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Nothing and The Australo-Pithecus’ Toothache (4.1)


Nothing. I came up with nothing, because one of my premolars hurt so badly, the pain spread throughout my entire left side of the face and my eye. It throbbed, it stopped me from thinking, it sent me up the walls. Like when I was a kid and I felt that unclenching my tiny fist would somehow help mitigate the wailing winds of a late autumn afternoon and clenching it would make themthem the more powerful, today, when pain turned me into a manic with a twinging Le Penseur stance, I would resort to similar superstitions. The children playing outside made my face spasm more, so I merged a “fuck… you!” mental anathema with an Ak-47 and there I was, following them around the labyrinthine streets with my pants dropped to my knees, tumbling over their round playing objects and constantly squeezing on that machine gun’s trigger only to be remembered by the Freudian ego that they’re just kids, so white flags with yellow fuzzy smiling balls would pop out of the gun and everyone would be amused.

Except for me… there’s nothing more personal and more annoying than a toothache. When everybody’s peachy, you have an abscess, swelling your jaw and making your tongue feel not quite at home. When they all can fornicate and laugh and do whatever normal people do, you can only agonise and revel in the wonders of “I CAN’T FUCKING BREATHE, that’s how much it hurts me to exist right now!” They say men don’t give birth… I understand it’s not something that only men do, have toothaches, but I thought of this analogy after the doc’s radiography, sitting there with its back side at me, revealed a hidden tooth striving to break the gum surface of my mouth and call itself one of the many. Who the fuck is teething at the age of 41?! Who! Am I only a little boy on the inside?! The little bugger stood hidden inside me for 3 long brain racking months. I lost 30 pounds. My face started looking more severe, and the charisma that recommended me for a possible stand-up comedy career slowly went out the door. I looked miserable and then some! My thoughts about everything that made a sound under the crimson sky was Pandora’s Box waiting to be opened by the unwary.

Amidst these god-forsaken circumstances, 4 types of around the clock painkillers that only managed to do so much when it came to the force and intensity with which the pain came and never went away, I remembered about a short story written by this obscure Romanian college grad landed in my hands by means of an obscure website that I can’t seem to remember right now. All I know for sure is that the website had a season or something in the name and that the story was about an Australo-Pithecus. It went a little like this:

Deep in the Zwartkrans Valley, clustered with birds and wildlife, past the longevous Baobab trees and the Umbrella-Torn Acacias, beneath the dangerous, yet beautiful bells and whistles of the lion pack’s mane, a group of 200 proto-human Australo-Pithecus Africanus lived. Seeing them from afar, these affable upright beings whom sometimes didn’t dislike going back to walking on all four, they gathered and lived in harmony in caves and alternatively in camps scraped up under the naked sky, moved around only to avoid the pesky fleas and the recognition and pattern-observant predators.

Among them, though, one specimen seemed to be different, different in ways only the inexistent doctors might deepen and reveal. He was marginalised by his group because he only cried with one eye and seemed to have an irregular, swollen face. He would rant and point fingers at others for no reason whatsoever and he rarely slept. This individual had an even uniquer inner life, as insights over his anatomy divulge a tooth trying to spring from his gums, a bone so inadvertently placed by evolution underneath another tooth that it did the double travail of extracting a tooth without any foreseeable anaesthetic and placing another in its place.

The world, as beautiful as it was, merely feigned splendour when looked upon from within the anatomic fortress. Nine out of ten women died when giving birth, as relaxin didn’t  yet exist to arbitrate the increased volume of blood pumping through a gestate woman’s heart nor could it soften the pubic cartilages so the baby would fit, be carried out and see daylight without causing internal damage to his mother. Relaxin was a late evolutionary trait of our bodies. Women’s hearts exploded back then from the pressure of having a 1.5 kg child with a cranial capacity of 300-400 cc breaching their inner doors during the most violent death epidemic known to them as of yet. Soon after their numbers grew and they woefully buried their dead, even those peculiar women that turned into the Siamese fossils of mothers dead with baby heads suffocated in their vulva, the group of pre-humans stared death through the eye of an even worse anatomical defect: teeth.

Most of them died in their 20s because dentists were a thing of the future and tooth cavities and infections, precocious periodontal disease and dental erosion were churning among their numbers like plague. Those who didn’t get to fall in love and give birth would never do so. Those who didn’t live a life of glory would never see conflict. Those who were mocked by the rest for what today we see as derisory justifications, like their screeching voice or their height, never got to see highlight and make a friend.

