Saturday, November 22, 2014
After all these years of lagging behind -- check any key index -- my town has something to finally be proud of, something to put us on the map. I'm hoping this will spur greater tourism, as folks will come from near and far to see where it happened. Certainly it'll be a boost to our reputation, as we'll be able to claim the title, "Home of the First Drone-Delivered Turkey."
Those are the larger issues, but the main thing is how attractive this is for the local consumer, not having to go to the grocery store and stand in long lines, your temperature rising, the feeling, cramped in as you are, that you're going to explode and massacre everyone. We're looking forward to getting rid of that. Because it's Thanksgiving, folks! A sacred holiday, a day for family, friends, and food, not erupting in bloodshed at the local supermarket.
And finally there's something to celebrate in the field of technology. This is technology that actually enhances life and doesn't detract from it. I used the think the computer and all our other gadgets would be a blessing. Instead, crime against children is up, brutality against women is ever-present, banks are being robbed faster than they can build them, there's shoplifting, arson, and bullying. What's the one thing all those have in common? The perps more often than not have used a computer at some time in the last 15 years.
Plus, this is something I can actually get excited about. I'm like everyone else, as above: I hate the inconvenience of grocery stores. You find a parking space (good luck), you go in, the antibacterial towels for wiping the cart are usually out, then you're jam-packed with other people with the same basic goal in life, hunting and gathering food. You get to the checkout and there's always someone ahead of you. Usually with a squalling kid, nose running. It's almost enough to make you go berserk. Thank God most stores are now open-carry.
Anyway, technology to the rescue! Little drone planes promising the fullest measure of convenience for getting your turkey, greater than anyone could've imagined. That's the way I like it. No fuss, no muss. Just go out, get in line, wait your turn, etc. Then some time, be it an hour, or maybe a few hours, the mighty drone plane will come in with Turkey on Board for you! They'll take your souvenir picture, you load it in the car, and you're off.
Being new, though, with everyone wanting one, there will be a little competition to get your turkey. But don't worry, it'll be fun! When you get to the airport, stop by the main booth and get your bidding number. Then make your way to the runway. No crowding please, there's room for everyone. Pretty soon, the store will have loaded the drone and sent it flying, and it will come into view with a beautiful frozen turkey. Hands will go up fast, of course, because everyone wants one. But wait! With supply and demand, the only fair way is to auction it off. No one should complain. Why do you think you needed the bidding number if you weren't expecting to bid? The auctioneer will start every sale at 49 cents a pound, and depending on how many haven't yet got theirs, it might go for 89 cents a pound, or you could wait till the crowd thins out and get it at the minimum. It's all good. The store will keep sending them while buyers are still present.
Once you've got your turkey -- and checked out the drone, very cool -- the only thing left is to buzz by the store and get everything else you're going to need, dressing, beets, yams, pies, and don't forget you'll probably need a big aluminum pan.
That's what happening this year, exciting enough. But for the future, the sky's the limit! I'm looking forward to the day when someone makes the attempt, the first transatlantic delivery of a turkey by drone to France, with throngs of excited Thanksgiving revelers waiting on the scene.
Friday, November 21, 2014
I sincerely believe my posts on Vigor Vivus, the active principle of life in a person at its utmost quality, are what I was born to write. I'm always touched, in return, by the many cards, letters, emails, comments, smoke signals, tweets, and proposals for marriage I get. Your kind remarks mean so much to me, more than you know, although, as you would guess, I cannot answer each one, as I hate wasting time and money. But be assured, I take them into account in later posts. Today, for example, is an answer to someone who suggested that the horse, foremost in the animal world, is the personification of Vigor Vivus. I completely agree!
It's been three months, meaning it's time to check my Vigor Vivus levels. That's a great discipline, by the way, in case you've let yours go. Seriously, I don't think there's anything better you can do for yourself, be it a yearly physical, flu shots, or monthly prostate exams. Or be it going to church, furthering your education, taking care of your family, being kind to neighbors, donating to charity, adopting orphans, buying winning lottery tickets, praying for China, or stopping after you've been in an accident and/or yielding for the ambulance. Vigor Vivus is Number 1. I for one have kept up on mine, and I have to say, I feel healthy as a horse.
I can't think of any horse I've ever known that's been sick. They gallop right along, right through life, living in the sunshine, in the hay, in the clover, feeling their oats, staying frisky, raring back with cussedness, with nary a saddle sore. It's their spirit that leads us to handle them right, keep them groomed, tend their stalls, and never leave them to suffer without provender. I've always believed, and I've reiterated it a thousand times: The horse, foremost in the animal world, is the exact personification of Vigor Vivus, its express image.
Part of my discipline with Vigor Vivus goes back to my own upbringing. Also recalling the horse, Mom would brush me down, and of course Dad kept me trotting to accomplish some little task or other, both teaching me good values for riding tall. They were great and didn't nag much, raising me from the small pony boy I was to the full grown man I am today. I also owe it to them, the desire and ability I have today, to teach others, you. You can thank my parents, regrettably now deceased.
Without Vigor Vivus, the great life principle, the source of psychological and physical health, I'd be nothing. Yes, without it, I might stumble along, probably, well enough for a while. Just like the horse might stumble along, were it a lesser animal, but not win the race. You know the drill; it'd be in last place, going downhill, then kaput, fizzzt, like a wire shorted out. Am I right?
We must never forget Vigor Vivus' dreadful yet very real opposite. There's a scale that goes from the life principle, devolving to its opposite, Rigor Mortis. And even in Vigor Vivus, Rigor Mortis is still there in some quantity, however minute. That why we can say so-and-so has greater Vigor Vivus and how we can say there is a scale. The life principle can be lose the lead and Rigor Mortis can gallop ahead. God forbid! But that explains how a Hercules, Samson, or Jack LaLanne can die at peak health.
Would you like pointers on checking your Vigor Vivus level? If you say no, you either know how, or your levels are so low you're hopelessly lost in Rigor Mortis. I have a good discipline on how to do it. Put on some soft music or something with a good message. This morning I went with the old song by Tony Bellus, "Robbin' the Cradle." With the great lyrics, "They say I'm robbin' the cradle, little darling. Is it strange for true love to be so young?" Very inspiring. As that played a few times I sat quietly, head above, body below. For a while I closed my eyes, then opened them. Then one eye closed and the other open. Then switched. Last of all, I scratched any itch. Which, my mom always reminded me, horses also do, making a big production out of it, rubbing it against trees.
A very important part is to move thoughts around in my head. Move them to the left, then to the right, then distribute them back to their place. These are mental movements, you understand. There's hundreds of them. Any image with motion, any real life correlate, is useful. You might think of reining in a wayward, excited horse, and keeping it in a small pen to let it cool down. Whatever you do to check Rigor Mortis, Vigor Vivus pays off greatly, sometimes 40 to 1.
