God Speaks with One Voice…Through 7 Billion Translators
After our Lord created the Universe, I found him lolling on a chaise in the lobby of the Hotel Sui Generis, blithely reading, “A Catcher in the Rye.” So typical of him. I recognized the Lord from peripheral glimpses I’d stolen during orgasms or that time I almost choked to death on red skin potato juice while trying to heal a spastic colon. He knew who I was but feigned ignorance. Our relationship is freighted with misconception.
So this was my frame of reference when I confronted his Plasmatic Manifestation. It seemed my entire life had led to this moment when I could finally posit the irreconcilable question that troubled me most. His numinous response would gracefully dissolve ignorance, remedy years of tedious inertia and remove the veil of happy distraction so common to postmodern man. I wasn’t asking much. I was only asking everything. Not hesitating for an instant I strode over to the Godman, got right in his face and earnestly posed my momentous query: “Why do people ask rhetorical questions?”
“I don’t know,” he responded. “Why do people ask rhetorical questions?”
“I give up,” I said. “You tell me.”
“Nice try,” he piffled.
The Lord sat up, set the book down and disinterestedly said, “Look Chico, I’m not going to lay it all out for you. If I did you run straight to the nearest peyote mushroom farm and you’d no longer participate in my little ‘Charade by the Milky Way.’ But you seem like a nice sort, that is when you’re not thinking about money, girls or food, so I’ll tell you this much – It’s not anything you’re thinking about. I’ll say it again – It’s not anything you’re thinking about. Trust in that. I will try to give your mind enough rope so it may hang itself and you may see the meaning of within. You realize in this forum, I can only come at you sideways.”
“Like a snake,” I said finishing his sentence?
“No,” he dryly continued. “But since you want to bandy it about I suppose I’ll have to indulge my little creation in this game of google semantics.”
“Hey thanks for the perspective pops,” I praised.
“Hey thanks for doing my spade work bub,” he offered. “Anyway as I was pontificating, I could speak to you with great magisterial gravity on many issues, but…”
“I know. I know,” I interrupted. “Like Freud said, ‘Sometimes magisterial gravity is just magisterial gravity’.”
“Your rather witty conceits recede into oblivion with the celerity of a sneeze,” the almighty intoned while an informative crawl on his forehead highlighted financial news.
“The celerity of a sneeze? What happens when you sneeze? Do you just bless yourself?” I brilliantized.
“I can’t bless myself. Only you can,” he honestized. “You don’t have to live in a room full of mirrors y’know.”
“I have to live off someone’s reflected glory, don’t I? So it might as well be mind,” I nonplussed.
“Remember, it’s not anything you’re thinking about. Take the rope,” he said and went back to reading his book.
February is Black History Month
Some say a month is too long to celebrate anything, especially when towards the end of the month they start praising the genius of Don King. I mean Frederick Douglass and Booker T Washington yes, but Rodney Allen Rippy and Snoop Dog, c’mon. Let’s talk about some people of distinction. Got MLK? Remember his famous March in February?
March is Blank History Month
At a time when ciphers and nonentities are looking for any kind of recognition, comes an entire month commemorating their vacuuousness. Yes, Blank History month is more than a hollow celebration of nothingness…actually, now that I think of it, it is a hollow celebration of nothingness. So act like the 1948 Do-nothing Congress and join in on the festivities of this swinging month by:
Limiting your movements
Not doing anything or certainly by doing next to nothing.
From the Be Careful What You Wish for Department
The old Soviet Union went to great philosophic lengths to create a classless society. And after decades of applied Marxism they finally achieved their classless society of drunkards, polluters and Pinkos.
You wouldn’t recognize the new Soviet Union (Russia). This society has total class. Classes of henchmen, Mafioso and profiteers. Of course the old, old Soviet Union (Czarist Russia) had only two classes – Royalty and steerage, which of course led to the old Soviet Union (see above).
As Stalin once said in one of his more reflective moods, “The world is a circle without a beginning and nobody knows where it really ends.”
His reflections were not all rainbows and lollipops however. While vacationing at his dacha in Georgia (his Georgia, not our Georgia), he was anxiously rocking on the porch throwing back his usual cocktail of vodka and Semites while expansively describing to his kitchen cabinet an agricultural vision of the Soviet Union; “I am not satisfied with our harvests. Tuesday we will eliminate the Ukrainian village of Gronsk to ensure the neighboring village of Klunt has a bumper crop. Why must I be the only one to plan things around here? Oh and another drink please. This one with just a splash of Jew.”
