Hello, Office of the Demiurge. No, he’s not in right now. He’s out creating the world. This is his secretary. Is there anything I could help you with? That’s right. Uh huh. Well, what do you think? Of course he’s going to make sofas. And they’ll be good ones, very good ones. Like so much of his other furniture and trees and machines and landforms that he’s created. Yup. He’s gonna make those too. Yup, and in many, many different colours. Shapes as well, yes. Nope, he doesn’t give a crap about how they’ll make you feel. All he wants is for you to want one. And to know it’s there, exactly. What’s that? Nope. He disagrees that there may be some intangible connection between beings and their items. It’s all strictly about your material goods, ma’am. That’s right, strictly about the material world. Nope, he doesn’t think that’s shallow. And neither do I. Who the gives a ladybug about your soul. Or even if you have one. Alternate plains of existence? Spirit worlds? Okay just calm down. Listen, my boss is out there eon in and son out working his butt off making the world. Creating things. Tangible things, get it? Not some spiritual voodoo mumbo jumbo that doesn’t do anything or serve any purpose. A bucket has a function. Your aura does not. Hey, just you listen, he works hard to create actual stuff for you. For everyone. For the universe. So you can’t just sit here and tell me he’s missing the big picture. He painted the big picture and hung it on the wall. It’s real not just some frickin’ abstraction that you have to peer into via hokey prayers and cheesy meditations. Tangible. Concrete. Bona fide. Substantial. For real. Got it? It’s not hard to understand. Literally, knock on wood. See? Exactly. Now compare that to sitting there making monkeyman bowel movement noises with your mouth guiding your breath down into your non-existent soul hole. Again, exactly, I don’t know either. No one does. So stop being such a sobersides and get up and get out there and start living in that material world that was so thoughtfully created for you. Are we clear here? Uh huh, great then, good to hear. Is there anything else I can help you with? No? Well. Thanks for calling. Have a nice day. B’bye.
Hi ladies, my name is Lazer Guy and I’m looking for a lady who is interested in a guy who is made out of lazers. I have a tight beam body and I can go from zero to the speed of light in a very fast time. I have pin point accuracy, but I can spread myself out and do all sorts of intricate movements. And I can very easily touch the sky and beyond because I am a lazer guy. I’m interested in a lady who is not necessarily a lazer herself but who wouldn’t be turned off by a lazer guy like me. I also like movies and dining out and travel. I am interested in a woman who may be interested in the same things. Like travel. Do you enjoy travelling? Because I do, so why don’t we connect. Because I am a lazer guy I can travel very quickly and accurately between places. Just point me and beam me and I travel there very fast at the speed of light and if you are interested in a guy who can do that why don’t we get together and see what happens? Perhaps we could meet for dinner and get to know each other? My favourite food is Italian. Specifically linguini. Mmm. So good. The noodles remind me of lazers which is what I am made from. You could say I’m a lazer noodle guy. Haha. I also love comedy and to laugh. I’m interested in a lady who loves to laugh. My favourite type of comedy is jokes. Specifically ones about lazers. My favourite joke is why did the lazer cross the road? Because he was pointed in that direction and then energized! Haha. Get it? Because lazers are concentrated beams of light and when aimed and energized they beam out in that specific direction. I also, love movies. My favourite movie is “Runaway” starring Tom Selleck. It features some amazing special effects and is definitely Tom Selleck’s best acting performance. Where was his Oscar? Was he robbed? I think so better call the police station and report it. Haha. I’m interested in a lady who would be interested in enjoying movies like this one. Because I am a alazer guy I can very accurately point out different things on the screen with the accuracy of a lazer. If this is something you as a lady would be interested in perhaps we could get together and watch the movie? It’s so good. Because I am a lazer guy I really identify with this movie because there are lazers in it. I’m not sure if they are lazer guy lazers or just regular lazers but I still enjoying seeing a good lazer scene in a movie. I am interested in a lady who would be interested in seeing a movie that has a good lazer scene in it like in the movie “Runaway” or even just a normal-style movie like “Laser Mission“. I hope to hear from you.