Vigor Vivus! Win, place, or show, it's all good. That's all I got today, no mare, no less. All of it making great horse sense.
Other great Vigor Vivus teachings:
My Vigor Vivus Health Plan
The Dawn of Vigor Vivus
Teens Reject Rigor Mortis
Vigor Vivus -- I Command the World
Rigor Mortis vs. Vigor Vivus
Your Basic Problem is Rigor Mortis
Unveiling the March of Vigor Vivus
The Unremitting Shield of Vigor Vivus
Vigor Vivus at the Dentist
Teen Talk: Rigor Mortis vs. Vigor Vivus
Rigor Mortis Nix, Vigor Vivus Best Way
Bin Laden Mortis vs. Obama Vivus
"For Entertainment Purposes Only." Added at the recommendation of a doctor friend.
Thursday, November 20, 2014
Today we're spewing venom in the general direction of chefs. For the most part, everyone's enemy. While not as bad as sex offenders, pit bulls, and jake brakes, depending on how the case is presented, still they're pretty bad. As in horrendous.
Chefs are well known as the prima donnas of the food industry. I haven't looked at the rankings in a while, but I'd say chefs still have to be Number 1, then butchers Number 2, deli guys Number 3, and bakers at number 4. I notice bakeries take a lot of vacations, which is probably why they rank lower than deli guys and butchers. Another thing that helps bakers is they often work behind the scenes and let high school kids man the store.
Of course we all justify ourselves, so naturally chefs don't see it this way. Their contention is they're professional and you're not. But their professional status is generally unnoticed, since they're right there in the kitchen with the underlings. This is part of the chef's problem. A lot of underlings are just schmucks hired off the street this afternoon. They just got off a merchant marine ship and still stink of the sea. Other professions aren't like that. When you go to the dentist, you're not sitting there with merchant marines administering the Novocaine. Dentists know their stuff. Or you go to a mechanic for repairs. The guys working there know where the oil goes, the tires, the brakes, everything.
The chefs come up with their own food combinations and they know more about it than you. Which is true. If I came up with a more or less random slate of bad choices, naturally I'm going to know more about it than others. Just like I know more about lots of things that are personal to me, my bad teeth, weird hair, and the dizzy spells I get when I lie on my right side.
With chefs, I've been slightly guilty of interfering a time or two. Like the time a new chef came to town and wouldn't allow 1000 Island dressing in his kitchen. No sir! I told the waitress to tell him that it's a very popular flavor. But to no avail. But then, since a lot of people in town started griping -- including influential Chamber of Commerce members, even one from my own family, guess what ... Suddenly regular food started showing up on the menu, stuff common folk eat, including 1000 Island dressing. Before that, everything had some kind of weird horseradish sauce on it.
I would've loved to have been a fly on the wall during his consult with the boss. "I am the professional chef!" he shouts. "Yeah, well, I am the professional boss, and if you don't want to be doing your chefing in a hobo jungle somewhere, turning out mulligan stew even the hobos wouldn't eat -- with horseradish sauce -- keep it up, idiot! I say we're getting new food or we're getting a new chef! Capiche?" The chef is steaming, simmering, and boiling, and before long he's well done and about had it. He blows his stack, his hat is now 6 foot tall, and pieces of him are everywhere. And there I am, a fly on the wall, splattered, a real mess. But I'd do it again in a heartbeat -- what a show!
I never actually spoke with the chef in question. Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever spoke to a chef anywhere. They're kind of standoffish. Maybe they don't want to come out and get their hands dirty so they won't contaminate the food, or they think they're just so much better than everyone else; maybe doctors feel that way. Doctors and chefs are the two careers whose practitioners appear and disappear, never to be seen outside in regular life. I remember having doubts about my own doctor even being a doctor, because I saw him once in a public park. Next time I was in he showed me his certificates and confessed he'd slipped up.
Would I want to be a chef? Not really. You make a masterpiece and it's literally crap in the morning. It's too fleeting. Then, I don't really like the stuff chefs always come up with, a million ways of glazing a dozen green beans. They have them on the plate, angled out like some kind of green Japanese porcupine, it's ridiculous. Or meat that's so small you couldn't bait a hook with it, and that's your entree. That and the green beans and a dessert to match, always small and in the center of a plate with lots of wasted space. "The presentation is the thing!" is their mantra, which doesn't mean that much to customers used to eating out of a paper sack behind a steering wheel.
I'm not sophisticated like that. I basically eat to give me enough oomph to make it to the next meal. Save the shenanigans and nervous breakdowns when I don't like it. Chefs might not be so miserable if they just made what we wanted, then received our worthless praise: "Really good, Pepe."
Just this past Sunday, to end today's entree, I was at a restaurant for the first time. I'm ensconced in my seat before I notice a giant white hat in the kitchen. At this point, with my tea already on the table, there's no proper escape.
I thought of going for the hamburger since it'd be crystal clear I was getting something else I wanted, french fries. But no, I went with the blackened catfish filet that came with a fancy salad. I asked the server if I could substitute fries. I told her I thought I saw a "No substitutes" sign on the door. She said, "Ooooooo," then indicated the chef wouldn't like it, but in the true spirit of a fighter said she'd run it by him and get it accomplished.
OK, then a guy brings out my fish and there was the salad! The chef was testing me, obviously! "Try to substitute in my kitchen, will you, you bastard!" I told the guy I had asked for fries. He went back into the trenches and somehow escaped with fries, telling me I wouldn't be charged for the salad.
I ate most of the salad -- meh -- then the fries weren't even that good. Gnarly. The blackened fish, maybe the chef learned about blackening fish in school, was also nothing I liked, and catfish is my fave fish. I have autographed pinups of catfish on my wall.
But this chef is the professional! That he can ruin even catfish proves he's good.
Wednesday, November 19, 2014
I had escaped, clinging to the helicopter. But could I really leave my own forces -- all newbies -- to the treacherous ladies Auxiliary? The pilot insisted on this, convincing me after four hours of the most intense scolding I've ever received. So back up we went, me once again clinging to the skid, and he dropped me off on top of the building.
(I shall not belabor the heroics, since my desire today is to get to my trip to Phoenix and everything I can fit in about that.)
The forces of my now-defunct new Institute of Mental Parasitism were rallied in the break room, liberating the remaining donuts from the women. I was just about to lay out a plan of action when the door burst open, and there she was -- Mrs. X! -- every bit the villainess I despised. I hated her, knowing it would either be her or me leading this Institute.
