Wednesday, January 29, 2014

Jester's Manifesto

A Short Story...

Fiction is a pathetic barrier. That's the title of this story. Fiction is a pathetic barrier. It's a tepid shield like those translucent barriers futuristic warriors carry around in video games. Being serious is very important, otherwise you're conceding to evil. If you play around too much there's no watchdog groups guarding the Jerry Sanduskys of the globe. But serious is the same as unserious, they're just expressions for moments shorter than infinite, dog. Funny people are seriously unserious, and serious people just aren't in on the joke yet. You're only serious until you fail at it, which is usually always. Tragedy is the birth of comedy, remember. This story needs a main character, myself for simplicity. My name'll be Ra's al Ghul because I've seen Batman recently. Wake me up as a fundamentalist Christian. A delusion within a dream within a dream while drunk. Give me soma-flavored ice cream. A comatose pacifier. A drum full of rib tips, you know, some kind of lethal sedative. I'm not sure if my reality is real or I've imagined it. That's just a disclaimer if this whole reading goes beyond overreaching. Don't let it explode on you, we might take a stab at something decent here. You might temporarily entertain the thought of being a better human being before you go back to welding a robotic AI woman who takes to you in kind, or Photoshopping the face of Gillian Anderson to some pornographic image.

Ah, here I am. Ra's the name, inhabiting the empty space of a pretend story page. No relation to the comic book character. Some conflict's coming to this story soon. But where does it come from? Is it the need for momentum? The need to push forward? A sense of motion blurring your reason until you're convinced reality isn't real and your surroundings are a hoax, dog? Why's reality evil, dog? I sit here contemplating, stroking my long white beard in my tall throne. It's a tall throne, alright. Like the kind they sell only in heaven. You know what's south of heaven? Hell. Hell and a Slayer album. And you know what's north of south? North, probably. And heaven, that's near where I sit upon this tall, grimey, shiny fake golden throne. Sigh, it's supposed to feel divine in here, not like urban decay and Big Lots furniture. Yet here I rest in this empty chest of a warehouse in downtown, oh, let's say Milwaukee. Yeah, Milwaukee's a ghost town of crumbling buildings. Good imagery here. Just here on my throne that rests over 30 feet high stroking my excessive beard and passively passing judgment on what things I can make of reality. There's a scaffolding nearby. There's a staircase on wheels in here, too, so I may reach my throne. Like the type you'd see at Old Navy on occasion so they can promote ugly shirts from the ceiling above. Wedged near my chair is food in tin foil and a bottle of Mt. Dew Code Red filled to the brim with piss. It probably would taste better now than it did going in. Hey, my cells needed sustenance, and nothing starts a party for your body's tiny living organisms like the fireworks set off by Code Red. Remember that: Code Red. This is not product placement.

The story's conflict is coming soon, I promise. Will it be About a Snatch? A crab? A clam? Abraham? No, it shouldn't be about women, because stories about women are too obvious and the idea with fiction is to avoid the obvious and the apparent, those things you deal with in day-to-day real regular life. No, we can't have that. An open real, honest examination of life might lead us down the harrowing path of good health and resolve. It might make for some cultural awakening to the frightening, scary point where reggaeton is no longer considered listenable music. Mt. Dew Code Red? How's that for a subject? Yes. It's about as frivolous as talking about women and I sit here drinking it from my dirty brass chalice. This is the life, sitting around and silently judging things while not contributing anything. No, this story can't be about soda. Soda has no drama to it. It's got to be about war, and theft, and child molestation, and having to endure a long line at Quizno's. Seriously child abuse you asshole society of motherfuckers? I mean, come on, is a chilled bottle of soda not satisfying and indulgent enough? Perhaps rape's necessary for one of the ingredients, I don't know. What else would compel such sick behavior? No, these subjects are too dark for print. Not literally of course, unless you type all the wretched things in bold. Torture, rape, these are bold behaviors. But not good story subjects. Fiction is a disgusting medium and form of communication, no? Sure, you could tell the truth with facts but that's a medicine no one wants to take. Nowadays we need Flintstones vitamins. Let's face it: we're all evil. Nikola Tesla never got laid and look what he accomplished because of it. If you loved your father, you'd search for a cure for death instead of browsing Facebook for pussy. But he brought you into this earth, and you don't love him, because you've spent 2,000 man-hours wanking when you could've been curing cancer. It brings up an interesting dilemma. What's the point in all your science, hard work and humility, if it's a laxative no one's willing to pass through their goddamn digestive track? What's the point of your faggoty facts if you can't convey them in a way that's compelling? Then you're just more boring data in storage somewhere in South Dakota. Fricking South Dakota, that state's like the decaying grass in an abandoned lot of land that sits behind a parking lot in the rear of a grocery store. It's that useless. I mean, but most things are useless, so South Dakota perhaps is the most idyllic inhabited place on the planet earth? I'll justify the use of bigoted slurs somewhere before the story ends, don't bail on me now. We've got a bond, reader. No intolerance intended.