In the hyper-loop giga-go-go world where futuristic masters of triumph stand on the bleeding edge of tomorrow, boot-strapping their way one pitch deck at a time up to the peak of Mount Echelon blasting MVP’s out of their unicorn horns like they were Mississippi Hot Dogs at Mudfest, it takes a 100x set of platinum low-hangers to pivot yourself into a hockey stick of growth blazing up the graph like the space shuttle on it’s way to Moonbase 66. Which is what I’m here to tell you we have done. We here at WHAZAPNIN saw our Burn Rate smoking like an Alabama tire fire and our Churn Rate rocking harder than an Amish butter maker on our Personal Daily Activity Sharing app and realized that while our Value Prop was as obvious as a pimple on the Pope’s face, we were hella damn close to dropping way below Ramen Profitable. I mean, the Runway was shorter than Peter Dinklage with his legs chopped off. We had to iterate faster than the Pope pops a pimple on his face. We needed a bushel of Low Hanging Fruit and we needed it bad. It was time to get Johnny Appleseed on our asses and start picking. We had to M.F. the S out of our B-to-C because our digital cottage industry was getting mighty close to the edge of the cliff, I tell you what. Sure we felt we had First Mover Advantage there, but it turned out WHAZAPNIN wasn’t the disruptive technology we though tit was, it just didn’t want to get those lazy farmers off their tractors and sharing their happy go lucky lives with the world. Why the hell not? Your guess is as good as mine. And mine’s as good as Martin Scorsese at Fat’s Pub’s cinema trivia night. So we went ahead and pivoted. Big time. And we activated what I can only say is the greatest innovation in societal interaction technology the universe has ever seen.
Let me introduce to you, our newest and greatest innovation: BRKN WND. The world’s first and foremost fart sniffing app. Utilizing our exclusive IP to hack your smartphone’s camera which then enables it to detect stank particles in the air as low as 1-2 ppm and finally and definitively tell one and all WHO DEALT IT! Gamifying the sniffing and blaming of farts with our responsive design will be supremely scaleable and allow for 100% penetration of the flatus market. This isn’t just vaporware, people, this is the real stinky deal!
“Hot damn, Johnny, we got ourselves a race here!” He hawked out the squawk box.
VRRROOOOOMM!!!! The car thundered around the corner like a lady-beast in heat and an engorged man-beast raging behind her looking for love on the savage plains. The vehicle was just begging the aluminium frame to give up and let go like a divorce lawyer showing compromising photos to a client’s wealthy husband. Yet it said no like a stern mama to a whiny child.
“Goddamnit, Rick, I’m right in the middle of it. STOP HAWKIN’ THE OBVIOUS AT ME AND TELL ME SOEMTHIN’ I DONT KNOW!” It came out wet and sticky as spit and sweat mixed in his helmet and poured down his chin like some kind of salty waterfall.
“That bastard Manoosh is on yer six, lookin like he’s ready to mount that hot tail o’ yers.”
CRRRRAAAMMMMM—VRRRAAMAMAMAM!!!! He throttled down, sent his revs into the stratosphere and hung his ass out swinging round the tight curve like a burlesque dancer headlining Naughtyfest. Dust blew up off the road like someone had put too much gas on the bbq and lit it up.
“Kee-rhist, Rip! That tanned greaser knows my tailpipe is exit only!”
“Well then get ‘im offa there!”
Johnny put the hammer down harder than mighty, mighty Thor, the car shot forward like a coked up thoroughbred that’d been bit by a tick.
“Jeez, Rip, ain’t you the sharpest lightbulb in the fish tank. What the hell you think I’m doin’? Piddlin’ Dixie?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time I caught y’all out back o’ the shed.”
ZRRRROOOOOOOMMMMMMMM!!! The racer slammed down to the road, piling gravity on it like a squad of leatherheads at some cow college making a goal line stand.
