Above them, in the chopper of righteousness, I keyed in the sequence that activated the time-release dispersal system and 10s of thousands of dynamically customizable leaflets wafted slowly, one by one, down out of the sky, the message on them, the appearance of the page, rewriting and re-designing itself 60 times per second as it accommodated simultaneously to up to 6 sets of personality data coming off the 6 nearest CCID tags, from people into whose corpus callosi (CC) a conducting transmitting plate had been slid clean through, such that communications between the 2 halves of the brain were in no way disrupted from normal, but now they could be easily read by 3rd parties at up to several hundred feet (ID), depth of information, degree of personal filth, falling off as the inverse square of the distance, of course.

So, by the time a leaflet came to rest in a hand, its words and look had been meticulously retailored and re-tooled through thousands of iterations till it most closely matched the needs, wants, and sicknesses of the mind of the brain that pressed fingers against it to hold it in place so that control could enter the body through its eyes et al.

And despite the fact that it had emerged from an infinite set of possible appearances and wordings, what it summed to in the pit of the mind was our impassioned plea for an ENVIRONMENT-FREE world. NOW!

Cause we're fucking sick of the fucking environment. The fucking environment is always getting in the way -- you know? I mean, just TRY running through a dense forest at top speed with your eyes closed. Or walking across a pond naked.

Breaking you and smashing you unconscious, or drowning you -- THAT's your fucking environment in action. So lets get fucking rid of it!!

Of course, those assholes down on the ground demanding give me closure or give me sadism couldn't care less.

By closure apparently they mean having the book closed on them. By sadism they apparently mean sadism.

We are able to talk about disappearing the environment now (NOW!) because, for only the third time in human history we have the technology to accomplish this.

The first two times, people had been afraid to use it and chickened out, and the results are what you see all around you today. So it's clear we don't have a choice this time.

And we're not talking here about ruining or destroying the environment or making it unlivable or even making it livable -- we're talking about GETTING RID OF IT pure and simple. No more compromising with all these "things" that get in your way, like temperature, like rain and snow, like night. What IS this shit? I have looked thoroughly through all my past and future lives in this and all other universes and I do not in any of them see myself check off the boxes saying yes give me cold, darkness, rain, clouds, and blood-sucking insects in this one.

About half the leaflets have been released when suddenly an unanticipated air jet slams us into a tree.

When I wake up everybody's playing poverty on my behalf, looking emaciated. Clearly they all have pretensions of not being just Proctor and Gamble fodder this time.

I have serious head trauma or something. I look out the window. They haven't gotten rid of the fucking environment yet, I say to the nurse. I almost died trying to get rid of the fucking environment and what do I get for it. Not getting rid of the fucking environment is what I get for it and having it stare into the window and taunt me as I lie in a hospital bed with severe head trauma or whatever.

When the doctor comes and asks what I think of things I say "OK. The car was out of control and swerving all over the road as a result of its paint job. The driver was thinking how a different color would have worked much better in the surroundings it was passing through. So rather than kill himself by driving off an overpass again, he pulled off to the side of the road and took out a pen and paper to write a poem about it. But as he was writing, he started thinking: poems don't sell so I'm just wasting my time. But then he thought, yeah, but this isn't all just about selling, it's about, it's about, it's about... and he realized he didn't really know what it was all about. Before he could write a poem about how the paint job of his car was killing him, he would have to figure out what it was ALL ABOUT so he could figure out if it was worth writing a poem about this shit at all. I could write a screenplay about it -- that would sell no matter what, cause everybody wants a screenplay, he thought. But he realized that was just begging the question, or something. So he got out of the car and went back to the road and flagged someone down. Can I borrow your mobile internet connection he said. Sure said the driver, and handed him his keyboard. Wait, he said, I could have done this from my own car. Why did I take the trouble to flag a car down to borrow their connection. Maybe your connection isn't paid up, the driver offered. Yeah, maybe that's it he said. And then he had to figure out if, as long as he was there he might as well go ahead and use the guy's mobile internet connection anyway, or just simply apologize and go back and use his own. He had to sit down to think about it, the guy in the car had started eating lunch so he wasn't going anywhere anyway and they could all afford to wait. Should I write a poem the guy asked him or a screenplay. Should I care about whether it can sell or not? I don't know, the guy said. Life is just a lot of stupid questions at a certain point. If you are not deep down in it to where you don't know where you are, then you might as well not even bother going on. I have some suicide pills he said. No, the other guy said. I think we are here as a means by which inanimate objects and concepts communicate with each other. Iron wanted to be free from the ground and it got us to bring it out and put it all over the world, high up, animals got tired of being hunter-gatherers so they got us to give them a cushy life of laying around and "3 hots and a cot." We couldn't not exist, because iron and minerals got together with animals and plants and created something that brought them to all parts of the world low and high and placed them in positions of power and control, holding up the world for example, providing most of the so-called energy the world needs in its endless struggle against entropy..."