The idealist throne room

So I'm sitting perched upon my really high, close-to-the-ceiling throne smoking the last half of a fag and thinking provocatively. This story is only being spoken in my head. I don't like the title. I stated it before the flippin' story, it can't be any good. It couldn't possibly channel the ideas that will unfold that surely I don't know about yet. Yes, this story will be brilliant. It will be meandering and unfolding in a novelesque fashion where not even the author knows where things go. Will someone die? I'm the only character so far. I value my trite life. Stroking my beard here, just thinking. You know, owning a throne this tall sucks when you remember you have to go to Target at some point, or use the potty. Both these events happen in my life at about the same frequency. Target, shit, Target, shit, Target, shit, rejection letter from a hooker, Target, shit, Target, shit, death. Modern Life: A General Summary. Excuse the French. Cursing is impolite, though only really harmful to the sensibility of stupid people. But I've nothing against stupid people. Wake me up religious. Wake me up as a fundamentalist Christian. Wake me up as someone who watches The Mentalist religiously. Christ. What a sad life. My life is aimless and plotless. Certainly there's some contrivance, whatever that means. Why do people hate truth? Can I shove what I wrongly dub an 'organ' into your pink cavern in an act of shameless desperation, chubby girl at Subway? Why can't I say that. That girl's a little thick, okay. She's chubby, and nothing against her, but she'd probably take that as some sort of slight. A slight! When actually, she's a tad above that weight, generally, and it's a gesture most polite. Look, I'm a realist, not an idealist. You could get me free subs. I can introduce you to fetishes you won't be able to shake for forty years. Eventually my neediness would drive her insane and she'd give me the axe in a form quite literally and taxidermize my body and one day we might make an episode of Ripley's Believe It or Not. To me that's a fucking legacy. That's something you can reference. Not the guy who invented battery door covers. Who the fuck knows that guys name? Not to mention the pig did a shitty fucking job because they always break off and require duct tape. I hope your entire family tree has been extinguished by the time of the printing of this writing, pig. This is too indulgent and off the rails. Back to topic.

Okay, fuck it, man. Women. Probably. They're mysterious, dog. They're mysterious, I think, stroking my long, long white beard. That's misogynistic, some would say. Some women would say. Fuck those stupid pigs. When a man says a woman's mysterious what he means is that love is mysterious and that people are mysterious and that trying to grasp any understanding of the chaos that drives and permeates our souls is ultimately an endlessly complicated thing. It's not all about gender, women. You're no more nails than we are hammers. Stop pigeonholing us as pidgeonholers of you. We're all stereotypes and stereotypers. Yeah, what's the great complication of this novel? Or should we say, short story. No fluff here. A comedy of errs? A tragedy. Yes! A tragedy. Here's a tragedy for you: a writer must also be delusional enough to convince himself he's part of a fictional fucking realm in order to make his fantastical story interesting. That's a fracking sad rainy-day faggot story. Oh, yes, to justify the f-bomb, you should know that when I'm not bird-dogging bitches on days Tuesday-through-Sunday, on Mondays I like to stay at home spooning with my young, handsome male lover who goes by "Too-Toned Tony" (or Anthony for long)(which he is)(long, that is)(get it, he's very long)(longer than this sentence runs on). Yes, now that I, myself, a fictional character have decreed my unrepentant omnisexuality, I can cop out and say it's kosher for me to drop all sorts of weighty words like queer despite their vast amount of social baggage regarding intolerance. Also, I am a black. So, anyway, I was out on the town one day hanging with my niggas when I saw this bombastic broad chillaxing at the local Stop 'N' Go. Whoa, was she ever rotund in the right areas! This gal was straight making me act a fool. What was her name? Uh, well, all the popular female names I associate now with girls I have deep personal vendettas against, so I can't just name the first thing that pops into my head, now can I? But I've never met a Jane. There we go. Jane was a hot-ass bitch from along the way and I was her non-literal pimp. Pimp is merely a term I use to describe my go-getter ways and affluence. Currently I stay on the grind with my niggas down at Milwaukee's version of the Large Hadron Collider, it's a scientific laboratory learning place for studying tubes filled with food coloring and placenta. On the weekends I teach philosophy in-depth to panhanders, the last true purists in my pretentious opinion. We get in deep and dissect ideas and ruminate and pontificate and dabble in sexual topics that would make Freud blush, and word up it's never over until we brush up on Tesla.  Oh, and Galileo is straight up always dope. Also I wasn't black before that sentence in which I stated so, and will not be black after the end of this paragraph. I'll justify this fact somewhere before the story ends, reader. Don't bail on me now. Remember, as a fictional character I'm free to be as homophobic, sexist and racist as possible with impunity. Word.