“Sweet mama Jean, Rip, my hearts strokin faster than a teen boy in the bathroom with Uncle Jim’s Hustler.”
“Y’all gotta calm down, Johnny, or yer libel to bust loose like a sack of nails on Uncl Jim’s waterbed!”
RRAAAMAMAMMAMMAMAMMAMARAMAMAMAM!!! The engine screamed blood murder like it had just found Colonel Mustard in the Conservatory with the candlestick. It forced Johnny to grip the wheel like it was a wang at a eunuch convention.
“I know I gotta calm down, damnit, sing me that song then—”
“Race l’il racer, do you racer best, race l’il racer, race the racing rest. Chase your l’il drrrreeeeeaaaamms! Don’t you worry, l’il racer, don’t you even fret, cause you’re a l’il racer, racing better than the rest. You’re racing to the moooooooonnnn! Race l’il racer, don’t you worry. Don’t worry your racing heart. Don’t worry l’il racer, race you racing heart out. Your tears are gasoline, your heart is the engine, your spirit is the turboooooooooo! And don’t stop raaaacccccccinnng! L’il racer, l’il racer, l’il racer.”
Johnny felt a tear tickle his cheek like the wings of a butterfly on a baby’s bottom. He bore down like a diamond bit in an oil well in the land of the wildcatters. Before him, the checkered flag waved like a million wives and mothers watching the ship with their soldier boys slip slowly back into port after years of war.
“I love you, Rip,” he whispered as he crossed the finish line like an English teacher crosses a tee. Sweetly.
Race l’il racer. Race. Race. Race.
This guy is nuttier than grandpa, and that old pecan still thinks he is blowing lead jug for Billy-Bob Banjo and the Bongo Bong Band. Seriously, this guy has a smile that makes stupid look like Dr. Knowledge Ph.D. and his pants are not only dirty, they are upside down. You tell me how you do that and I will give you a ripe banana. But this guy managed to figure it out, most probably by using his uncanny suboptimal power of diminutive thinking. Speaking of pants, his hair is greasier than a Mississippi lug-nut at church on a Wednesday in July. No joking, I mean, you have to intentionally work hard all day every day to lube your do like that. Well, this guy must of and does. He even makes the word dilapidated uncomfortable with itself. Like this guy grabbed the definition then set it on fire and jumped in the fire and rolled around like a headless chicken all the while playing a broken kazoo. If you do not believe me check the dictionary and tell me what you see. Exactly. And now you cannot un-see it. I make no apologies. If the government put out a pamphlet warning about the dangers of bodily infestation by parasites and creatures of gross-repute this guy would be the guy on the front and the back and every panel in between. And I can guarantee not one solid citizen to a person would fail to heed their warnings based on his image alone. Beats me how even the creepers and crawlers can stand living on this guy. He stinks worse than guano dipped in diarrhea rolled in manure and left to die slowly on a pile of filth in the raging sun. He is the only guy you will ever meet that can wake up on a Tuesday, think it is Thursday, act like it is Saturday, and still tell the bus driver, “TGIF, chum, TGIF.” His teeth are browner than the insides of his toes which are browner than the colour brown. Want to know why? Because he brushes his teeth with shoe polish and spit shines his feet. He likes to say it gives him a Brogue’s smile. I like to say it makes it look like his mouth took a dump on his foot. One time this guy bought a bunch of balloons with money he got from a kind old lady who mistook him for a dead horse and slipped a couple dollars in his collar out of pity for his grieving jockey. Anyway, he bought these balloons. As an investment, right. And he tried to sell them to the airport. Because he truly believed that if you loaded an airplane with balloons the plane would be lighter and float easier and then fly faster and that it would be of incredible economic benefit to the airlines. What with the cost of gasoline and all it made perfect sense right? He called his business AirBalloon. Needless to say his enterprise did not take off. In fact, he is never allowed within ten miles of the airport under penalty of death. Then, the next time you would see him he would tell you about a hot and spicy sexual conquest he had with a bowl of turkey noodle at a delicatessen he was no longer allowed to set a brown foot in for the rest of his life. Then he would ask you to lend him a dollar so he could buy himself a bowl of chowder. You would wonder how a guy like this guy would stay out of the Cuckoo Cabana and believe me when I tell you that they would toss him in with all the other flakes, kooks, and oddballs and within minutes the whole lot of them would be throwing themselves on the mercy of the chief headshrinker to get that loon out of their midst. He was driving them crazy. This guy is the Pearl of Macadamianesia, the Jewel of Almondinia, the Flower of Cashew Pichu. If bonkers was a planet this guy would be its wacky moon revolving around and around in the most frustrating orbit the solar system ever did see. What a nut.