Before I could finish, the phone rang. The doctor held up a finger. It was his mother. His sister had caught his father fucking his brother and in trying to shoot them had accidentally shot their aunt, a nun. His grandmother, who was in the room, had a heart attack, but only died because of a botched emergency surgery, performed by his wife's brother, whose license was promptly revoked so now he'd have to come sleep on the doctor's sofa.

The doctor put his mother on hold while he phoned the supreme court to recommend they give me the chair or lethal injection, fast, before I went all wacky and started calling people up and saying, "uhhh, hello, this is UPS. We have your iguanas."

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So, after we'd written all the rules, set up 2 leagues of 16 teams divided into 2 divisions of 5 teams and one division of 6, selected a city for each team, designed uniforms, established long-standing team rivalries, came up with player nicknames, and designated which players would have to act like total assholes, game after game, season after season, for the good of the game, someone said, "You know, this is a totally stupid fucking idea!!!" And we all agreed.

The woman next door, who used to be the girl next door but then all the neighbors grew up, said, "We need to just act. It almost doesn't matter what."

The man without a name (even though none of us had actual names, he was the only one known by this name) said we should just start designing recruitment posters and then, once we had a good one, we'd see what it was for, and then we'd know what (the fuck) we were doing.

That sounded good to everybody, but we did it anyway. In the end, however, we did a poster aimed at recruiting from a generation noted for been brainwashed into believing they're a generation that can't be brainwashed, but the best we could do was a sort of generic sounding "Come Be Cannon Fodder for Somebody Else's Ego Bullshit," recruitment poster, and aside from sucking, it still wouldn't give us any kind of focus except for the idea of "somebody else's ego bullshit" -- which, you know, only described EVERY FUCKING THING ON EARTH... except maybe for turds -- and even then...

So, instead, we decided to hire all the Pysch professors in the world to psych all the doped-up athletes into blowing themselves away -- because these athletes are so dedicated and hard-working and so tuned to success and they practice so much that it's highly unlikely when they go to blow themselves away, that they'll miss.

But a few did. And then, it wasn't long before the rock scissors paper game between the doped-up athletes who'd survived and the Psych professors who'd tried to psych them into blowing themselves away turned bloody and fluid (cerebro-spinal fluid, that is).

So the few unsuicided doped-up athletes, in retaliation, round up all the Psych professors who'd psyched them into almost killing themselves and beat them to a bloody pulp in the Psych Department lounge.

But after the doped up athletes leave all way upbeat and high-fiving the shit out of each other, the pulp coalesces around a phone cord and gets itself on the internet and there's just enough brain cells in it (3) to put up a web page, and the web page starts spreading rumors about the doped-up athletes' rape and murder sprees and so they're all arrested, brought to court, and sentenced to death. But their last wish before being executed is that for their last meal they want to have the bloody pulp that's coalesced around the phone cords in the Psych Department lounge.

So it looks like, in a few days, at the execution, the Psych professors and the doped-up athletes will have succeeded in wiping each other out, but that means that now, when some raving lunatic goes on a killing sprees or starts spraying RPG fire all over the place, there won't be a psych professor to come psych him out of it and he'll just go on shooting and killing everybody and there also won't be any athletes doped-up enough to just go tackle the guy.

The animals will sense weakness from this and begin to attack and before long start to gain their turf back from the retreating humans now devoid of the ability to psych anybody out or do incredibly stupid things that require advanced athleticism.