Yes, Jane, good ol' Jane. Everyone has one right? Haha. Whether it's Jane, or some guy if you're a girl. Or some transsexual. Or a segment of fence with phallic attributes that you stole from the back lot at Home Depot because you're an objectum-sexual. We all have people to reach out and try to touch like brass ring. Yeah, you know. Jane is not a real girl, totally not a compartmentalized creation by an 'artist' to represent his misplaced longing for a girl from a real-life fractured relationship. Haha, that would be tacky and distasteful. Fiction stories are basically a way to spice up your diary so people can finish it before throwing it across the room. That, and in hopes some short-haired hairy girl can lick you in pity because she related to your exaggerated gloom, while you lied and said, "Yeah sure, you could definitely be a Suicide Girl." You know, when you meet a girl and start sad-bragging all your past woes and how you're deranged and fricked up? And she tells you how her dad molested her, well, not molested, but refused to pay for her gas once she turned 28. Yes, life is a harrowing endeavor and we the people can make it better with a simple philosophy of love. And that's where the hot tail comes in. That's where generic Jane arrives. Good ol' sweet, well-endowed, shy country girl Jane. She was kind of plain-looking, but not a plain Jane. Of course, by plain I mean a natural beauty of simple elegance and grace God does not simply bestow on just any bad bitch, only the really finer hoes and such. Her beauty could crack the sun. She was a tall glass of water. She was a tall glass of holy water, that's what she was. Purity penetrated her every pore, radiating out of it giving her an aura like an angel. She was Mother Teresa, minus the sadistic pain-loving tendencies and secret meglomania. She was beauty and grace, and eloquence contorted her face to poetry even when she would masturbate. And she did often, because when your nethers look as beautiful as fresh Bubbleyum, it's your duty to stay stylish and blow a bubble periodically. That could use further editing, but then it wouldn't be as honest.

The realist throne room

Myself, I, Ra's, good ol' low-key, no-nonsense Ra's sat perched upon my throne, my shaky throne. My shaky throne of filmsy design, mimicking my sanity, I sat and pontificated to no one and imagined this story, the story of my life. How did I end up here decaying and writing an autobiography in my stupid mind in my free time? I'm no writer. I'm a scientist who makes a hypothesis and refuses to look at facts. Even for a story no one will read it's pretty boring thus far. It's self-serving. Oh, come on. So was everyone else. You know all the greats just wanted to cum. Hemingway yadda yadda, something about birds being pretty, please oh please let me cum. What rubbish. What foolish hogwash. I don't wanna get laid. I wanna play lazertag. Yes. I want to roleplay in a zombie apocalypse scenario on the outskirts of Flint, Michigan, because let's face it that place is decaying anyway. I want to roleplay a scenario where I'm loved by Jane again because by gosh I've become a better actor since then! Oh, girl. Oh, I swear. You'd be so convinced I was worth your time now-a-days. Her dad seemed nice. Her ass seemed fat. I've never been camping. We could combine all those things in one for one heck of a trek! Yes, yep, yeah, fantasy life. Why am I thinking to pass the time? Who the fuck thinks? Apparently, no one. That's why we live in this world where torture rape and war coexist in an incestuous relationship with pornographic high definition trailers on CNN hosted by Nancy Grace. Can't somebody take something seriously for once? Even if it's something as unserious as me? Why can't Ra's al Ghul just step out there before congress and spit out a Goodfellas reference? Why can we only quote Plato? Are we that detached from reality to deny our own lack of intelligence? Must we namedrop philosophers whose time is done and not give credit to a more deserving modern god like George Carlin? Are we forever stapled down to the same maligned position of what's proper where we bitch about text messaging and pregnant reality TV whores instead of the systematic mutilation of young men via circumcision? You cunts better come correct. And boy, was that girl Jane not one of them.

No, Jane was not a cunt. She didn't even have one, now that I recall. Like a mannequin, girls that sweet don't need a nether region. A sweet, sweet girl, endlessly undeserving of ever being called a cunt. She was the type of girl you'd eskimo kiss in public. Shame, shame! Normally, rational beings are against PDAs, but Jane was worthy of this exception. She enjoyed to ski, but she was definitely not a snowcunt. She loved snow, and was obsessed with the West, but she was definitely not an Eskimo. God darn I loved that broad. I loved her broad, manly shoulders. Not as much as Tony's, mind you, but that's irrelevant. Man, she was a tomboy, rough-around-the-edges type with an occasional fine taste in flair via the latest Rocawear gear. She, divine is she. As only fiction can be. Things had to come undone eventually, like the side buttons on her ski pants. It wasn't bound to be! Nothing is! Nothing's free. Free of unpredictability, that is. There's only a few things that are predictable: boredom is cureless and things will be stupid and painful. That's life's whole shebang, gentlemen. Gentlegang. Gentlewomen. Gentletrans. Go with the flow, that's the hot ticket. Otherwise you'll fall victim to some sort of disorder like schizophrenia, where you're forced to write at a fevered pace as your only means of staving off anxiety and keeping a keen grasp on sanity. Or something. I wouldn't know, I'm not writing. I'm a scientist and philosopher, as stated in this here story that I'm telling only myself in my head to an invisible audience. I hope they haven't found it boring.