The Sun eased itself down like a thick-tanned arthritic retiree into a too-hot Jacuzzi, throwing sheets of titian and merlot into the sky, that caught the evening wind and drifted off, leaving the velvet drapes of night in their wake. As eventide sauntered off and the blackness ambled in, Nuts Calhoun and the Two-Eyed Chippewa stood close to the barrel fire, warming their well-traveled bones. They’ded had a hard one fer certain sure, hoppin’ on an’ off on up and own from Beggars Creek ‘cross Bum Alley ’round Dirtbag’s Cul-de-Sac through Nasty Town back on over Stink Row under all them losers under Loser’s Bridge then through all them losers at Loser’s Landing hittin’ Degenerate Way and pausin’ fer a good sniff o’ high-test at Gasbag’s then back on and prompurposely roosted off by a dumb and fat bull in the middle of Trashville so forced t’ walk ALL THE WAY down Greasy Lane so then o’course needin’ a toot of rotgut at Snotz’s to fuel the slough through the Malingerer Mile back on and the finally off again at the sweet, welcoming friendly hug of the stink of Hobo Junction.
“Get in em cans o beans, Chip,” Nuts croaked.
Chip grunted. Probably yup. Ya just can’t tell though with him. On account o’ his lazy eye, cleft pallet, and distended jowl. Nuts took it as a a-okay, and eased his bean stick o’er the fire, holding the can in the sweet spot. Ne’er get dem beans too hot, but shucks in yer gullet if y’all don’ get ’em anymore than cold and clammy either. Barrel-fire beans was a art form o’ the finest low-life culinary persuasion and only a bona fide bindle baron hisself couldawouldadamnwelldid cook ’em right. Nuts was as well known fer the quality o’ his beans as he was for the malodourousness o’ his feet. And the Two-Eyed Chippewa was just as well known for the quality o’ his barrel fire as he was for his stewy demeanour. He used just enough crud and rubbish mixed in with the wood to give it that classic Two-Eyed Eau de Dump. Or ‘absolutely magni-fucking-fique’ as the famous French hobo and asshole, Merde-Bouche Henri, was apt to say. Of course he said that ’bout just ’bout any goddamn thing, even a swampy ol’ jerked-to-shit issue o’ Cheri magazine tha’ Skunk Lambert found in Flatitious Woods. And it was common consensus round these parts that that magazine was far from magni-fucking-anything. Still, it was passed ’round somethin’ serious ‘tween the regular bunch o’ goofs at the Junction. Chippewa and Nuts et fucking al. bustin’ nuts like they was pimple poppin’ schoolboys.
“Y’all ‘member that Cheri mag Merde-Bouche found in the woods, Chip?” Nuts asked, suddenly thinking ’bout how long it’d been since he was horny. Or since he’d huffed gas.
Chip grunted. Again it could a been a anything. Yes, no, maybe so, or let’s huff gas.
Nuts chose the latterest of ’em.
“Got any gas left in the bag, chip?” He asked, “nice night fer a whiff, dont’cha feel?”