One of the first who suffered from this ailment now sleeps alone under the mighty Baobab. He awakes from a dream where the sound of booted feet would trail on the wooden floorboard of an attic, above him, like a phantom playing soccer with his fears and superstitions in the dead of the night. He awakes, and in the interstice between dream and reality he imagines someone high up in the canopy, using a stick to make those noises. No-one was there.

His tribe had abandoned him because of his inner torture. He felt someone used barbed wire as dental floss on his teeth but didn’t have the adequate linguistic signifier nor the Saussurian signified to express it. He was in the dark completely. Tears dropped from his left eye minute after minute for the past three months. His lips were swollen, because the pain beckoned him into this abyss of malnutrition and dehydration. He didn’t want to live anymore, that’s how sharp his pain was. Back before he was expulsed from his group  he looked everywhere for signs of similar bodily disorder, but fate had only bestowed him this accursed affliction. His fellow family and friends looked at him scared and uneasy. They thought it was contagious, the one eyed cry that caused his face to quiver like in the presence of true horror.

Alone and shattered, as sleep almost never came, he kept walking. Nightmares haunted him at night, dreams of time travel enticed him during the day. He couldn’t hunt, he couldn’t harvest, scavenge, protect himself, he couldn’t think of a single happy thought, until the day his migraine-like head pains ushered a final sharp noise, like the not yet experienced flatline of an ECG machine, and him and his not yet living and kicking lifeline dropped dead.

He was never buried, never mourned, never missed, never discovered, until now, when the narrator of this story gazed upon the fossil talking of his early demise in the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History from Washington, DC.

The Little God That Could (2)


I am the intergalactic dishwasher and


, whose name I per-so-na-lly know – we don’t use personally among ourselves, because angels have different lingo, but I’ll school you on that one later – – plus, we don’t use names, that’s so Internet Explorer ago, we use

fuck, here I am indoctrinating you already

history links, our very own little ugh, this gon’ be hard mental telekinesis tools, like look at somebody and ask him (no such thing) the keyphrase (let’s say), and they open up, like a book, everything you need to know about it (let’s say) in one google fraction of a second –


appointed me – lazy fuck – the writer of the story you call the Universe and Life.


Ready to embark on this trip?

My rota is as follows: 100 million years on, Funky image of Windows Calculator in Universe saying 14.2857142857 basically, dishwasher rota million years off.

Hence the idea behind the 6 days He (huh! got himself a ghostwriter; get it? ghost? angel?) worked (100 million years, 6/7, 114.28571428blablabla years a week), 1 day (114.yadaleetoolaloo) off.


I fucked up. Lemme start this story again. I’ll dive right in. This has been my 6th attempt, the seventh one’s a charm. Seven dwarf galaxies, all the dallies and the temporizing of the same drudgery. That’s why I’m like this, smart, independent, rebellious.  I’m a daredevil because I find that sleazy slack of a God – for nothing – body of white hole neutrino filled douche cloud – I find him unbearably tedious.

There are seven dwarf galaxies because I started this story seven times. Do you know why I can call him a lazy fuck without him turning me into a neutrino? It’s because we hardwired people into thinking God is omniscient (or they did that themselves, because they’re still in their nappies and without the eternal supervising bike-like training wheels people would fall off), whereas he’s not even omnipotent. Figure this out: first there was Him and a couple of others like Him. We’ll call them gods for the sake of storytelling, because you couldn’t fathom what they are yet. They were so powerful that they needed parallel universes to exist. God only got this Universe, this speck of dust. Do you have any idea how small this lump of dried up debris is?! I’ve seen one other universe and it wasn’t only bigger – if this Uni was Google, the one I saw, called Snowlipsism, you’ll see very soon why, was the oooooo’s from Google when you search the vowel o – but it had so many unexplainable things in it: first thing that came to mind was this, the fact that in this crap everything is expanding, like endless clusters of pixels gone wild, Carrie Underwood – Can’t Stop The Moonlight, but you can only have life on one Planet at a time, the rest being impossible to even breathe on; Snowlipsism had every single planet livable, fit for life, how they called it, but the Universe was retracting to a point of singularity. But what does it matter? Get it? Matter. Hah! Interstellar angel jokes. If the sun in year 13.82 billion still has 5 billion years to go until it implodes and becomes a white dwarf, Andromeda and the Milky Way still have 4 billion years until they collide and turn the humans into molecules and basic elements again, game over, restart, and roughly 100 billion years from reaching Event Chandelier, which is a fancy name I came up with for the point of maximum space-time expansion, when the Universe resets for 7 silthion yeads (one yead was how many billion years?! I forgot. Point is, before the Big-Bang, time and space stood still for 7 silthion yeads for a reason. We still existed as temperature and density, which is what we are, but nothing else did, so when it blew we remember it was Dovi, the 8th day of the week, so the week actually started on a Ras, God of Snowlipsism, gave it that name in hopes the name of the day becoming fatidic, never did, so Monday is the third day, Wednesday, and the weekend is actually… a complicated mathematical bullshit that no-one should worry about, because humans started counting days and weeks like pros in the year 13.82 billion minus 709 Anno Urbis Conditae (under my man and spiritual invention, Julius C, ofc), “2067 years ago”, according to year 2018, when I got an Earthling to write this alternative story of the Universe and life). Thought I forgot we were in a parenthesis?