Everyone is Certifiably Homosexual
Face it. We’re all homos. Oh sure we clutch our surrogate heterosexual lovers with feral urgency and try to assure each other with primeval rhythms just where our true orientation lies. And that’s exactly what happens! Our true orientation lies.
Imagine that. And all this time I thought I was humping truth when in reality (according to my Restoration Committee at least) I was only obfuscating the issue with spasmodic ribbons of deception. My RC explained it all to me. You see we really want, not what we can’t have, but what we don’t want. Y’know the completion backwards principle and all. Homosexuality: More than just surefire birth control. It’s a non-polarized way of life.
Two genders are hard enough. We should rejoice the 3rd sex became extinct 20,000 years ago, remnants of which were last seen in Michael Jackson. In antiquity the 3rd sex was thought to embody aspects of both men and women. For example it never asked directions and couldn’t throw a spear to save its life.
In the oneness that is God (this according to Celestial Season’s Tea boxes anyway), there can only be one sex and we might as well practice now so we can get used to it in heaven. Gay people are already self-actualized and can’t be reconverted. Rather it is up to us the straight, to end our absurd heterosexual ruse and return to the organs of familiarity. Our own kind done in our own way. This is our destiny despite eons of evidence to the contrary.
Not God’s Plan you say. I think not. God is pansexual, frenetically merging with cookware like a promiscuous scullery maid. He only created sex so we’d eat each other for pleasure instead of for food. I mean the play is the thing right? And he wanted a profitable run. How would it look if the universe closed on opening night? I’ve tried hard to profit from our little company store by the Pleiades and still I owe. And despite the searing disappointment I endure while witnessing the gross ignorance of mankind, I shall never deny the ecstatic rush of emotion I experience whenever listening to The Raspberries “Go All the Way.”
April is Gay History Month
“Think Pink kids. Oodles of good news for us rainbow folks, and these things usually come in threes. Remember when Vice President Dick Cheney’s daughter Mary and her partner Heather Poe announced they’re pregnant eliciting grudging congratulations from President Bush? Then Melissa Etheridge wins an Oscar and thanks her wife and four children on stage in front of 1 billion people. And now we’ve got a whole month of same sex celebration and we’re doing it up John Waters big. So break out the hairspray and get your beehives all in a tizzy,” says Carrie Reticulum of the Gay/Lesbian Smack Force. In a predictable backlash, stereo typists were out in force to ensure maximum snicker factor as people everywhere were faced with the unsettling specter of homosexual panic.
“It’s hard being gay,” says triple transgendered Chrome Peloton. “If people think we’d choose this life they’re insane. It’s like choosing to be radioactive. How would you like to date Cesium-237? Oh sure the roentgens are fun, but the half lives go on forever. How do you tell your mother, ‘Hey mom, this is my life partner Strontium-90’.”
Gay History Month encourages breeders to view the world through a gay prism and celebrate differences rather than commonalities. For example, the month endeavors to recognize gay excellence in swimming and other water sports. And because the differences are primarily sexual, one wonders what the difference between gay cooking and straight cooking is. Hint: Don’t order the clam broth at Fanny’s. One wonders if gay culture pervades everything. I mean is there something inherently unique about gay masonry? Isn’t a groin vault just a groin vault?
May is In-flight Enema Month
Straighten up and fly right because off we go into the wild brown yonder. This Homeland Security sanctioned month makes the mile high club tres passé. In-flight enema month exchanges the scourge of terrorism with the scouring of your own personal fuselage. The drink cart has been replaced with an irrigation gurney allowing each passenger to personalize their own colonic cocktail. Drunken asses are tolerated as long as they keep their cheeks to themselves. The airlines promise a real blow out. After all, they love to fly and it shows.
Brandeis Catacomb, whom I met at an antique store while we were buying actuarial tables, occasionally, flashed the kind of spontaneous, off-handed brilliance that made you wish for a more focused and prolonged genius. Instead we’d usually witness his momentary and flirtatious virtuosity laden with equal parts elegance and egoism; causing us a mental adrenaline rush that was in a word “awesome.” Anyone who thought that deeply was bound to be wrapped around himself. I mean you don’t get to E = mc² by joining the Rotary Club. “Please, less heat and more light,” we encouraged him. “We need the kind of brilliance that satisfies the world and not just your personal legacy.”