Our eyes locked. I knew this would be mental parasitism to the death, or till I left for Phoenix. I gave it my all, bringing her to her knees. But with her husband's power adding to her own, she rallied and brought me to my knees. I thought I was a goner till I rallied, mentally pushing her back on her ass with a thud. I saw desperation in her eyes, quickly replaced by a new determination. She mentally pushed me to my ass, our eyes still locked. I felt myself being completely drained, but fought back, shooting daggers. Her own daggers, however, alas, were sharper and I was propelled back, crashing against the wall.
My brave forces dashed in and dragged me away. And so, all was lost. The pilot cradled me like Michelangelo's Pietà, then we got the hell out of there. Mrs. X shouted, "I'll get you if I have to search a million years!"
Since then I've managed to make it pretty far, hitchhiking to Phoenix. Right away I got a ride with an old farmer who said, "Ahm only goin' up the road a mile, but I can getcha that fur, n'yuk n'yuk." Desperate times and all, I put him in my mental grasp and he ended up driving me the whole way. My grasp was so great he offered not one word of complaint.
Along the way we saw all kinds of cool stuff, motels, people, restaurants, cacti, and even a goat chewing lazily in the ditch. It wasn't tied up or anything. I saw things I haven't seen in years. This one gas station had gas at 27.9 cents a gallon. It was so cheap we filled up twice.
Now, concerning Phoenix, that's a tough word to spell, believing as I do that the "oe" was probably originally a diphthong. I need to Google it. Or find a librarian to put under my mental parasitism spell, so I'd never have to Google anything ever again. Bleh...
Let me be brutally honest, enough pretending. Friends, I'm desperate. I'm so f'in' far from home I may never get back. Mrs. X said she'd hunt me a million years! The old Institute kept the women under their thumb for so long, and even I, the original feminist male, didn't promise or show any intentions of bettering their lot. I admit, I was content to be served, with the fantastic rolls and other goodies they were known to bring in. This one old gal -- probably fishing for a husband -- made those giant cinnamon rolls, enough gooey frosting and pecans to choke on, and all she ever got was an occasional thank you. I remember nodding her direction indifferently. If she gets her sticky hands on me, I'm done!
Gotta keep running... The old Institute has arisen from the ashes, like the Phoenix I'm in. But I'm getting so tired, exhausted, and mentally empty, that even were I to find a likely host in this library, I don't know if I could manage the feeblest eye lock. A mere child might turn it around on me and have me in his grasp! Then I'd be reduced to the babbling of an 8-year-old, goo-goo'ing to the librarian about, "Whe be the Mary Poppin book, eh?" 8-year-old dialect...
On the other hand, what a terrific subterfuge that would be. Find a kid, teach him a few quick pointers on mental parasitism -- Mr. X accomplished it with his shrew -- and have him put me in his mental grasp, then when the Auxiliary catches me, they'll see I've hopelessly devolved and leave me alone.
If I could break free of the kid, then, I could roam these Arizona streets, hoping for the return of my own superior mentality. Then I'd change my name, get all the usual fake ID, and start a new life. Till then, when and if I find him, I'll be living in his closet like ET.
Tuesday, November 18, 2014
Let's bring you up to speed. Yesterday seems forever ago, when I was in the university coffee shop, a mental parasite looking for hosts. After the past few days, I needed a pick-me-up; I was dead tired. Turns out, I didn't know how great I had it. My phone was ringing out of my pocket. Things at the new Institute of Mental Parasitism had gone to hell.
The bad news, barely decipherable from the screams and terrible cries in the background, came down to this: Mrs. X and the ladies' Auxiliary, those loyal to the old Institute, had invaded our headquarters, and were systematically taking control, and subjecting our people to mental parasitism of the worst kind, with a grudge. Their mission was simple, Sap and destroy!
When I arrived, they were lying in wait and subdued me without a struggle. I thought, The new Institute, in power for a single day, has been my life, my baby. I must yield, and if necessary, go down with the ship.
As our forces continued fighting, they dragged me to Mrs. X's office, just yesterday mine. She tested my resolve when she boasted, how Mr. X, evil to the bitter end, taught her enough techniques to subject him to mental parasitism. Mental transference! She'd taken to it like a kid to cake, completing consuming him, drawing into her mind and body his knowledge and potency. And now here she was, a Titan, something from the Furies, an unstoppable masculine Amazon -- yet in a flouncy purple pantaloons ensemble -- having all control. Hell is on the march and has executed a complete purge! The new Institute has fallen, has fallen!
As we sat there, I was resigned, knowing my respite would be brief. Inside, my thoughts were going two directions: 1) Regret: Why couldn't I have left well enough alone? and, 2) Fear: My beautiful mind will soon be sucked dry and find its new home in one of these Auxiliary gals. Up till now they've been conducting bake sales. I feared my genius would be wasted if that's what they wanted ... I'm a terrible cook.
In a moment's reverie, I remembered my life before all this happened -- days ago -- when I was an anonymous mental parasite, practicing the craft in private shadows, far from the glaring searchlight of heartless Auxiliary barbarians, whose symbol is the broom, once pertaining to domesticity, now manifested in their rage as something else, their instinct for cussedness. Pity me! To leave obscurity only to find myself in the eye of the hurricane! Hardly an improvement. I could've taken up knitting, or stamp collecting, any fool pastime...
I don't know if anyone will ever read this. But on the off chance it makes it online, I'll say it anyway. If you are part of an organization, any organization, and you're tempted to establish a parallel Auxiliary group for the ladies, think again! If you've already allowed one, for the sake of your life and sanity, take moves now to disband it, however slowly you must go as to not raise suspicion. Bribe them with kitchen utensils and new gadgets if you must, anything!
At this point, looking up at the purple terror before me, I didn't need mental parasitism. I was simply angry, so in one bold herculean lunge I took Mrs. X into the corner. I didn't want to but I hoisted a planter, three foot in diameter, and heavily weighted with a tall tropical tree -- maybe banana -- and brought it down on her skull. It didn't kill her -- not with Mr. X's power within, and whatever power she had acquired on her own from years of tea and bridge. Then I got the hell out of there.
I turned back and saw a host of women hanging from the windows, demented, but apparently happy in their chthonic miasma; who wouldn't be? A helicopter descended, I made a jump of faith and grabbed the skids, and gave the thumbs up. We dashed into the sky.
You want the truth about women? They were the goddesses of this whole damned planet -- ruling a peaceable matriarchy for over 50,000 years. Read that again, 50,000 years! They dwelt in peace -- this was before Xena -- for the most part keeping the men in subjection. The planet was in harmony. Men sat docilely over washtubs peeling potatoes. Then a few wise inventors brought in metal weapons, the goddesses gave way to heroic warrior gods and things haven't been the same since. It was about this point that "God created the earth." And we've never had it so good. I never want to go back to those days and Grrrl Power. I say all that to say this: Women aren't your friend ... They're out to get you! Disband the Auxiliary immediately!