Keep up! Time’s-a-‘xpandin’…


If we humans don’t care about events like the Chandelier Event and the dying of the Sun because they’re too freaking far away, of course people from Snowlipsis don’t care about their Rooftop Event, which is their receding Universe defusing itself just like our expanding Universe would expand to inexistence; they can live endlessly and wherever in the galaxy – what a bore that is, I can tell you that much – and we can live trapped just on one Planet at a time and in a very dangerously deserted Universe. People are looking for signs of life on Mars, there WAS life on Mars, just like there were Saturnians, Plutonians – man, their female gender was out of this world – Moonies, bleah, and so on and so forth, but they never thought of looking for signs of nonlife on Mars, so they could understand the key in the Matrix, not the glitch in the Matrix, the fact that, again, there can only be life on one Planet at a ti…


…me for me to tell you why I decided to inoculate this version of the Holy Bible onto the writer of it. It’s because my 6th version, the sixth (sixth sixth, haha) facsimile – equivalent to the sixth dwarf galaxy, was exactly this version here: my masterpiece, my baby, my everything; I told the story as it was, focusing just on the homo sapiens sapiens, the most intelligent of them all, all battered down into a state of non-Godlike-questioning by culture, accepting instead of denying their programming, their biological imperative; God sitting at a sort of – let’s call it – computer with LAN connectivity trying to develop the Universe, Him asking the other angels to join Him in this Internet Café wanna-be “room” that was made to facilitate the playing of games, each angel a computer, INTERNET this time, one angel would play mountains and help develop them, other one would play waters, other one would play an asteroid and fuck up the dinosaurs, one the humans, one the ants, everything, like in Dino Buzzati’s short story about the angels creating everything and the little nosy and buggy accountant that had a project for humans but God wasn’t interested in it? … I also wrote that. I actually wrote everything, if you didn’t know by now, so plagiarizing is a term that doesn’t apply to me. Everything that seems similar to something else probably is, because if the angels were sitting in the Internet Café developing code and hardwiring “reality”, I was sitting in my dishwashing room, behind a fan shrouded in a lot of noise, moist air everywhair, the sound from the dishwasher where I would wash the stars, so they’d be bright up in the sky, so that The Elegants would sing “Twinkle, Twinkle little star” – that little star was me being lazy and not washing it in time because God was lazy and never wrote this story and outsourced it to me. The angels are writing the backend, I write the frontend, UI/UX. They had the humans, but they had no stories to them, like the characters in shooter games that went off the map because of a bug and then continued through the desert on a loop foreva! I would take their forever and turn it from Sims 3 to Battle Royale or DayZ; gaming much?


You look for the song on YouLube, Scrotify or ..insert new-age music app here.. yourself, sonny gal. Now get back to the text↑↑↑


I made everything, d’ya-nderstand? Every story that was ever written, I wrote it, and I gave it meaning. I once made a fat man sit on a toilet and he broke it because he plunged his fat ass on it, stomping it like a foot would stomp on a Lady Fingers fruit cake, and he was sitting among the shards and I made it so he didn’t even feel one of the porcelain edges from the toilet thrust through his buttocks, and they called that adrenaline. I wrote Marquez, Plato, Jack Kerouac, Georges Bataille, Nietzsche, Fernando Pessoa, Terence McKenna and Slavoj Žižek, I’m Gadamer and Michael Jackson’s lyrics… I wrote books that on Sundays when God would piss me off I would just burn in a fire and they’d call that Nero burning Rome. I wrote masterpieces, and I am God, because I’m the one that made sense and nonsense out of this, sense and nonsense at the same time.