And yet Brandeis reveled in being a slap dash genius, fearing anything more was unsustainable and potentially ruinous to his self-image. And thus was born a class of intellectual teasers; always on the verge of something, but never on the verge of anything. Their half-baked schemes being nothing more than miniature model cities paraded around like so much civic pornography; luridly appealing, but supremely unattainable.
Great for Brandeis that he’s tapped into the nectar of the Gods while the rest of us go thirsty. He’s knitting his own time-space continuum while we’re searching for a stalking horse. He’s tying together the loose ends of String Theory and we’re looking for a scapegoat. He’s derived the mathematical formula of an orgasm and we’re still looking for a red herring. Point being, he’s casually penetrating the intellectual firmament and we’re searching for imaginary animals.
Brandeis enjoyed making quantum leaps of connectivity that seemingly had no basis in fact or as my father used to say, “that weren’t in league with anything.” During one three dimensional French Scrabble game, Brandeis’ bon mots cascaded from his lips and populated the festivities with the kind of dazzling splendor last seen when Beyonce jumped out of Sean Combs’ birthday cake. Brandeis limned tenuous, but powerful connections between June Cleaver’s cleavage and Eldridge Cleaver’s cleaver; between Rachel Ray’s toothsome grin and George Washington’s dental chagrin. His was a noisy unlubricated brain whose gears could be heard grinding from ear to ear. Especially when he thought about the infernal softness of a kitty’s spongy underbelly. “It’s so damn furry and warm I just want to bite it off,” he exclaimed through clenched teeth. This would often drive him to bruxism and occasionally to the SPCA .
Brandeis confided, “Everyday I pray for humility and every day it gets harder and harder.” He was very exacting in his methods of mulling. First he would noodle with a notion. Then he would cogitate the concept. Then, and only then would he ruminate the remnants producing his unique brand of off-handed brilliance.
“Cranium del Gato,” Brandeis exulted after removing a kitten’s head from his open mouth. “The kitten shall be spared ‘cuz he’s just so f*cking cute although I’d like nothing more than to delicately bite off its innocent fluffy head thereby forever possessing its eternal cuteness. Look when you hold’em by the scruff of the neck they become like little curled up seahorses.” And then it emerged – his trademark off-handed brilliance: “You know I used to know a guy that was on an all seahorse diet. It’s true. He’d see horse, he’d eat it.”
In his spare time, which actually comprised all his time, Brandeis would stay at home and theorize in his Murphy Bed – while it was closed into the wall. Although nearly suffocating, he felt it narrowed his focus allowing him to produce such stunning work as: Moore’s Law Corollary – That every 18 months 1½ years go by. So that in 36 months 3 years will have passed.
By skillfully employing the basis of this law, he was once able to convince a step brother to sign over his double-wide.
I Told You So
Bernie Barttlestone’s marriage had been nothing but an endless joy ride on the matrimonial band wagon. That is until Moore’s Law Corollary kicked in and 18 months into the marriage his possessive wife fitted him with a tamper-evident penis. What began innocently enough as a spill-resistant glans, soon developed into a full-fledged tamper-evident penis. And if any of its telltale chads were missing, he’d have a lot of splainin’ to do.
June is National Month Month
This June marks the first year of celebrating the months of the year. If you loved collecting state quarters then this month is for you. All twelve months will be celebrated except June which is holding the month. The annual event will rotate through each of the months so each one will get a chance to celebrate. This year recognizes January for being sexy even though it’s frigid.
July is Moth Month
We’re all drawn to this month, like a…something or other. So uncover those wool sweaters and turn off those bug zappers.
August is Lactose-tolerant Month
Had enough of people being lactose-intolerant? Then this month will make you dairy happy. Bovine University will offer classes in applying the “Got milk?” ad tag line to any number of situations and those blessed with superior dairy digestion are encouraged to be tolerant of the lactose-disadvantaged. Drama students will attempt to turn milk into cheese by issuing milk-curdling screams. Professor Howard Knowles Brown (aka How Now Brown Cow) of the Moosic Department says, “We don’t shatter glass, we curdle milk. This activity is amongst the constellation of academic endeavors we assiduously pursue.”
Remember September is National Poetry Month
It is widely known that poetry slams elicit very thoughtful profanity. This curse license has led many to confuse tantric swearing with artistic merit. Let’s listen in on the Compton Baptist Church Poetry Slam:
Atrocious DHard raps:
Teachers may I have your attention for just a moment please.
The lunchers will not be going out.
The lunchers will not be going out.
Healing the Blended Family of Earth every Month Month
October’s bumper sticker can’t explain everything, but this one might inform:
Don’t Believe Everything You Think.