Illegitimate Test Tube Babies

Part 28 of 30

Self-Abuse September

When thinking of the issues of procreation -- related to the god particle -- versus the dismissive act of self-abuse -- a little messier but more easily forgotten -- you occasionally need to keep in mind what you want for your life. Because the consequences of bringing new life into the world can be dire, including family vacations, photo albums, school and having to spring for lunch tickets, plus the constant whining, crying, whimpering, and bitching that you’ll find yourself doing.

Fortunately, I’ve kept these issues in mind all my life, ever since my cousins clearly laid them out for me, and I made sure I kept them in mind every Sadie Hawkins Day when girls had the right to propose to boys. I was always conveniently sick that day. And now that I’m old I’m reaping the benefits, being all alone, not a soul in the world caring for me, with most of the girls who potentially could’ve nailed me now living in nursing homes, tripping over IV tubes and spontaneously combusting. Any one of them would've been a massive financial drag on me. But life has been good. I wouldn’t trade it for anything, not even the biggest test tube baby in the world!

And I had my shot, too. There’s all kinds of things most people don’t know about me. Because I'm so used to being completely alone of course that means I'm fairly good at bridling my tongue. You think I blab a lot on this blog? That's nothing compared to the stuff I could tell. But I’ve crossed my heart and hoped to die so many times with every evil scientist you can think of, so I’ve kept relatively quiet.

But that also means I’m stoved up in many ways that to tell it all now would take us far beyond our current theme. Did you know even evil scientists occasionally die and can only be brought back a limited number of times? True. But the last time you bring them back they look at your blankly and you see a kind of sparking -- fitz, zipz, pitz -- their legs stiffen and for a few seconds it seems like they’re pedaling a bike, there’s a fresh stain on their pants, then they die. And all the artificial pulling and yanking you might do never brings them back.

The creation (or creature) in the jar is actually an artist’s rendering of an actual test tube or jar baby one of these scientists made. I used to have the research but used it over the years to clean fish on. So, dammit, it’s gone; the fish were really biting that year. But this guy had some way of combining human seed with you-name-it, exposing it to lightning and intense pressure, and always coming out with something. Which got confusing, like mixing the crotch of a near relative with a sleepy cow; he got the sex of a cousin and half dozen of the udders, which is two more than good nature allows.

The downside of creating any living creature -- whether a standard rugrat with a woman or a test tube baby in a storm -- is always the same. The expense and explaining it to your wife. And also registering the monstrosity! Our nosy government always wants to know where things came from and who they are. But if you stick to standard self-abuse, it’s no muss, no fuss. The government merely assumes you were celibate and if you weren’t they can’t prove it without untidy and expensive mucking about in your sewage complex.

Two Lovers Tonight

Part 12 of 30

Self-Abuse September

The story of this meat monster lady was covered locally but as far as I know was not picked up by news sources outside the county. Why that is, I can only guess. I suspect it has to do with the meatpacking industry and their “in” with journalists, always giving them meat to kill negative stories. And it's true, if you’ve ever visited journalists at home, the first thing you notice is the stand-alone freezer and plenty of meat. Which doesn’t just happen.

So I’ll sketch it out and hope you believe it, because every word is true and easily found in reputable dictionaries. OK, the meat monster was a mentally disturbed lady -- as generally understood --  with a side issue of being overly abusive to innocent ham loaves. With a prejudice. And say what you will about these conditions not being her fault, something she would've never brought on herself, that tired excuse only goes so far. She knows the value of a decent ham loaf, so she's fully capable of discerning right from wrong when it comes to killing lovers. The only mental issue I see definitely is the incongruity of thinking a lover's performance can be judged by the same standards we use to evaluate ham loaves. On that point I won't budge.

Our first victim (the other guy tomorrow) is this guy Glen with the penis nose, who actually should be head over heels the front runner in love-a-thons. If his downstairs is anything like upstairs, he's got an immediate advantage in any romantic standoff. Yes, he's of small build, but if he plays his body right, he could take care of her from both ends, depending on how her midsection fits on the mattress when spread-eagle. And were he to throw his voice, and with a nose like that he probably could, she’d think it was a menage a trois, which, if my French holds, means he’d be nailing her once but equivalent to the skills of three men.

Obviously, though, he had concerns, a downer most guys get, whether or not their nose is hung, when confronted with a woman as tough as Barbarossa and built like the proverbial shithouse. Part of her menace is the hat, with the word MEAT stitched in gold, again similar to Barbarossa, his crown.

Glen started back with a fear so real that had he fled in terror no one would’ve blamed him. But as she set out the terms, he froze. Whichever lover of the two -- Glen vs. Ham Loaf -- prevailed would see tomorrow! Glen went first, which wasn't too great but, frankly, a normal person would’ve given him a passing grade while not desiring sloppy seconds. The ham loaf went next -- it’s always best to go second in these kind of standoffs -- and it took full advantage of Glen’s blood, sweat, and tears in paving the way. With the ham loaf winning. Fully nude except for the hat, the monster woman strode over to Glen, and ... I'll just say his outfit's at the thrift store if anyone wants it.

We mourn Glen, of course, but sincere congratulations to the ham loaf.

Self-Abuse Challenge: Mentally put yourself in Glen's place.

Beware of Mental Parasites

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.

Classic Monsters Face Environmental Crises

I've been diligently reading some very good esoterica stuff, alt literature, alt thought, alt reality, and alt non-reality. It's really done something to my thinking. Like with conspiracies. At the worst times of the day, everyone's out to get me. Then I recover and realize no one's out to get me. I get so lonely I can barely stand it. Here I am! Someone somewhere, anyone out there?