Intergalactic Bible Engine Optimization (2.1)

Intergalactic engine optimization

I used God’s shower gel once and… this is hilarious, the omni fucker didn’t even realize I was taking a shower, I was reading the ingredients to his shower gel, right?, water, helium, hydrogen, silicone, right?, basic stuff, none of that horse shampoos that “swell” the hair shaft, ew. I was reading it out loud, and I’m a loudmouth, not only when I write, but when I read too, haha, and the fucker came and asked, “Isth thath mineth hair shampoo?!”, and I said, “No, it’s your shower gel!”, and he mumbled… actually, lemme make this into a proper dialogue, because it’s funny as hell… get it? Funny as hell? His idea of hell is, morally and onirical-wise a joke? ‘Isth thath mineth hair shampoo?!’


Nah nah nah, take it back! Rewind that mofo. It went down like:


‘Water… hydrogen, silicone and everything nice’, I was humming like the cute little boy I was, laughing and splashing water all over.

‘Isth thath mineth hair shampoo?!’



~~You old-school dinosaur…~~ it’s your shower gel!’


‘Pardon my asshole, ahm, G, I’m taking an intergalactic shower, boo, could we stay out of our galactic limits here? I know omnipresence is a little thing you wanted me to hardwire into their brainy, but now I’m off work, mkay? Lemme… do me, and you do you. Sh-ahhhm-ower gel!’


‘I wish I were well, but I’m catching a cold from the dishwashing machine and that may affect your script again; no ghostwriter, no script, huh?’

‘I guess, bu…’

‘And God?’

‘Yeah, …


The motherfucker said my name…

How less omniscient can you be?

It’s like putting a baby inside a microwave and setting it to defrost for 30 minutes. What the actual…

I had to go back to Snowlipsism, erase everything, wait 30 silthion yeads for another gampion to stabilize and emerge it from the…

Now that’s something that you won’t understand. Why was I the one that saw Snowlipsism and could go through Universes like that, like THAT!, when not even God has seen Snow? I’m a little Judas, ain’t I? Now you know who’s writing this story. Well, you don’t, unless you keep reading, reader-playa, <em>sagace lecteur – mon autre – mon étranger.


I went outside the shower curtain, the one shrouded in black holes that I had forged for myself, stepped on God’s shower gel, the one I used and the one was there all along, throughout the whole conversation, just to show how stupid and unaware of details this critter is, and then told the story as it was:


Pontius Pilate chose to liberate Jesus, because he wasn’t a leftie, as God wanted me to depict him. That communist god wanted Jesus dead for the people, because the people this and the people that – that was actually, for real, his name for this species… the people… I went for scientific, homo sapiens sapiens… the people; anthropological, humanity, nah, the people; how ’bout we drop the article? the article; the. people. fine, f———uck – so the pipal in di bibal wan Joshua ded snek so pipal chose Barabbas san, but the gist of it is, Pontius said, What’s true is true, I don’t care about your jealousy and cowardice and money and fame and I cannot be bought nor intimidated, by you nor by my woman! I am the true imperator here‘ – and for a second I myself saw fire coming out of his eyes like a glitch in the matrix, like angels in the Internet Café had fucken cheats installed – ‘Pontius Pilate, prefect of the Roman province of Judaea, serving under Emperor Tiberius, ROMAN!‘ – Times New Roman, I would add, husband to guess whom, yeah, you guessed it, Pontius Pilate’s wife!!! The woman doesn’t even have a name, she’s a relegate to him and she… ugh, history has been made by fools. Who wrote this bullcrap before me? Oh, yeah, God. –


The man held a magnificent speech, a speech about honesty and intellectual integrity, about doing what’s right and not what feels right, about checking facts, about praising people for their minds’ fruit, not their passions, idiosyncrasies and mental illnesses, because looking at a person and ascertaining he’s mad, ultimately mad, deluded, Gaëtan Gatian de Clérambault on a cosmic scale, crazy with a passion that knows no virtue, ready to die for his belief, and not in a Socratic way, witnessing somebody like that and not calling it for what it is can change the course of history… and it did.

