|Friday, August 13, 2004|
|According to Quantum Physics, or...|
source: Journal Of Quantum Physics, or Whatever
posted: August 13, 2004, 6:01 PM
The evangelicals looked up from the Christian-Islamic car crash.
Fortunately the guns of all the survivors were still cocked and ready.
The homosexual evangelicals, or evangelosexuals, blamed it all on the failure of the CIA-Muslim-Moonie code of Ethics which everyone in the smashed up cars had lived and died by.
Under this code, babies who are not virgins at birth are sent off to live with the animals. But this wasn't specified in any holy book of the past, so who the fuck do the writers of the code the world lives by think they are?
Well, to make a long story short (because we have to because while we sit here chewing the fat over the great ideas and lamenesses of man, all these real actual everyday people are bleeding to death and thinking themselves to death in the middle of the highway paid for, you know, ironically, by their own fucking tax dollars), it was now 15 or 20 years later and the non-virgin babies raised by animals 15 or 20 years ago were now beginning to seep back into the human population.
The first thing they noticed on return was that all "people" in religion or sex or marriage had been replaced by robots, and so they wondered whether these "people" had always been robots or whether alien life forms had replaced the original people with robots or replaced just the souls of these original people with computer programs running Satan's party line.
Of course the jury was still out, blah blah blah, but before we could finish this thumbnail Cliff Notes sketch of the history of modern civilization, the hammers of all the cocked guns came uncocked in a hurry, and only the hero of the story this is about to turn into (ha ha) was able to crawl out alive.
So, while the cars continued piling up now from all races and creeds and nationalities and all forms of sexual union and handedness, Nixon Christ, from atop the small hill he'd crawled up, watched the mix of blood and gunpowder and gasoline and babies and thought maybe becoming an extreme centrist evangelical homosexual Muslim commie hadn't really solved anything for anybody and he was damn well, as soon as his wounds healed, gonna rethink the whole thing and probably give it all up and switch to a whole new set of fetishes or at least a whole new cola.
These homosexual evangelical Muslim Christian car crashes were happening more frequently everyday, it seemed, but everybody just blamed it on the non-virgin amimal-babies coming back for revenge, and no one mentioned how the top commandment or pillar of the religion and politics of these people was about how they should always be talking to each other on their cell phones about what they're watching on their in-dash tv/dvd units, while driving.
Nixon Christ wished for a way to be just as fucking filthy as the times demanded but so far his laundry list had gone unfulfilled. His hair was the color of Nixon's hair, crossed with the color of Christ's hair.
He walked the way Nixon would have walked if his body had been driven by Christ's nervous system, and vice versa.
His ideas were the ideas of Christ, carried out by the human instincts of Nixon.
Before he did or thought anything, he always asked himself, what would Stalin and Ghandi have done if their marriage had suddenly just been voided by the Supreme Court and then suddenly they also found themselves in MY shoes.
But suddenly, a pack of wild dogs running up the hill to escape the carnage below, start to eye Nixon Christ's bloody battered body. Fortunately he has some Gardenburgers™ in his attache case and he pops it open and throws some to them and beats it the fuck out of there before the mad dogs can figure out that Gardenburgers™ aren't really meat (so good a job have the folks at Archer Daniels Midland or whoever, done in disguising the fact that these lumps of clay are really all just crappy old all-VEGETABLE soy product bullshit and not real hunky chunky down to earth extreme hard-core MEAT! at all)
Of course, unfortunately, the dogs figure this out pretty quickly because they have grown up with the human non-virgin animal babies and have learned all the secrets of humans including all about Gardenburgers and they come after Nixon Christ twice as hard now because of his duplicity and he's forced to run back down into the carnage where the dogs won't go cause the lead wild dog, Google Yahoo Britney Lacy Peterson, is a little gun-shy when it comes to human carnage.
But so now, instead, the living dead robot Christian Muslims start coming after him with Molotov cocktails they've Jerry-rigged out of the tipped over cars' gas tanks that haven't exploded yet.
They start coming after him because they mistakenly identify him as the guy whose butterfly wing accidentally flapping once a million miles away two weeks ago set all this in motion -- according to quantum physics, or chaos or complexity theory, or whatever.
to be continued...
So he's trying to talk them out of it saying, hey I'm not that guy, I don't even OWN a fucking butterfly, but they're sure it's him cause they've seen his picture on the internet or MTV.
Fortunately he has an RPG in his attache case which he was saving for a special event like his daughter's graduation but instead he pulls it out now and after reciting a prayer from his religion, the Cocktail Hour, he blows them all the fuck away and buries them in a communal grave with a note on top that says, hey, they would have eventually all killed each other anyway so I was just saving the taxpayers some money to compensate them for all they've had ripped off at the hands of...
...but just as he's about to finish the part of the note where he reveals whose hands have ripped the shit off of these poor pathetic miserable pieces of crap, mankind, when one of the representatives of that poor pathetic miserable piece of crap, mankind, sneaks up behind him and says "Hi I'm from SBC, are you down to your last nickel? Cause, if you are, then I'd like to swipe it out of your pocket by means of the smarmiest slimiest con game I can dream up, and only moments before I, ooops, accidentally push your wheelchair down the stairs where fortunately, at the bottom, one of our associates will be waiting to serve you... or serve you up. Whichever."