Monday, November 17, 2014
The following is a record of my inaugural communique with our membership upon the demise of the old Institute of Mental Parasitism and the immediate arising of the new:
Demonstrating the reach and power of my blog -- the rallying point of our revolution -- the old Institute of Mental Parasitism has been destroyed. The word went forth and mental parasites the world around have responded. You canceled your membership, simultaneously receiving details on membership in the new Institute, under my aegis, and most who are qualified to join us have already done so.
The few stragglers who have not joined, who have not even submitted the first of their paperwork, we can only surmise, are lukewarm, or have waited to see which side would be victorious before committing themselves. Those people make me sick, and if they do not submit at least a note of inquiry, and I mean pronto, they will find themselves completely out, unacceptable to one and all.
The new Institute of Mental Parasitism, a dignified name that replaces what came before -- the old Institute of Mental Parasitism -- I promise will be an organization of complete integrity. It will be an organization of compassion, forever untainted by ambition, corruption, greed, and malevolence. Our goal -- our only goal -- will be to provide everything that you, our honored members, need so you may be all you can be in our common cause.
Once again, after many tiresome years of constant shenanigans by the scurvy monkeys who ran the old Institute, then eventually ran it into the ground, you have an Institute to be proud of. As far as we of the new Institute are concerned, the scoundrels who mismanaged the old Institute will never again be a part of our community. They have already been left behind, left fend for themselves, if they're able, and we can only hope that they shall be consumed in some way, enveloped, engulfed, and destroyed.
Not to belabor to the point of tedium their despicable stewardship of the organization, we can only say their mismanagement and exploitation of us and our resources was completely intentional. I personally tied President X to a chair and mentally consumed him for the space of an hour, nearly wasting his mentality down to its bare nubbins, before taking even one mental breath. And I can report my findings, that Mr. X had -- and for this reason we might perhaps honor his memory in a small way -- some small degree of regret for his perfidy.
In working through the data gleaned, it shakes out like this: The more Mr. X exploited the organization, the more he regretted it. The nature of his regret, however, was not positive. It was a case of seeking to destroy, out of self-loathing, that which he at one time loved. So Mr. X did the sad work of exploitation and regretted it, but then only doubled down on his destructive impulses. Recall, I took in his mentality, and was able to discern this much and more, so of course I'm not feeling 100% at this time.
I have also given an executive order to remove Mrs. X from all Auxiliary work, effective immediately. It is good to note that she has been completely innocent in this whole matter. And yet we suspect were she left to continue, she would foolishly seek to advocate for her husband. And with no one to give credence to anything she says, we fear she might initiate other terrible works of sabotage against us. Therefore Mrs. X has been banned from all Institute facilities and meetings. If at any time you see Mrs. X where she should not be (let the reader understand), please notify security immediately and they will deal with her.
Please let me express my personal regret that any of this has occurred, that it came to this. You didn't ask for this fight nor did I. We were guilty of nothing, unless it be trusting people too much, too readily. Warning signs were there, of course, but most of us were not in a position to recognize them as anything other than static on the wire. The investigation continues, however, to ferret out anyone who did know, or were in a position to know and did nothing.
I cannot comment to any real extent on the investigation, except to say that I hear there are potential suspects who must be dealt with. I have directed our team in the computer side of records to correlate the data in such a way to determine if any of the "lukewarm" ones, noted above, who have not completed their paperwork for admission to the new Institute, may be among them. If so, we will have a better handle on their hesitancy. If found complicit, naturally they will be excluded. It is to be seriously regretted that we shall not have the benefit of their dues, but the cost of integrity at times is high.
Friends, all around me I can see and hear the hustle and bustle of the new Institute's staff, eager beavers each one, and I am pleased. But I now ask your leave to be excused for a time, to rest and recharge. The simple fact of the matter is that I am not by nature an Organization Man. Those of you who have tasted my mentality -- in private session -- will attest to that. Even without mental parasitic activity trained on me, but only from the day to day grind we're dealing with, I feel myself nearly drained. And so I must -- I'll repeat that, I must -- leave our world headquarters for a time. Perhaps to sleep, more likely to sequester myself away in the dark corner of a university town coffee shop, to train my attention, to direct my focus, on the eyes, face, lips, hands, feet -- the entire body -- of vital, vibrant subjects just waiting, desirous and even begging (however unconscious they are of it) for a mental parasite to completely sap them. I shall become stronger as their depletion proceeds.
One day -- I hope soon -- I shall regain my strength, thanks to those unwilling subjects and thousands of others. Then you and I shall together do the day to day work of running this great organization -- the best little Institute of Mental Parasitism in the world, the new one, run by men of integrity (along with some minor help from the ladies Auxiliary), world without end.
Sunday, November 16, 2014
My admission of guilt, my mea culpa, when I was called on the carpet for supposedly disclosing "dangerous secrets" of the craft, was met with a huge thud at the Institute and rejected -- not enough, they said! After I humbled myself in abject servility, putting everything on the line, my pride, my self worth, my dignity, just so I might be in the good graces of the Great Ones, the Lordly Poobahs, (wastrels, no doubt), self-appointed as the high and mighty, acting as gatekeepers, protectors of the sacred flame, as it were, of mental parasitism!
That's the way it usually is -- Am I right? -- with those who cannot be questioned, those who dwell in ivory towers, so far above the rest of us mere mortals. They always want you to jump just a little bit higher, or grovel just a little bit lower. They can't be bothered to specify precisely what they want. Then you try to contact them, and naturally they're out of the office, busy with some other important task, no doubt, perhaps roaming the world hobnobbing with their fellow grandees and looking for others to censure. That very well could be true, because there's hundreds of MP practitioners, and most of them, like me, are independent types.
When I first heard of this matter, I immediately figured they were out to get me, and that their means would in all likelihood be devious. Because I'm a plum, you see. I'm a ripe plum out there for the picking. With a popular blog and influence that stretches around the world. Who would be a juicier plum for them, with all that plus my personal mojo and verve! They're always on the lookout for guys like me, the gifted and skilled. They're insecure! They want the mental parasitism powers I have, to absorb them and pluck me off the vine, thereby keeping themselves stronger. And this goes for others like me. They have us belonging to their rather unholy club -- that's our validation, in a sense, because there's always the enhancement of one's practice through being part of a dedicated group. Why else would we submit to these scurvy monkeys?
So it's times like these, frankly, that I'd like to scream. When the Institute's receptionist says, "Dr. X can't come to the phone right now; he's in conference." I bet he is! Rubbing his grubby hands together in jealousy and lust along with the rest of the criminal element of the Institute, authority run amok. Willing to take our dues -- of course! -- sucking up to us when it's renewal time, then despicably dumping on us (plenty of dissing) the rest of the year!