History was made by lunatics, the mentally unstable, the power driven, the sexually undefined (see how many un-s?) – yeah, Hitler was a pansy with his hipster mustache and his weird gay march,  and now World War III  is being held in 2018, on the barricades of identity politics, because we want to give people the right to mental illness, they want to be autistic and turn that word into a healthy and brag-worthy concept, like being obese and dying of 1000 knives acupuncturing away at your blood pump factory, also known as myocardial infarction, “a serious medical emergency in which the supply of blood to the heart is suddenly blocked, usually by a blood clot”[1], serious medical emergency, dial 999, 111, 112, or whatever code your country might have, that is not healthy just because you have repressed emotions, you can’t move to deprived places in Africa or India, where they shame healthy (didn’t say skinny) people and raise body parts like asses (bums, as they call them, di bumbum) to a higher state of apotheosis, and you can’t find a magical way to make the mirror tell you bullshit, like in the Snow White story – because we’re all little snow whites, no caps, pure and virtuous with 15 sexual partners up until the age of 15, happy with our skills and prowess, because now we’re prepared to be in a real relationship with our forever after as we sucked stranger dicks in a tent that said “Fake Taxi” on a deserted beach, but wait… we can’t kiss! We don’t know how to kiss, but we give blowjobs like the blowjob Queen of blowjobs, we have no other skills required in a relationship, like taking critic and accepting that we’re not all perfect and we can grow next to our partner, the hard way, trial and error, the right way, and learn his ins and outs and ebb and flow by doing everything normal that a normal couple would do without acting like former taboos, way back when when the patriarchal village had distinct female superpositions,

  • the wife – chastity
  • the baker – determination
  • the thief – malice
  • the town priest – virtue – bullshit
  • the town whore – prurience, cupidity, amativeness, appetite, desire

, now they all want to be everything at once, because we’re so fucking postmodern that we need a woman to be “a bitch, I’m a lover I’m a child, I’m a mother I’m a sinner, I’m a saint I do not feel ashamed I’m your hell, I’m your dream I’m nothing in between You know you wouldn’t want it any other way”… noooo, don’t be a mother and a bitch, that’s polyamory, and when the kid will develop a sense of who that other cat is in the mirror it will ask – stupid example, just like the one with what will the kid say when he’ll ask for mom and you’ll have to tell him/her “Steve’s your mom” – “where’s my dadda? Is this dadda?”


‘Is this dadda?’


‘Is this dadda?’


‘Is this dadda?’


‘Is this dadda?’


‘Is this dadda?’


‘Is this dadda?’


‘Who is this?’



‘This is Tuesday.’

‘This one?’

‘That’s Tuesday evening nail job woman that will also get some sex because why not and because momma is free and her body is such a temple that everybody can cum and make ugly tags and graffiti in it until it smells of paint and shit from inside and you don’t know what smell covers what stench.’



‘This one, linksseitig?’


‘Any of them? They’re all fucking teaching me something, a hard lesson on leaving, abandoning, not caring and pretending they care when in reality all they want is that pussy, love, but a love that’s only sexual, because why not, sharing bodies is exactly what we’ve been put on this Earth by the mermaid goddesses of the ocean to do, and instead of two simple sources of information and confidence up until the age – roughly the age – of 7, where we have stranger danger as the frontispiece of safety and security, mental and otherwise, whence going back and school grown easy-paced curiosity as we’re going forward, into the future, into the great unknown, gents, one teacher, then in fifth grade a bunch of teachers, more and more friends, we accommodate with the idea that there are multiple truths, a gynaeceum of ideas, no wonder that word’s used to describe the family, male and female, in plentiful fucking languages, then off we go to college, where we have teachers and ideas galore, good, bad, big, small, useful, completely fucking useless, and here you stand, moooom, and pretend that my body is a bloody temple is a virtue and we have to share love, as in sex, is actual knowledge. These people are just out to fuck you and once you’ll get pregnant and with STDs and dad will develop some spinal chord a judge will rule, what you’re doing to me is abuse and ergo the kid – I have a fucking name, I’m not one of your 7/week Monday, Friday, or, The Other Island by Michel Tournier, bis in die, latin not for four or five a day, like the NHS drastically lowered their standards so they could make the corporate dick want to live more than his job and have a healthy diet so he can learn to enjoy life past his free corporate endowed salsa lessons and Ruby-on-Rails 101 and actually life for that kid to make it to the happy age of 14 whence he’s not really able to do anything, but at least he’s psychologically fit-ish to lift his head out the gutter after his mom died of brain cancer, which is not a fucking joke, because you smoke and smoke and smoke and smoke and fuck and fuck and fuck and fuck and your pussies look like the meat hanging off a horse that’s the only female on a 200 male giant horse dick farm and it needs plowing like any field, praise the Lord, Jehovah God Almighty,  and mental diseases are just biases in the mental reserve, they’re a way of saying, mooom, that you love freedom more than reality, and in reality a judge would slam that fucking gavel on your labia like a cement mixer falling slam dunkey on your balls, pouring the cement out and mixing it with blood and sperm, like Patriarchy, written with a capital P, because they were the Pricks that built this city on rock and roll, blood and sperm, this park you’re taking me to see because you love me soooo much and you’re absolutely not thrilled at all that Friday is Black and his giant dick is going to be plunged straight donkey into your flappy pussy within the next few hours because Friday night charades for two will be joining us, baby and me, within fucking walking distance from the place for the non-permanent inhabitants to exist in this home we created to raise our kid…’