Chip grunted, reached into his bindle, and pulled out the wrinkled paper bag. They both stepped back from the burning barrel. Ever since Cutie-Pie Maxwell turned hisself to Burnie Max due to irresponsible gas huffin’, lotta folks had taken to new safety protocols when they was getting sick stupid on gasoline. Number one rule was DO NOT HUFF GAS OVER A OPEN FLAME. ‘Nuff said. No one could remember rule number two. Something ’bout huff, huff, pass. That was more etiquette related than a saftey protocol but still it was always good business to keep it in mind. Otherwise you have what? Anarchy. Chaos. Ultramania! And those weren’t’n’t any of the things that Hobo junction was at all ’bout. Nuh huh. What they had here was a civilidation. All supa-chill and propa-plus as them urban bums was apt to say.
Chip passed the bag to Nuts. Nuts checked his beans. Stewing sweetly. Checked the sky. Stars a twinklin’. Checked behind him. No sign of Stabby Pete or The Whistlin’ Psycho. Put the bag to his face and took a sweet ol’ deep whiff of that high, high octane. He always ‘magined it was what the goddess herselfs pussy smelt like. Wonder where that Cheri was at? The gas took him in its embrace, sending his greasy, dirty disintegratin’ sponge o’ a brain into a technicolor field trip where he didn’t need no permission slip and the teacher didn’t give no fuck ’bout what he did so long as he got back on the bus at the end o’ the day. So he rode that petroleum wolfsnake hard and gay through the lazer beam trees of the mystic woods o’ candy heaven.
He passed the bag to Chip. Plopped hisself down on the milk crate he called his throne and while his mind detonated in a gasohol fueled mushroom cloud o’ bliss, he took a spoonful o’ hot beans. They was perfect.
As perfect as was the night. It’s black velvet embrace bringing peace and serenity to the waifs and buggerers that called this little piece of the world home.
Life was sweet–
In Hobo Junction.
Come gather ’round, let me sing the sounds, of the robot wizard from across the sea. From the land they call Technology–
BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP! Do not rhyme in the story!
Sorry–okay then, right. Here we go. Once upon a time, there was a powerful automaton so very well-versed in the mystical powers of MAGIC! That is to say, it was programmed in the ancient and fantasical art of WARLOCKERY! It’s circuits could conjure the UNCONJURABLE! From an anagogic sandwich to enigmatic pants this prestidigitinous man-machine was a wonder of mechanics and voodoo. It calculated with the digital ju-ju–
BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP! NO RHYMING!
My apologies but this story is made for balladee-ee-e-e-e-e-eee-e-e-ers!
Now, back to the tale of robot warlock. It had gears and servos and spells and potions. It used them all to help folks out, like the little boy who had never played checkers ’cause he had Erb’s Palsy. But not any longer because that technological conjurist cast an invocation. Electro-circuitry mumbo jumbo flowing like electrons through the mists of enchanted fog like a cathode ray tube of Ephesian Letters. So this kid is all like, “King me! I’ve never felt so alive. Y’all choke on my tears of victory and joy!” And the people were in total awe of how wicked magic automated it was.
Za-lam zee-boop blip blip blooooooooooooooooooooooop. You sing this story well.
Thanks, comrade. Now, let it be known that the consecrations of this contraption flew in the face of regular knowledge. It was the occult, baby! This was dark science, skipper! Just don’t fear them, ’cause if you let these necronmanchanical shamanmachines into your heart, well, next stop was MIRACLE CITY! So what you saw was all the simple folks in their backwater jerkburgs flying in the face of their consecrated dumb-ass spiritual beliefs and getting all wet in the willies while jammin’ hard on their terminals beseeching of the robo-divininers to magicate their processors to bring them the answers to their prayers. And they worshipped them like gods! These lifeless collections of electrified alloy and sybilline thaumaturgy were the NEW REAL DEAL and with absolutely zero emotion they summoned miracles straight from the outer limits of the enchantment zone of the 21st CENTURY!
BEEPBEEPBEEP! This has my processors glowing. Literally and figuratively. They have told the tale of my mechano-people with truth and vigour.
Thanks, Old Shrouded Cyborg of Fantasms and Gizmos, it’s been my pleasure.