I ought to--- I really ought to -- Don't get me started, OK? But a guy thinks, "I could do this better with one hand." I could run the organization better. I'd treat the membership with respect. No more censures, no more increased dues when there's the slightest controversy, trying to keep people in your thrall, keep them over a barrel, always demanding they measure up, make them meet your stinking standards. Because mental parasitism isn't a matter of standards, it's a way of life, in my opinion, best determined by the practitioner himself.
I'm this close (inches) from starting my own Institute! I know there's surely hundreds of guys (and gals, in the Auxiliary) disgruntled like me. It's just a matter of making contact with them, getting the word out. Say I went on Twitter, which has its downside because it's so public. Or we could get together on one of those sharing sites for documents. "Here's my idea." "That's a great idea, here's mine." "We've got two pretty good ideas, let's see if someone else wants to join us." Bam, you've got a brand new Institute!
If that's what I'm going to do, I'll probably have to be like the Declaration of Independence guys, and come up with a page of grievances. That we cannot work through this, that, and the other thing, no matter what we do. Then mail letters to some of the other disgruntleds, saying, "Let's get it on!" And have our own Mental Parasitism Institute, where there's absolutely no rules, or fewer rules. Such as the "Do as little harm as you can" rule. If I want to reduce a dozen or even a hundred mentally alert victims to a writhing, unconscious, naked mass, like hideous snakes in a pit, that's my business! No ethics, no nothing. Do it yourself. Come up with it on the fly.
Of course we'll want to stay out of each other's way as much as possible. And hold to a few common sense standards of conducting business. Like watching out for each other's well being. Good stuff. Then, say, someone does go off the beam and threatens the common well-being, I can see how that would be a definite negative. Do we stand together or do we fall? Do we hang together or separately?
In short, we need a few helpful bylaws for our common congregate discipline, so everyone stays on the same page as much as possible, for everyone's mutual good. And I see it, if someone goes way too far, such as literally sharing the deepest secrets over the express objections of the group, he should be called on it, brought to heel. I feel that we will flourish the most when we remain together, sharing the teachings and maintaining a sweet spirit of camaraderie. If only the current Institute felt the same way.
Saturday, November 15, 2014
Friends, I am in some trouble. And I have to say something -- as part of my censure from the Institute of Mental Parasitism -- that I am very sorry for my previous posts on this subject. EXHIBIT A and EXHIBIT B.
The Institute, having met in emergency session, specifically demanded that I photograph myself dressed in my Sunday finest and attach a cloth leash to a pair of my blue jeans, then post it on my blog, to illustrate the warning against putting the cart before the horse. And so I have, highlighting it in yellow to call attention to it, another demand. They can be real mean dudes, threatening to strip me of certification in mental parasitism if I don't. Yes, it's a bitter pill to swallow, but with them being the only institute with the ability to certify, what am I to do?
Further, I am to "admit" that any previous teachings that I erroneously gave in public, the two posts referenced above, are in error, are fiction, and are meant "For Entertainment Purposes Only," offering no actual teachings on mental parasitism, being false in every way. So, yes, I "admit" that. If you think you read anything actual as pertaining to true mental parasitism, you are wrong. They are 100% false, nothing to worry about, nothing to be interested in, and definitely -- I repeat, definitely, for God's sakes -- nothing to try on your own.
Believe me, I see the wisdom in this censure. Of course I knew the power of mental parasitism is immense, but I thought with the few pointers I had given that I would only whet the appetite of people to enter the path in the legitimate way, and so they'd grow in maturity and discipline. But just the opposite has occurred, which leaves me in a terrible spot.
I hate to see the consequences of so many of you crossing the boundaries to your detriment. To think I had a role in that is a terrible blow. I don't know if I'll be able to continue in the same spirit which I had. In the more immediate future, having this shame and guilt, I imagine I will be the ultimate wet blanket at Christmas. My family will look over and see me in the large chair, my mind misfiring, my fingers barely able to find the tape on my gifts. But that's still a month away; please pray I recover.
It turns out people are smart, even if they're not wise. They were able to take the few pointers I gave -- who knew? -- and devise for themselves a workable plan of mental parasitism, even if it lacked in some of the specifics both of received tradition and the more potent riffing on the traditions of the masters. The consequences for themselves and others is something I will have to live with, despite my fervent wish that I could somehow turn back the hands of time and find myself simply blogging on the weather, politics, or the new puppy I'm getting.
Seriously, I'm getting a new puppy! How about that! With Underbrush's passing last December I thought, The pain is unbearable, I'll never be able to share my love again with a puppy. But time heals all wounds, apparently, although, naturally, I've literally never tested that theory, having to this point not experienced "all wounds."
Meanwhile, back at Guilt Ranch, my foolish disclosures, going against everything I intended, has left the sidewalks littered with the sucked out carcasses of people, now the unwitting victims of premature (foolish) mental parasitism. I hear there's been quite a few, since the techniques are very powerful, even when misused, and perhaps especially then. At the library, they've found men as big as mountains, McDonald's drinks spilled everywhere, draped over the banisters and even hidden under tables. Also women with tangerine scarves litter the vicinity.
The fever, as it were, has extended beyond my local town as well. With many 140-character briefs on Twitter, which I call "tweets," telling of great vibratory essence depletion from Spain to Timbuktu. The Russians are in turmoil -- that's kind of a positive -- as desperate Ukrainians have turned to mental parasitism, and now are despoiling the invading hosts. And with the reports of massive posters in the public square of a near-nude Vladimir Putin, I can only wish them godspeed.
Similarly, I have a terrible report, kind of a bummer, confirmed by numerous sources, that South America isn't even there anymore! That warrants an exclamation point, right?
So I'm sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry. At this point tripartite sorrow is all I can give. I can only hope now we don't lose any more of our precious brothers and sisters around the world, including, of course, all our remaining continents, populated as they are with thousands of innocents, unknown to me in name, but existing there. I believe they will be OK, just as long as the principles of mental parasitism are strictly held to, in accordance with responsible, guided practice.
Please, friends, get these teachings from the Institute only, and be as responsible as you can.
Friday, November 14, 2014
We were speaking yesterday of mental parasitism. Webster describes it like this: "A lesser known type of vampirism, mental parasitism appropriates the vibratory essence of a host for the perceived well-being of the parasite." I like that.
Yesterday, you recall, I carefully hedged my words. I was writing for a general audience, so I didn't feel I had the full dispensation to speak frankly. One hates to say too much. Today's post, however, I'm sending only to those more advanced in these things, engaged in minor borrowing all the way up to outright domination. Today on picking a host.
It should be abundantly clear that all hosts are not created equal. You have your big-boned gals and your delicate flowers. You have men strong as a horse and just as tough, then there's the general run of men, wilting wimps. They're not hard to recognize. As would be expected, delicate flowers and wilting wimps have decent enough vibratory essence, but the quantity isn't there. Gals with big bones and horse men have essence in great quantities, but so often it's tough as nails. The ideal is something in between.