‘Mom, look, I’m the kid and I’m the intergalactic dishwasher and I’m Gaëtan Gatian de Clérambault on a cosmic scale, Joshua da bibal holda, I’m Pontius Pilate, and I think you people have lost a screw!’

Get it? Screw? Fuuuuuck. I’m writing this story so I’m messing with this woman’s head. Baby is 3 years old. Baby cannot utter these words. She and her African-American (yeah, I’m pushing it, race has nothing to do with it, he’s just a man who happens to be Black… but she only wants him for his dick, so his race, so relevance) compadre mouths opened like a till on a busy Monday morning, open the fuck up, gimme all your gums, bitch, comprendre?!




‘Mom, you already saw this in The Butterfly Effect, I’m not highly original!’


‘Although that was a movie and this is reality’


‘Fictive reality, the worst kind there is, latent reality, like those 7 silthion yeads that the world stood in silence for until the Big Bang banged and we formed, mah-om!’


‘Fictive reality, mom, is like the novels you never read, the ones that could teach you to acclimatize with the idea of rape, which isn’t good, but it’s something that needs to be addressed, and if we don’t read it, laugh it out (lol), see it, say it, how we gonna sort it?, hmm?, because what’s more deadly than the razor sharp genital organ of a Pakistani Sunni that never saw a woman naked and is 40 and when he stumbles across a bare naked Maria from Colombia that just FUCKING GOT RAPED and left without clothes he gets a hard-on instead of that obvious what the fuck, I need to give this woman my clothes, something must have happened to her, and he again rapes her, putting her in the position of being raped twice, by 6 different people, because the first five were right around the corner, the ones that she just escaped, because they were having minor postcoital doubts if they should deserve another easy fuck or if they should just light up a cigarette, another guilty pleasure of the Islamic world, because why not, the first five rapists were still refugees, and as they were raising their zipper with the thought of that fire lighting a nauseatingly disgusting bitter firecracker that causes cancer she escaped and found herself in the arms of another, crying desperately, bleeding, he womb never to give birth to that David or Daniella, two names she handpicked before even having a house for that Barbie doll her mom gave her before she died of cancer at the age of 14, Daniella, right after her mom, David, the name of the first boy that broke her heart like they broke Jesus’ body, die, please die, you fucking scum of the Earth that understand nothing of sexuality and Nietzsche and his dissent from religion and this madness, this fucking madness that started with Constantine the Great but should have ended with me, Pontius Pilate, chaos theory, mom, the Butterfly Effect, Jesus would have lived, Barabbas would have died, Constantine wouldn’t have made Jesus the star of the show with Jerome, Eusebius Sophronius Hieronymus, the hidden orchestrator, manipulator of strings and verses, and Mohammed wouldn’t have said in the Satanic Verses “I want a Bible for MY people”, and Joseph Smith wouldn’t have said “I want a Bible for MY people too. Why isn’t it plausible that Jesus came to America to preach too?!” – because he fucking died in illiterate Middle East 1800-ish years ago, you fucking prick, because land bridges and other religious superstitions to explain the continental drift from the Triassic didn’t exist yet, because he didn’t walk over the fucking Atlantic to reach what wasn’t yet discovered, because he starved when he left Bethany and he cursed a fig tree because it didn’t grow pony tails in December, you dumb fuck, and we let history be told by someone who suffered from clinical death (Jesus), an epileptic (St. Paul), another epileptic (Mohammed), a man with repressed gay syndrome that loved the Jews deep inside but hated them because God (mitt uns) (Hitler), leftists that want a civil right for mental illness – cut off a limb because you feel like an amputee trapped in a normal person’s body and you’re clinically Ken Kesey’s Chief Bromden, mad with sanity, tall and silent, craving attention, look, you can think you’re fucking Jared Leto of the Backstreet Boys, if you claim that and believe it you’re mad, if you want to chop off your penis because Jared was a female, you’re mad-er, if you want to claim that’s normality and rape someone because you wouldn’t be male anymore, you’d be female Jared from Backstreet Boys and you think that Maria from Colombia is a big fan of the BIG 5, Ahmed Carter, Abd al Hakim Richardson, Karif Littrell, A(hmed)J(umanah) McLean dick McOnlyOneWithLubeAtARapeParty and yours truly, Howie Dorough, which is just another nickname for Halal Dirar al Ghazali the IIIrd, and, coming back, we let history be told by these raving lunatics that think that transgender bathrooms will solve Earth’s hunger problems, AND by an intergalactic dishwasher with God-dy issues, because that motherfucker won’t get off my back and let me write my own fucking book, because he wants Jesus crucified and ultimately Maria raped. Why?! Why?! Why can’t she fucking have a normal life, where she picks who she engages in baby making or the gratuitous exercise of baby making with, why can’t she choose what she wears as long as she’s decent, and the indecency is frowned upon with critical eyes, the immoral indecency will be sanctioned by the laws of the state and the powers that be, why do you decide in the middle of London or Berlin who’s baby Maria will bear in her womb. No-one’s baby, because she needs to abort, hail one of the few times abortion should be legal, according to ethics and embryology, hail fucking – not raping – adoption, the positive a-word, because that way you “take” a life in a slightly more cheerful way, and you give it hope and a decent living, and two parents, and a mother that loves you and not 20 strangers in one work day, hail fucking sitting in cues and paying 80.000 quid plus and waiting for years on end for that baby to be adopted when in reality you could have had it – SHE could have had it naturally, with George, worker of the field, a calm and quaint man whom she adored for his true love for the original Backstreet Boys, because that’s her fucking desire…’