Is my life a work of fiction? What else could it be? Could I be a Smurf here upon my throne masturbating while feeding myself through a fricking funnel so ceaseless? And perhaps my throne is also a shitter so I never need leave my seat. No, yes, maybe this throne's a La-Z-Boy sofa custom modded to a -- fucking god damn it someone sent a text and broke my stream of thought. Oh, well, that's the modern age. There's no grace in keeping it real. Reality's stupid and boring and pointless and that's why honest men finish last, because they're dishonest men. Life only works as a delusion. It's a dream. The moment you start pointing out its absurdities and inaccuracies you look like a psycho, because everyone's going apeshit like the lunatic-dirty-idiot-loser-big-headed stupids that they are. Realists are party pissers. This is why even the most virtuous people of our time didn't have any real balls. Martin King Jr., those preachy twats from punk bands, those burning themselves alive to fight the system never changed a thing. We're proud to claim we're beyond the days of medieval torture, a time despicable and dark. Now we have a bomb to blow an entire city to nothing within a minute, we're sailing toward better times. I have no conflict here. No story arch. Fuck the female. Fuck the planet. Fuck whatever's making the earth warm. Fuck the war, the tortured, and the raped. We live in an imbalanced earth of adults acting like children so when they get fucked, fuck 'em. I'm here stroking my beard until it all decays and until then stay out of my hair.

No, it can't end on that note. Blind rage is the cynic's cop-out. Even if that would've made a killer ending. They say only the suffered have credibility. If that's the case, I'll stay incredible. The only thing suffering brings is pain. Without the earth there's no Jane. All the gloom and the aches are survived by a peppering of Eros. A little here and there to keep you going a moment longer. Life's a turkey baster full of tears, dude. If you really think about it. You get a good turkey, you stuff it full of nonsense, then you force it to be juicy against its natural properties. What. If I had a million dollars, Jane, lady, I'd spend it all to be next to you again one night. Sure, that's about 5,000 nights worth of high quality hookers, but girl you heard it here first: your love is worth more to me than 5,000 hookers. But I don't have a million dollars. I have a million dollars worth of ideas I don't know how to market. But that metaphorical million dollars I'd give to you over those hookers in a heartbeat because I feel that strongly about you. And okay I wouldn't give a metaphorical million dollars to you, because realistically that would be insane and I care about my family and future, only one night? And who are you to be bribed, shit. You can't buy love, but you can say a girl's worth more than a lot of hookers and hope for the best. There's a million dollars worth of romance in these lines, and that's something physical money can't buy. Though I would sell the rights to this piece of shit story for a small fraction of that and let the prospective buyer claim it as their own thus effectively buying love. Ugh. So in order words: money can buy love, and impossible is nothing. Here propped upon the throne I stay, my chalice full of Mt. Dew Code Red beginning to warm.

Oh, here it goes. Let love in, folks. Is this theatrical enough for you? I'm stroking my long beard and wearing a Jester's uniform. At least in some sense. At least some substance I can pull from this flaming wreckage. Honesty is rewarded with spit, but someone said betrayal's better still than loneliness. So I guess spit keeps you humble. Oh, some more beard stroking. And some smoking, yes. A pipe full of tobacco for the thinker's troubles. How's this tale going? I thought and thought and thought. Fiction is a barrier for truth. Friction is what you get when you give truth. You tango on with words, and actions, no matter how grand or subtle. Spewing sense at an innately irrational world eventually ends with your life or sanity. So we enjoy love as that tiny bit of chaos that's comprehensible. But just barely. Eventually you lose footing. You've convinced yourself they're all right. You start to slip. Also my grandma's father is black. You can't go on. You can't win. Slow and steady wins the race. Midnight craving for spit. Refrigerated and microwavable varieties. Spit on a stick. You start to slip. Shun this dumb world. Let us rebuild! Let us start again in the blank canvas. Let's recreate a perfect new world in Minecraft. Pigs. Vengeance begets vengeance begets vengeance. Oppress evil, never engage it. Cognitive dissonance. Feeling good is feeling next to nothing. If Nothing were name for a best friend or person. If Nothing's a bit of loving, or a wink or an email. Or pity or spit. By those definitions I want Nothing. I sat in my high throne, passed out on soda. Beginning slightly to slip.

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