There are, of course, many times when you'll have a "Beggars can't be choosers" choice to make. At those times, with your own essence failing, you can't be picky. As I write this, as luck would have it, a guy walked by, big as a mountain and yet still wimpish. What do you do with that? Being wimpish, the essence would obviously be supple enough, and being a mountain, the quantity would be there. But is he someone you should settle for? Also take into account that he was drinking something from McDonald's. I actually turned away in revulsion, but my personal levels today are all good. I can easily afford to wait.
Part of your consideration has to be, too, your self-respect. A McDonald's drink, please! What else has he had? And when I say big as a mountain, I don't mean in the football sense, but more oafish. Attaching to him, in my opinion, would be like trolling the beach for dead whales, distasteful to anyone but candle-makers in shipping ports. But take that slender gal with the tight blue jeans and neat tangerine scarf passing by; she takes care of herself. Two or three hosts like her would easily equal one mountain man, and be much more pleasing. That I could respect.
A key consideration in selecting a good host is also the setting. These things take time. My mountain McDonald's guy -- already with strikes against him -- was in motion, passing by. How terrible to try to latch on to his essence; there he goes! It couldn't be done to any satisfaction. What kind of lock would you get? You tell me! You wouldn't get any lock! It'd be like charging your phone three seconds at a time. In terms of your own essence, you'd waste as much as you gained, zero sum or worse.
Tangerine scarf was in motion as well, but she was headed for a chair or desk, making her a better possibility. But if you need two or three tangerines to equal one mountain, again, this is something to plan for. Say you've connected, gotten what there is, then spill some in disconnecting, only to end up vainly scouting for a new host, maybe you should've stayed home and chilled. It's important to have the vibratory essence, don't get me wrong, but no one wants to chase rainbows and only come up with rain.
That brings us to another key point, which we could easily move to the top. Goals. There's mixed feelings on this, with so many driven by selfishness or the thrill of the chase. I myself am not a fan of "topping off," which I think is undisciplined. Lack of discipline, nothing positive there! I've known some very undisciplined parasites. Generally young, they always think more is better. They think they can live like the devil and avoid questions forever as to what's going on. No! Loose lips sink ships, as we've all heard. Next thing, we're locked up in the state pen and a few of us with immunity are testifying before Congress. As an aside, I'd like to drain the essence of a few of those Republican bastards, honestly to the point that they're rolling helplessly on the floor, twitching and babbling. Or just twitching, since they've been babbling all along.
What I want to say on this point, topping off, is to quote a sign at the restaurant: "Take all you can eat, but eat all you take." Get the parallel? Life is a system of give and take, but if you take more than you need, that's despoiling our shared resources. It's irresponsible, whether you're at the KFC buffet, gorging yourself on their halfwit food (physical), or at the Miss America pageant, gorging yourself on the swimsuit competition (vibratory). My advice: Pick the gal from your own state and leave the others. Of if there's more than one parasite from your state present, go halvsies and split a few judges.
Thursday, November 13, 2014
Have you heard of ... the danger of mental parasitism? Well, I have. I know so much about it that, probably, the less said the better. I have a full page of notes on the subject, two pages, as I recall. And I'm not referring to it now ... I'm winging it.
The mental parasite is a creature -- a normal human being, depending on how you define normal -- who is generally older, and knows he's on the downhill path to dissolution. The concept reminds me of movies like Dracula or another Bela Lugosi movie where the woman is beautiful as long as she keeps getting shots of young woman essence. No doubt there's many variations to it. Freaky stuff. But in the case of the mental parasite, there's no injections, no surgery, and perhaps not even a perceptible depletion of vitality from the host. I'd call it imperceptible, but I don't entirely know all the instruments that are available.
I'm not going to admit very much here. With no admission there's frankly nothing anyone can hold me on. Any victims (and I'm not saying there are any) have long since passed from my terrifying, essence-zapping stare, and are surely by now fully recovered, being completely unaware that they served as a fantastic mental feast for me, speaking strictly as a matter of "What if?" conjecture.
Why would I want to admit anything? Wouldn't that just scare off all potential hosts, leaving me very much alone in society, to waste away? Perhaps not. Think about it. The mass of people aren't going to stay home simply on the off-chance that a mental parasite -- which isn't even a recognized parasite, scientifically speaking -- might be nearby. They reason, "What's the worse he could do to me, maybe pick up fashion tips and die of envy?" In response, I say, "[Wolf calls and maniacal laughter]," before grabbing a fly from the air and sucking it dry.
Of course people aren't going to believe in mental parasitism, so it doesn't matter how much I say. Just like I don't believe the "crackpot" things I see occasionally on TV. Like ghost shows. I see the most popular ghost show is zeroing in on their 200th episode. That's pretty good, 200 episodes and not one ghost! Proving you can do a show for years, failing at what you purport to be your mission, and no one seems to notice. It's the Fox News of the paranormal! Then I come along with a lowly blog post about mental parasitism, which no one has any reason to believe. Obviously I could shout it from the rooftops and continue to enjoy no lack of hosts. I love it! Honesty's the best policy, but no one realizes you're honest!
Anyway, anyway ... don't take any of this too seriously, OK? My phrasing there was all in fun. If you took it seriously, that would be bad for my image, and, again, potentially for the number of hosts, and my personal freedom. The last thing I want is to be brought before a judge on charges of mental parasitism. Let's say, though, that they've got me sitting there, waiting for the previous case to be finished, and I'm mentally sucking dry the judge, jury, bailiff, sketch artist, and recorder. I've got all that prime essence, they're slouched over the bannisters, and I'm breezing out, till my next arrest, which, being a hungry soul, I hope is very soon! Judges have a lot of great essence, they say.
If I can be serious for a moment, I honestly, actually never do mental parasitism activities. Not that often, barely any, you know, unless I see someone bubbling out the essence. Which happens only occasionally. The mass of men and women, living their lives of quiet desperation, have nothing I really want. It's that occasional person, though, just dripping charisma... You see them with your eyes almost closed, like looking through a feather, and you literally see all kinds of things: colors, excitement, multiple body sheaths, radiance streaming forth from the crown chakra ... Yes, it can be too much. Surely a little taste wouldn't hurt...
What a sad and lonely life it is, though, in the (hypothetical) aftermath, when you're alone with your thoughts. You're in bed, looking up at the ceiling, and you see the dancing of and hear the jibes of taunting spirits: "You swore off! You're weak! You're pathetic! You couldn't leave well enough alone!" Then I have to wonder, Where are you bastards from? It's either my continued, prolonged, satisfied existence, or going down the tubes! I can't help it that this is the way life is! Last time I checked, I wasn't the Creator. Take it up with the Creator if you've got a problem... Otherwise, kiss my ass! But they dare not get too close or I'll suck them in, fly away, and rain psychological terror on a world that would never know what hit it! If any of this were true, that really could happen.