And when simultaneously people all over the world start realizing this and that their hold on the planet is finally being threatened, suddenly the governor is deluged with phone calls and faxes and letters and petitions and visits from big donors and told that he HAS TO stay the execution of the doped up athletes and not let them have their last meal of bloody pulp collected from around the phone cord in the Psych Department lounge. But as he's about to make the phone call to stay the execution he has a heart attack, and the Lieutenant governor doesn't know anything about the execution cause he's been kept out of the loop. OK so the execution is just a few hours away, people are starting to regroup to try to get the lieutenant governor to stay the execution but he's too busy mourning the death of the governor and rearranging the office so he can move in, and restructuring the government so he can optimize the power of the office which he'd been secretly planning for years, knowing the governor was bound to have a heart attack long before the end of his term, and maybe even contributing to it by telling him (the governor) horrific stories of sexual perversion and blood and filth and animals and pagan brutality and how if he (the governor) made the wrong move or said the wrong thing, all these horrors would befall his state and he'd be driven out of town on a rail. So the new governor ignores all the people imploring him to stay the execution and refuses to be bullied and so the execution is about to go ahead, and the final meals have been requested and teams have been sent out to scrape the goo off the designated phone cord and bring it to the soon-to-be executed athletes to eat for their last meal before dying -- but just as the crack team arrives at the Psych building, and gets to the phone cord and one of them has his exacto knife out and is about to begin scraping away to get that damn goo off the damn cord, suddenly in the background there's a rumbling, and the ground starts to shake, and a huge volcano erupts and everyone on earth is buried in molten lava, and mankind is saved...

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So before we could get down to business about this whole Doped-Up Baseball thing which threatened to end our world, there had to be a few moments of smarmy gossip to loosen everybody up and create unit cohesion.

But these moments wound up lasting hours, as we ran through all known celebrities, their sickening ejaculations and breath-taking impotencies, their wretched failures and even worse failures, and then ran through friends and acquaintances that only one person at a time knew so he or she could be pulling it totally out of his or her respective ass just to keep the increasingly smarmy stories coming and maintain strict avoidance of the reason we were here in the first place.

And after we'd finished with people, we burned through animals and objects, and then we let abstract concepts and ideas have it, till, finally, by late evening, we'd spewed the smarmiest slime way past even the farthest edge of abstraction where the only place left after that was just the popular filth everyone knew about the metaverse -- about how it used to pay failed universes to savagely fist it on their way down while it watched nostalgic depressing videos of way before the beginning of time, and cried.

I figured at least it had to end right there and somebody'd clear his or her throat and say, uhhh, I guess we'd better get down to business.

But somehow, that never happened. Or when it happened everybody just laughed and kept going because now they all wanted to take back the lies they'd just told and replace them with the TRUTH they'd been withholding for so long for national security reasons, or national obscurity reasons -- stories that they KNEW were true but had been previously afraid to tell -- because of the political, economic or social climate -- stories about beloved and esteemed celebrities of the past paying prostitutes or fans to fist the shit out of them while they watched video reruns of their big hit show, or the biggest moment of their career.

Each story went successively farther back in time, through celebrities long since deceased and on through certain early saints who everyone knew had paid prostitute angels to fist the "living" crap out of them while watching, from heaven, acts of purest love and charity done by humans to humans down on earth.

Once they ran out of these stories, everyone started calling everybody else's story a lie claiming they were all just taking a long-established formula and plugging in their most despised or random celebrity, in order to win what had apparently become, instead of a trying to solve the Totally Doped-Up Baseball problem back on earth, a pissing contest to see who could come up with the most bogus celebrity fisting story -- making use of the kind of perfectly formed lies that no one could ever find the truth to.

But what if all the stories WERE true, and there was a pattern in reality such that if you went out now and took a slice of the world, a significant per centage of mankind would be out there paying heavily-tattooed transsexuals and multi-pierced dominatrices to violently fist the crap out of them while they watched videos of their most profound, successful, compassionate, or heroic act or achievement in life.

We continued debating this fine point till finally, as the end of our time on the ISS approached, someone did stand up and clear his or her throat and suggest, without missing a beat, that maybe, as long as somehow we were onto this whole fisting thing anyway, and hadn't yet crossed over to the whole coprophilia thing, how, since everybody was already doing it constantly all over the world, that maybe the solution to the Totally Doped-Up Baseball problem, not to make too facile a segue to it, was, nevertheless, to come up with A WHOLE NEW baseball league that would be fresh and exciting and based on a whole new conception of man, and would reach out to hearts and minds at their deepest most innermost levels where something like SAVAGE FISTING BASEBALL could turn the world around and the population would totally forget about Totally Doped-Up Baseball and all its other totally doped up offshoots that were still springing up at an ever-accelerating rate back down on earth as we whiled away the time up here on the ISS, eating all kinds of rare generic space station food on the international community's dime.