‘My will is broken, and I’m just a baby and everybody treats me like discarded feces because I was once a cell. I’m not a cell anymore, I see myself in the mirror, and I see you in the mirror, and you’re monsters, and the whole world is utterly mad, not in the way Itzhak Bentov said would redeem our species, because evolution takes leaps from madman to madman. Culturally, mental abnormalities in the genome causes Hitlers. Genetically it causes Homo Sapiens Sapiens and our brain to evolve just because we started eating differentiated food and having sex with just one ape so we know which one’s the father and we know who gets to protect the baby when Muslim ape predators knock on the hut’s straw door with their ape-like dick. My will is broken. Discharged fetus. Aborted minds. I am  Socrates, on death row for blasphemy and ruining the youth’s mind – history has a sense of humour, I have an inner daimon, I have consciousness, I have the right to live, to breathe, and to be spared your bullshit, because I’m too young to fight your delusions with reason. Socrates died for truth, mom, and you’re dying for freedom and STDs. Congratu-fucking-lations, fellatio. I am Pontus Pilate and I slew history’s river with a blink of an eye because I am here in search of truth, not of freedom and debauchery. I seek truth for the sake of Jesus, even though mad or deluded (Eli Eli Lama Sabachthani), not some thug, for the sake of the Arabic people, who used to reach for the stars and have Nobel prizes in sciences and astrophysics before Nobel and the word science was even created, dear oh dear what a sorry state we’re in, the truth never hurt so much, and now look at you, Arabic people, the “chosen” ones, you’re gravediggers and there’s blood on your handsmy fear still sees when my eyes are closed, my will is broken, words are leaving me… I’m young and I’m a baby and I’m a man and I’m a woman and I’m a millennial who fucks 15 people by the age of 15 because he wants to grow the fuck up already and leave the house where his parents are killing him with nonsense and blasphemy, and I wanna be ready, but there’s parts of me that are lost forever, at least we’re all lost together. I will be consumed, returned into the earth, only passing through, nothing left to hold on to, and all I fucking cared about when Obama was president wasn’t Bush, because we expiated that Boogeyman, now we love Bush, Obama’s our enemy, now we love Obama, Trump is our enemy, now we love Trump, the monster in Trump’s shadow is our enemy, the one we never knew was there because we were looking in the wrong direction, instead of loving someone regardless of sex, race, colour, ethnic or social origin, genetic features, language, religion or belief, political or any other opinion, membership of a national minority, property, birth, disability, age or sexual orientation[2].’


‘Who the fuck will remember Trump in 5 years?! Love and roam the world, do a bit of everything and more, that’s the purpose of life, not Trump… Mom! Listen!’