One of the things I've focused on is the reality of the classic monsters. These are the guys I grew up watching, and idolizing. Dracula, blah blah, always wants to drink your blood. And Frankenstein, the big guy, a man of few words, made of the parts of dead folk from the area. Who exactly started out with his head, I always wondered. One other classic dude is the Wolf Man, whose plea to the director had to be, "Don't forget my face," hence the closeups of him in swift transformation. I should mention the Mummy, although I hate the Mummy. My proclamation, first made at the tender age of 15, remains accurate today: "No one's yet made a decent Mummy movie!"

I'm not afraid of what anyone says about me when it comes to monsters. I not only believe they're real, I know they're real (except for the Mummy). They have to be real, they're so monumental, you might say Universal. I'll make another proclamation: "If they're not real, show me the proof. I'll never believe it!" So you can see, I fit right in ... in the esoterica subculture.

What I'm writing about today has been a growing concern of mine ever since I heard of the world's various environmental crises. My first question is, How will all this affect the classic monsters? There's terrible things happening. The melting of glaciers, the collapse of ice shelves, enormous volcanoes, La Nina (El Nino), near-miss asteroids, tectonic shifting and earthquakes, tsunamis, rising tides, Antarctica calving in half, a thinning ozone, sunspots, higher bacon prices, solar flares, and the alternating of night and day in unpredictable ways. I'm very concerned, in a panic. If I had one wish, it'd be that the Industrial Revolution had never happened! If not for my own safety, then the monsters'. I have a feeling they're screwed.

Part of my concern finds its roots in daily meditation. When I started meditating, the intention was to enhance my life, make me a little more clearheaded. Well, to say it worked is a huge understatement, because I'm so clearheaded now it's ridiculous! It's come to my clearheaded attention that the monsters aren't handling it well. They're like us, only more so; they need a predictable constancy in life. One big constant, as far as they're concerned, has to be the regularity of day and night. Instead of what we've witnessed in recent years, the sun and moon unable to maintain themselves in their circuits. With the coming and going of day and night being unpredictable.

It's too much. Dracula, to cite one obvious problem, can't even come out but at night. A few more slip-ups and he's a goner. He shows up, let's say, he's about to bite someone, drink their blood, trying to keep body and soul together (nothing wrong there), when the plates of the earth shift, the sun pops back to life and drives away the dark. It scares the devil out of him. He can't cope. He has to take cover. In the transition he loses massive mojo. No one benefits. As for Frankenstein, with his monstrous shape and need to be hidden, he prefers night. And the Wolf Man, it's hard to know you've got 5 o'clock shadow when you go directly from noon to midnight. The Mummy? Who cares...

All the old fashioned things of nature, if scientists can somehow get them back, we will be so grateful. I myself need regular biorhythms, dependable sleep cycles, breakfast at the same time every morning, and all the rest. I'd guess you do too. If that's so, doesn't it stand to reason that it's ten times worse for monsters?

This Halloween You Die!

'Tis the season of monsters, ghouls, evil witches, and zombies. Halloween is once again upon us. They all want to be scared. Well, I've got a prophecy for you, and a very reliable at that ... this year everyone's going to have something to be genuinely scared about. Mark my words!

We used to walk through the graveyard and always think how cool it'd be if it really opened up and ghosts were chasing everyone around. We always thought that's the kind of world we need to live in. Every year we'd lose X number of people to the ghosts. The authorities would try to forbid Halloween, of course, through their constant misguided desire for "public safety," but naturally we'd rebel and go out.

What a wild night it'd be! That was our fantasy. To be in actual spooky danger and not just the tiresome danger we normally get, from neighborhood psychos, depressed mass murderers, etc. No one thinks that's any fun, for whatever reason. We wanted ghosts, monsters, real ghouls.

To have actual supernatural phenomena, that's different. We can't fight them on equal footing. They've got powers beyond our own, the ability to recompose decomposed bodies, to become invisible, and to throw fire, etc. They rise up, maybe with a mouth ten inches tall and very narrow. They're melting before our eyes. They're embedded in someone and clawing their way out of someone's stomach. There's no end to the danger.

OK, here's my bold  prophecy: This is the year it happens! This year the lid of hell is coming off!

Mark it and mark it well, heed it! It's happening this year! It's starting this year! Halloween will be a terrific mess all over the world. Children, teenagers, and adults who've never grown up will not be coming home! Big steam pits will open under their feet! The dead will rise this year, on Halloween! Monsters will roam the land. There will be all kinds of misty fog over cemeteries, even in places whether there isn't the slightest humidity. Spirits will materialize and drag the living to their demise.

Halloween -- starting this year -- is going to be as terrible as anything we've ever heard of. The fires of hell will erupt, and the devil himself will be flying over our cities. I've already seen it in vision. And as for the monsters, just to elaborate, there won't be anything to stop them. And this includes some of the classic Universal monsters -- Dracula, Frankenstein, the Bride of Frankenstein, and others -- they will literally be out in force.

The terrible thing about all this is that no one will likely heed my warning. I expect people to think Halloween is going to be the usual bit of "fun" that it always is. Going for a bunch of candy, like always, even though it leads to diabetes. We still look at it as harmless.

How terrible, that you will not listen. Those who invoke the spirits will be destroyed. Please, please, stay home, and keep your doors bolted.

If there's any good in Halloween at all -- and it's small -- it's this, that the ones consumed this year -- our children, our loved ones -- will reappear next Halloween. We the living, those left behind, those missing them, will be able to catch one more glimpse of our loved ones, just before they attack us and drag us, as well, to a hideous death.