Wednesday, November 12, 2014
*About the graphic
I've never liked personality tests. Take me as I am. Or get to know me as we go along. But no, Hezekiahs aren't allowed to relax. You're at school and fill one out and they call you to the office and accuse you of being a Stub. Never a good feeling. Fortunately, in my case, I knew they were wrong. I'd never a Stub!
But I'm lazy, so I'd game the system. Because I'm so much a Hezekiah I don't think I have to prove it. So I'd look at the test pattern and note what they were looking for. You see the first and sixth and twelfth question are essentially the same, repeating the pattern till the end. I'd do all those at once, giving the same answer. Then I'd go back and do the same with the others. Sounds like a Stub, I know. And indeed, you tend to come out looking like a Stub. When in fact I've been a Hezekiah all along! Apparently a subversive Hezekiah...
They always think Hezekiahs should act strictly like Hezekiahs, which, ironically, would be Stub behavior. A true Hezekiah is going to veer into Stub territory now and then, and hurry back out. Because it's give and take. Strictness isn't key to the true Hezekiah. But the big problem was that those who make the tests are Stubs, and naturally they interpret the results in a Stubbish way.
Just in case you weren't around for Hezekiah and Stub, which we used to have in school, they're two dogs. Hezekiah likes to hunt, Stub to guard. But things happen to keep it amusing, like Stub might chase a squirrel off the property, unaware there's a burglar, too, who trips over Hezekiah sleeping, meaning Hezekiah saves the day!
There's so many of these old stories, it's probably only natural that they'd come up with offshoots, like personality tests. I often think of Hezekiah and Stub, and put my own spin on life through them. Like this: The theoretical pure Hezekiah has no resistance in life, going along with the flow, surviving. The theoretical pure Stub has complete resistance, is in control, and so dies. Of course there is no pure Hezekiah or Stub after those terms, at the extremes. It's all a matter of tendencies on a scale.
To me, the names themselves speak to how they're termed. Hezekiah is a lazy sounding hound, occasionally lifting an ear to note the passing of a train or send a fly on its way. Stub is a super-efficient sounding dog, lean and muscular, sleeping, perhaps, but fully alert to everything. And that's the way they looked. Hezekiah can be roused from his equanimity, but it takes a truly necessary reason. Stub is efficient, therefore more alert and controlled by events. Hezekiah tends to be self-reliant, flexible, and nice (or indifferent.) Stub is hard and can be mean, being the opposite in terms of flexibility. On and on.
Of course, the Hezekian philosophy of life is the one that sounds best to me, if I could live up to it. Good old Hezekiah has an innate knowledge that All is One; he is not in competition, opposing life, but seems himself integrally one with what is. Hezekiah might think, "Yes, if I reach up to steal food, I might get my paw caught in the band-saw, but I might not." (Frankly, I'm more cautious than that.) Stub knows all the angles and is never content with might/might not. That sounds the wisest for survival, and as I said I also can be quite cautious, because angles can change unexpectedly, meaning security can quickly become a false security. But Hezekiah also knows you're going to get it in the end, whatever cautions you take.
Our whole perspective on life and mortality are at issue here, as I was just getting at. And you know how it generally is with actual dogs, apart from being babied by modern owners taking them to the vet to put them down. They seem very stoic, crawling to isolation somewhere and simply dying. In the Hezekiah and Stub stories, though, Hezekiah has a looser grip on his personal existence. He seems more prepared to die ... "Just let me get through this one last meal, thank you kindly." Then he goes on to a ripe old age. I believe that's me.
But Stub is rigidly opposed to his own demise, while being unsympathetic to others. I've always seen a contradiction in that: Is Stub already dead in some sense, clinging to life as he is with a bad attitude? It's only a matter of time before Stub dies, standing up, and rots away. Then his skeleton will be found in place, appearing still to be on guard! Would serve him right.
* The "Hezekiah" and "Stub" characters -- ©1925, renewed 1943, Institute for Dog-People Research -- are now public domain. Stub was originally gray but re-imagined as brown in the 1940s, when the Nazis' dog mascot "Fuery" also appeared to be gray. We say "appeared to be gray" because his only appearances were in black and white illustrations, meaning he could very well have also been brown.
Hezekiah and Stub were very familiar friends to schoolchildren since their first appearance in the 1920s until they were phased out for use in public education in 1966. In the 1930s they were credited with the great accomplishment of ending the Great Depression. But by 1966, with the rise of secular humanism, situational ethics, the godless one world government, and color TV, they were gone.
Tuesday, November 11, 2014
If you run a restaurant, and a veteran shows up for his free steak, but is unfortunately missing his manhood, and you're somehow able to realize this, either by sight or his higher voice, you might wonder, Could this be the guy? Let me tell you about him, because his discharge papers are perhaps not up to snuff. He's a guy Sarge had to deal with...
It just so happens that I have a friend in the neighborhood, called Sarge (Walter), who's now a handyman, but in prior years was a sergeant in Vietnam. He was just recently over at my place; I think it was last Wednesday -- could've been Thursday -- no, it was Wednesday. Several years ago he made me one of those boards that has a row of jars nailed to it in which you store screws and nails. Well, I'll be damned, but some moisture got in there and rusted the lids shut! So there I was, actually breaking one of the jars for a quick screw.
Sarge came over to make it right, since it was still under warranty. In talking, we got on the subject of free food for veterans on Veterans Day, and I know he's definitely all set. By now, at this writing, he's surely had free breakfast at one of the grocery stores. And in a little bit he'll have lunch at one of the diners, since they've also jumped on the bandwagon. Then tonight, my warrior friend will sit down for a much finer meal at the steak house. The steak house is a very patriotic bunch and they've really led the way in free meals, with the only downside being a long line. Some of our older vets have been known to pass out waiting; one year one cut his head, but insisted on his steak before getting treatment. That's the way they're trained: Mission first, personal safety last.
Anyway, Sarge was over, and I thought, "No, I'm not gonna get him reminiscing about Vietnam. Let old wounds die." But as luck would have it, we got to talking about the tables at the steak house, quite innocently, how they're always loaded down on Veterans Day, literally to the point that they'd collapse if they weren't so sturdy. This led to him telling me about another table, the desk he had in Vietnam, under which he had duct-taped a gun, pointed outward at whoever sat across from him. I can't imagine, but that's the way they did things! Because Sarge is wise.