I was 29 once and I accidentally clicked on an add button on an app called Facebook and I added a girl that had no profile picture, no friends, no bio, no pictures whatsoever and no identity, and then I messaged this ghost ship and told her/him?? that I had made a mistake and I really didn’t want to add anyone to a fictive friend list that today is worth more than a real group of friends. She (for the sake of ease) said stay, stranger, stay, I need you here, because this accident will be like a blessing and a curse, I want to confess, I’m 21, I am female and I’ve been meaning to commit suicide ever since I was 15 and now I will do it, hurt my parents and scar my friends as it may, I just got a visa for the United States and I want to end myself there. I don’t judge her, I tell her of “Survivor”, by Chuck Palahniuk, and I tell her how I don’t want to stop her, but help her, but in reality I wanted to stop her and she ignores me, the more I try to help and listen the more she ignores me and my messages remain unseen for ages and enter stage right this Chinese finger-trap that I feel will ruin two lives, as I’m empathetic to the core, and then she’s back again, the benefactor of my curse, and then she’s gone again, and I fear she’ll do it, but I can’t help but be helpless, I try to find out more about her so I maybe call her parents and go to Bucharest where she lives so I can grab her and tell her I love you you piece of shit I don’t know you or how you look like or what you’ve done heroin meth LSD cocaine we’re all fucked up in this bitch because we’re like The Eagles put it prisoners of our own device and society made us sick because it gave us heroin and I dont give a fuck about mental masturbation and Trump and lillies on the balcony and gramar and nauseatingly religion boozed Eastern nazis that rape because they don’t know better I only care about you my lovely mistress that has beheaded my reason and has given me a reason to not sleep at night and a sense of purpose that is so frail and so fucked up just as her life seems to her, we’re a prodigious Uroboros that thrives on sacrifice and I don’t want you to sacrifice because I’m sacrificing sleep and letter and time and blood for your sake, so we meet and fall in love and make idiotic babies that we will never teach to kill nor to rape, because what’s worse than not being educated not to rape is being educated to rape, killing and raping is a matter of habit, the more you do it the better you’re at it, you goddamned fuck, you’re ruining my life and I love you, can’t you see that we can all live together without going to America, terrorists of the World Trade Centers and of the heart alike, bring me back my fucking peace of mind because that peace of mind was never a song or a text or a fucking rant about Muslims, it was you…. the stranger in the last five nanoseconds of this Universal dream called life… I’m running out of time.

SEO says I have to wrap it up.


‘I, Pontius Pilate held a magnificent speech, a speech about honesty and intellectual integrity, about doing what’s right and not what feels right, about checking facts, about praising people for their minds’ fruit, not their passions, idiosyncrasies and mental illnesses (as sure as my name is…

the universe

…I almost said my name and blew the Universe away again) a speech that I will not write here, as I’ve written it elsewhere and… no, actually, I’ll write it. Me, the intergalactic dishwasher. It was the most beautiful speech in the world and it went like this:

















The Dream (3)


I woke up from an astonishing dream, one that I had in a little bone box called home, a dream of life and death and sex, a dream of taboos and music, rape and love and sorrow and pain and the sea and literary devices and metatext that only the well-read and the weathered travellers through humanity’s books and ideas would fully grasp… but then again, what do I fully grasp? Nothing. It’s all but a blur… I can’t even remember it. I remember bits and pieces, because this dream, just like life, grew with me and I didn’t sit in the mirror of Facebook and Instagram to watch it develop and grow into the monster that it was meant to become. I only felt the last few seconds, the clash, the fight, the rebellion inside me – Architects – the veil that’s been lifted, the mask that fell, Jung, Freud, Adler, the Holy Trinity, the magic disappeared and I am no longer weak because I have true strength and inner beauty, and I believe now, I believe I have a sense of purpose. I think I’m remembering the dream…


I’m looking out the window and trying my best to recover from this dream’s shock. How many continents has this dream made me wander on until I realised my true calling? The last few seconds of the dream, probably narrowed down to just a tiny millisecond in my brain, macro versus micro universes, were the ones that revived me and the only ones that made sense. The rest was just a dream. The final bit I remember, and that’s all that matters.


I need to find that girl…


So I got out of bed, opened my laptop and started stalking the shit out of her ghost-ship Facebook account so I can find traces of her real self. I need to stop her from committing suicide…


And it’ll be the end of me if I don’t do it.


The end…

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