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…’
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”, 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.’
‘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 hands, my 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.’
‘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…
…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: