'letter to a young clergyman wannabee'..... 12:45:05 PM    comment []

howard dean is apparently the manifestation of x-file prophecy: an establishment suit boy traumatised into faithlessness by the experience of a disappeared sibling. a brother disappeared into that heart of darkness which would seem to be, at least in the minds of our skull and bones leaders, the engine of capitalist development. (for four hundred years we sat on the coast of africa gouging it for labor and then when we venture inside we say: "look how angry and violent they are. these people must be primitive!" 19th century africa was just a huge ghetto of lumpenproletarians we hadn't gotten around to skooling. course there were still lots of beasties running around. we had to open up the poor dark continent so we could blast away them evil living homosexual beasties.) marx was wrong, profit ain't a function of labor. it's a function of dead babies. skull and bones don't worship money. they worship death, and like abraham they are perfectly willing to add their own children to the mix. i was watching mailer the other night and reflecting that steven king our great american novelist now but he's like a mime in a glass tube, he can scream and scream and people gonna smile and wave. mailer a snot and me his snotsome child. norman mailer writes advertisements for himself. me i'm looking to postmodernly turn myself into a fucking billboard. notes for 'howard dean machine'.... 12:03:03 PM    comment []