We were still debating whether to go with this or not, when the space shuttle showed up outside, honking its horn and occasionally slamming the solar panels with its nosecone to indicate it was time for us to get the fuck out of the International Space Station.

But even if we decided, the giants on whose shoulders we were standing notwithstanding, to bring Savage Fisting Baseball back to earth, we still had tons of mind-bending detail to work out before we could even say what it actually was.

Eventually we decided that being on the ISS was just too good a deal and, you know, once you stop vomiting, and get used to the incessant hum, it's all the free food you can eat, a great view, and anytime you wanna let off steam, it's just a short space walk and a few strips of Reynolds Wrap to take out all cable television for the world.

So we put up signs in the portholes and locked the door and cut off radio transmission, so we could totally focus for the next weeks and months, on coming up with the field design and bats and balls and rules and salary structures, and positions, and farm systems, and high school and college programs for Savage Fisting Baseball -- as a way to undercut and replace Totally Doped-Up Baseball, and the totally Doped Up juggernaut now brewing and deploying down on earth, reaching its apex in the totally Doped-Up Olympics, set in Santa Cruz this summer, which had already sold more tickets than the last three deathly boring Supposedly Totally Anti-Doped Up Olympics of 2000, 1996, and 1992, combined.

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And of course, everywhere the stoner went with the idea for Totally Doped-Up Baseball he heard analogues of the same ostensibly logical argument about how his was just an analogue of the same fundamental stoner idea which they get a million of up the wazoo every day -- BUT that, hey, every 10 or 15 years there's this point where things get so utterly fucked up in the world's people's conception of life that history is suddenly sitting there naked, impotent, CALLING OUT FOR some really fried-out, off-the-wall idea -- and where better to look than in the huge vat where all these way the fuck out there stoner ideas have been stored for just this moment -- so one day in some future, with the world suddenly so lost it needs some new unheard of obsession to clear its head, a hand will go into the vat of fucked up ideas -- and maybe the hand would come out with TOTALLY DOPED-UP BANKING, in the hopes of saving the world, or maybe, at the odds of a million to one, it'll come out with totally doped-up baseball.

Of course the rest is history. The day after the stoner was told not to call them, they'd call him, his phone rang. Unfortunately he was too stoned to answer, and Totally Doped Up Baseball became the most amazing sensation in the history of man or at least in the history of sensation, without him.

But of course and either in spite of or because of his not being in anyway vengeful or in any way giving the least shit about it for that matter, he was avenged anyway, because Totally Fucked Up Totally Doped Up Baseball didn't just last for a year until people "came to their senses," which was the way it was supposed to be with these once in a lifetime stoned-out utterly random next big things that momentarily saved the world, but either they never "came to their senses" or it lasted for many years after they did and was still going strong to this day and now was spilling over into the rest of society. So the formula on which totally doped up baseball was based, the formula behind a million stoned-out ideas that stoners have every day but any one of which can only come to the fore every 10 or 15 or maybe even 20 or 25 years and then go away when people come to their senses -- this formula hadn't gone away and was now the basis for all society.

And that's why, I thought to myself, we are here on this fucking International Space Station holding this meeting trying to figure out how to rid the world of its most entrenched experience, but without which it might crumble away and then there'd be nothing left. So we had to be careful, as we spooned our International Cheerios into our mouths.

To Be Continued...

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So now, to discuss it in a place where they wouldn't have to keep standing up and screaming at people across the room wearing only shirts and no pants, "Hey, could you turn that fucking thing down! we can't even hear ourselves think," they'd retreated to the International Space Station -- the only place left where you could still have, you know, a little fucking privacy around here -- there being, as everyone knew, no place left on earth where that could happen. (Extremists of all persuasions, left, right, center, up, and down, believed the ISS Consortium had invested heavily to make it this way -- so people would HAVE TO rent out their piece of shit abandoned anachronistic "space station", just to get a little of it back.)

They had the space station for the weekend, sharing it with the convention for a consortium of the self-proclaimed 5 kinds of guys -- the drugged guy, the factual guy, the self-obsessed guy, the delusional guy, and the sci-tech guy -- who spent most of their time arguing (in spirals of virulent one-upsmanship) about why they SHOULDN'T admit one or another of the never-ending stream of wannabe kinds of guys: you know, the guy who's come through tons of adversity, or the guy who's come through the adversity of having had absolutely no adversity whatsoever, for example.

