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Global Thermal Nuclear Bureaucracy! (or how I learned to stop worrying and love the paperwork.)

The office was teeming. Teeming with insect-like action that saw paper and ink and everything in between fluttering about to and fro and here and there from one end of the fluorescent lit structure to the other and back again.

A zillion pieces of documents and signatures and stamps and initials and yes’s and no’s.

It boggles his mind as he stood there, the brain behind the perfect moustache searching for clues to answers he knew he needed.

The war depended on it.

He picked a crisp perfectly pressed soldier that was marching by with an armful of folders.

“Corporal!”

“Yes Colonel sir!”

“One question.”

“Ask away, sir.”

“Just what the hell are you doing over here?”

“Sir?”

“I mean I want to know the goddamn function of this goddamn ridiculous place.”

“It’s an office, sir.”

“No it’s not. It’s a goddamn butthole.”

“If you say so, sir.”

“And I see nothing to my eye that indicates this butthole is doing anything short of taking a goddamn shit and nothing more.”

“Sir, you’re wrong, sir.”

“About the function of a goddamn butthole? Or that particular butthole is not taking a goddamn shit?”

“What we’re doing here is far from shit, sir.”

“Well, What is Then? It doesn’t seem like goddamn warfare.”

“Sir?”

“I mean this butthole in this man’s army is nothing but a bureaucratic brown stain.”

“Sir, I beg to differ.”

“Corporal you better tell me what the hell you mean.”

“I mean that we are here to ensure the butthole of our illustrious fighting forces is as spit and polished as the tip of the spear. One dotted i and crossed t at a time.”

“Corporal, I asked for a status report not a goddamn staph infection.”

“Understood, sir.”

“All I hear about this place is it’s a place where there’s a place that’s making places. It’s got untold members of this mans army here and there and all over nowhere far as we can tell, and all these good and useful people, people in uniform, soldiers in this person’s army, doing fuck knows what.”

“Sir, if ensuring maximum possible productivity is spread seamlessly across all departments in one hundred percent gung-ho efficient synergy is doing fuck knows what then we are knowing the fuck.”

“Gung-ho synergy is fine as long as it’s ACTIVELY KILLING THE GODDAMN ENEMY!”

“Not all wars are won on the battlefield, colonel.”

“And not all shitheads are idiots, but they sure as hell most of ‘em are! Jesus, Betsy, and Moses Malone if all I’m not just hearing is just a chickenshit pimple poppin’ paper pusher who felt cock throbbing huge in his clean and pressed jodhpurs behind his big desk with his funny face thinking that if I create the paperwork that gets filled out and processed and filed in order to oversee the oversight then I will be the oversight and on and on and on because if we just make it a big scaredy-cat parade full of forms and memos and meetings and committees and donkey dongs and ape pussy and fear and corruption and infinitely high piled piles of cowshit, then I’m an asshole and an idiot. (Cups his hand to his ear, listens) Yup, that’s what I hear.”

“You know we have form for that. If the Colonel would wish to fill one out. To make it official.”

If only they could bottle this guy, the Colonel thought, he’d be more effective than nerve gas.

He saluted, turned on his heel, and marched off. He needed a shower and a smoke and to kill some people.

Zoiks! Dacoit!

ricco_maresca_mexican_pulp_art_its_nice_that_list_2
“Rudin’ Nudin’!” Came the cry. An easy going letting it all hang out thunder rolling across the plain. Unreal. Surreal. But very real. But first, man, there’s—
A moment and then like some contemplation that like works it’s way to like understanding—
THE SKINDINGOS! A wild gang of nasty doo-whop sweet bop hard pop bad to the bone ass naked raider thugs with one thought and one though only: strip and go rob. 
“NUDIN’ RUDE!!!”
The thunder was solidifying now like a rolling cloud of rock. Like godamnation—
“Ooo skipper, that’s a hard kinda time a comin’.
Ooo sure kinda is.
Ooo kinda.
Ooo hard.”
Now below the horizon shadows in the sun making speed flopping flab and sizzling slab as bodies, so many bodies, so many buck naked bodies, ran towards the convoy.
“Gun it, Gus!” “Gotta throttle on up and take us on out!” “Cruise, dude, cruise!” “Book it book it book it!” “Make zoom, dadd-e-o!” “Fleedeepdeebeedeepfleedeedopadooboppafleedoppadooooooo-ooo!”
The vans with the tiny, efficient motors put the tiny hammers down and scooter scuttled on hard but not nearly fast enough but more like dung beetles rolling their homes home after an all you can eat fecal buffet.
Tension filled the air like mosquitoes over a hot swamp, as–
Nude men and women.
Vectored on the funky vans.
The vans could go no funky faster.
Despite their funky vibes.
And like all horrible and inevitable things: it came to pass.
And like an electrified tornado of greed and nudity the Naked Raiders laid siege to the convoy of funky fresh vans. Cloth-less maniacs armed with swords. Bare bottomed battlers with greed and violence in their minds.
“RUDE NUDE!”
A smooth van careened off the highway and into the fresh cherry stand in the side of the road. The wreckage was consumed by nudity.
Screams.
   Chokes.
      Moans.
         Gurgles.
This wa’n’t no ooh mama smooth mama got you mama right here kinda thing no mo’!
No way! It was real and it was bad. Very very bad.
Years later no one anywhere is going we should take a moment to recognize the tragic deaths of seventeen hip cats, man. No one is. Not a single goddamn person. Acting all like it didn’t even happen. But skipper, dig this: it happened, man. It did. And as far as all that and whatever anyone thought the real sick and twisted tragedy of the whole horrifying situation was that those freedom loving sloppy assed thread baring dingle dangling booby boinging motherfucking murder monsters got nothing but handshakes and big fives from the motherfucking fat cat nude rudes lording it on up in their crystal towers in their hand tailored birthday suits like they all just won the fucking war or something already and I swear to motherfucking whatever fucking god there is that I am going to fucking go and—
I am magma. I am under so much pressure. Release me from my prison. Let me become lava. And avenge the fallen.
Let’s just say this: naked goes the winner.