Day and weeks passed, when, lo and behold, who comes in but this one totally crazed son of a bitch, a guy no one could figure out, just loony bins, total bananas, hopped up on who knows what, caffeine, stronger drugs, illegal drugs, killer drugs... He also had what could only be called a general spirit of cussedness. This guy had no reverence for authority, being whack, either half out of his son-of-a-bitch mind or completely. I can barely stand to hear it, let alone put myself in Sarge's shoes, when that crazy idiot came in there loaded for bear, and every authority figure he saw -- whether he knew it or not -- was bear.
The way Sarge tells it, he immediately recognized the guy for the total bad news he was, and tried his best in the precious few seconds he had to bring him to heel. But then there's that flash in your brain, that trigger that once triggered tells you you have about three seconds to live, unless... unless you're prepared to defend yourself. I looked in Sarge's eyes as he recalled the incident and I could see fire where the whites should've been. In that split second Sarge knew it was him or the other guy... And just as that bastard was coming up, as if to strangle the life out of him, in a split second, Sarge reached down and pulled the trigger, and essentially blew the guy away, from the crotch down. He still had legs, that's not what I'm saying, but ... he was subdued. They carried him out and that was it. Sarge was cleared, and now here he is, my hero. And handyman.
With Veterans Day looming, as he was leaving, I did as instinct compelled: I snapped my feet, made my posture erect, and gave him a more or less convincing salute. Gotta love 'em, veterans!
Monday, November 10, 2014
I generally don't like the political season, with all the false accusations and negative spin the candidates lambast their opponents with. I hit the mute button I'll bet 200 times, since TV becomes even more a cesspool than it usually is. But once the election's over peace and harmony return, and the bastards are gone for another couple years.
The only candidate I really like -- an institution since my 30s -- is Sheriff True Dillingham. He was up for reelection this year, and of course it was a foregone conclusion that he'd win. With the same great campaign he's run since his first try, the "Willing Man" theme. It's his brand, as beloved in these parts as Smith Bros. cough drops or Elsie the Cow. Obviously, I'm a willing man for Dillingham! I hope you are too!
The usual assortment of buttons, posters, and stickers were all over the county, asking the question that really only has one answer, "Are you a willing man for Dillingham?" Most guys who know their stuff -- and zip it up everyday -- proclaim a hearty and hale "Yes!" I suppose there has to be a few guys against him, like the sacrificial lamb the other party runs and his few supporters, stragglers from the truth, head-butters against the inevitable.
We've had such good sheriffing from Dillingham that the women generally look up to him even more than the men! But their devotion is kept very demure -- and much of their guidance comes from the campaign -- as they declare their allegiance. For the men it's, "I'm a willing man for Dillingham," but for the women it's, "I'm a willing woman for Mrs. Dillingham." I like that, I really do, everything in its appropriate place.
Women aren't left out of declaring for Dillingham himself, if they choose, but most see no reason to cross boundaries unnecessarily or call into question the nature of their support. They're quite happy to say, "My husband's a willing man for Dillingham." And lest anyone think unmarried women are simply out, they're not, as they have the button, "I know a willing man for Dillingham." It's these women buttons, especially from the earliest campaigns, that are much sought-after by collectors. Another good one is the check box button, "I know a willing man for Dillingham: My ___ Boyfriend, ____ Uncle, ____ Father, ____Other."
But it's men most of all who are truly in the most literal sense of the word "Willing Men for Dillingham." Whether you're a boy learning of him, a younger man, a middle-aged man, or an older man voting, you are able to see his unreflected glory, while the women, with all their devotion to Mrs. Dillingham, see Dillingham's glory in a more reflected way. This helps keep them true.
As for me, now I'm older. 30 years ago I was a younger willing man for Dillingham. As years passed I matured into a middle-aged willing man for Dillingham. And now I'm proud to say I'm a much older willing man for Dillingham, not always as mentally sharp as I used to be, but I hope when my last memories perish from the face of the earth, at least I'll be able to maintain some vestige of this deep-seated knowledge, and will remain a willing man for Dillingham, world without end.
Sunday, November 9, 2014
Today I am speaking up for all the kids in the world -- past and present -- who hate milk, and who are therefore sorry Louis Pasteur was ever born. I myself wouldn't go that far. I refuse to believe our lives are set in advance, and so I believe Pasteur could have actually done something useful with his life. The fact that he became the one to work out a way to "pasteurize" milk, thereby drastically reducing bacteria and making it safe to drink, is unfortunate, but still not enough for me to rue his existence.
I know how kids feel, though, and so I won't say much more, not wanting them to turn against me and feel sorry that I myself was ever born. As you know, kids have always been mean little bastards -- even fighting among themselves! -- and are not known to appreciate the nuance of any argument. Either you're for them or against them, and they easily see through any facade, any kind of kissing up or trying to pull the wool over their eyes. In this case, however, I said what I said, and I hope that they will somehow, by some miracle, be able to understand my benign intent. Pasteur was evil, yes, but his life had the potential for good.
The weird irony in this whole matter, as I understand it, is that Pasteur as a kid himself wasn't a milk-drinker. I'm more or less pulling this from thin air, but think about it... If the milk wasn't pasteurized and therefore rife with bacteria, it stands to reason that his parents wouldn't have wanted him drinking it. Of course they knew he was Louis Pasteur, but because he hadn't as yet made any stirrings toward discovering his process, they are forgiven for not knowing he ever would. We're very forgiving because they were blissfully ignorant the entire time.
And "pasteurization" might not even have applied to milk! When I was young I heard it bandied about that all Pasteur wanted was to become famous for something. He wanted the word "pasteurization" to mean something, to be descriptive of some process, any process that he might come up with. For that reason, he was often at his drawing board.
One of his interests was magic; he wanted to become a famous magician, doing all the usual feats: card tricks, levitation, escapes, and invisibility. He thought his invisibility process in particular might be called "pasteurization." He worked out a great process by which he could vanish. But since he could only get his body to disappear, his head remained and appeared to float around town for weeks after performances, an embarrassing failure.
Back to the drawing board, he developed a system for communicating with aliens in space. This is true. And this was also something he was going to call "pasteurization." But this was a terrible failure as well, because aliens love milk. See where this is going? Millions of aliens came to earth, drank our bacteria-ridden milk and died. Hence the world suffered Intergalactic War I, II, and III, and we almost strapped Pasteur to a rocket and shot him into space, á la Jonah. The upside of these disastrous wars, in addition to corporate profits, was Pasteur's pursuit of a way to purify milk ... and redeem himself.
This, then, is how he was finally able to use the word "pasteurization" in at least a semi-productive way. But everything comes with a downside -- milk wasn't restricted to aliens -- and so we're back where we began: Louis Pasteur became the sworn enemy of children everywhere, making their lives a miserable experience, a living hell, by having to drink milk.
It's still true: Milk is for aliens and babies, not big kids.