OK. So the de rigueur diverse group has arrived here to come up with a solution for doped-up baseball and by extension to all the ills currently plaguing those jerk-offs back down on mutha earth.

This group is so diverse that ALL social classes are equally represented here in proportion to the perspicacity of their wine cellars: the rich, the super-rich, and the poor slobs.

And the agenda had been drawn up months ago by International Agenda and Televiewing, the company that had risen from obscurity, starting with just a loose collection of services that assisted the average joe in watching television better. Now they drew up agendas for over 150 National and International groups, with several thousand conferences annually, none of whom or which had the slightest clue what the fuck they were about and so could not ultimately have survived without the services of IA&T.

But the Consortium On What To Do About Doped-Up Baseball wasn't one of these. The Consortium On What To Do About Doped-Up Baseball had, as its mandate, exactly what its name implied. And it knew it.

At breakfast, in the control room, the deafening hum of the ISS having finally burned out the neural components that processed them at key levels of cognition, we got down to business.

We were ready to go and we all had our agenda cards courtesy of IA&T next to our bowls of Cheerios, each O made in a different country, or under differing circumstances of depravity and despair, so every spoonful contained at least half the history of the world, with a sprinkling of the history of the universe, and enough original light quanta to boot up more universes than anyone'd wanna shake a stick at.

Doped-Up Baseball had started innocently enough. "Why shouldn't players be allowed to operate at some super-normal peak by means of drugs or prosthetics or extreme information or technology? Don't the burnt-out bored-shitless fans deserve all we can give them to make their affliction even worse?"

And to that question the immediate answer was always: "Yes!!!"

Followed by a long moment as euphoria settled in, as everyone imaged with undisguised glee the screaming, hearts-pounding once-bored-shitless fans wired to the ceiling now on Doritos, vomiting feces, pissing vomit, shitting Read/Write DVDs from watching players leap 50 rows back in the stands to snag wannebe grand-slams, killing 10, injuring 25... stolen bases that go from first to home without the least pause to reconsider at second or third... nanojets hidden in saliva making spitters that release tiny sonic booms from time when they reach the plate doing 650 mph.

Followed of course after many many minutes of this by the first, final, and crushing reservation: "but, uhhh, yess, uhhh, but that's uhhh, you know, NOT FAIR to all those players who AREN'T utterly doped to the gills as well."

And so there it sat for years, no one able to crack the nut. The solution awaited either a George Washington or a Mussolini, but then, one day, someone who was stoned was thinking "what if ALL people were stoned ALL the time" and then he realized, "Nahh, that's just some druggie pipe dream and could never really happen in reality cause reality is really somebody ELSE's pipe dream, and that somebody else has been working a long time on this pipe dream, in making it all-encompassing and long-lasting and monopolistic and an utter fucking piece of shit in order to stick it to you after first making you need to have something and then making you accept what it gives instead of that and then making you make all kinds of stories in your head about how great this all is this only choice from somebody else's pipe dream -- until the day it breaks through the cracks and you start to say but hey this is really all just a buncha shit, isn't it? Isn't it! Which is what its intention was in the first place for you to realize this in the end, because ultimately it wants to stick it to you, which is an integral part of this somebody else's stupid fucking pipe dream you are living instead of your own stupid fucking pipe dream."

But, later that day, the stoned person who had thought that to himself thought, "well, OK, so it's impossible to get all 6 billion people on earth to be stoned all the time cause they've already been ultra-brainwashed to be off doing things that are even more stupid, but what about an island in that 6 billion people, a test group, a colony, a subset, a closed domain, a sub-group, a team, a league, with rules, rules like everybody has to be doped-up all the time. The undoped-up players already HAVE a league, so how about a league for the ones who just don't give a shit and are willing to destroy themselves in all possible ways at all possible limits of humanity in the interest of pure performance, of ultimately pure abstract numbers on an abstract ultimately meaningless scale without analogue at even the quantum level so why have even fucking bothered?"

To be continued...

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It was at this point that our sleeper cell received its wake-up call.

I answered the phone still hung over from drugs that weren't even legal in prison, drugs that even the president of the United States and the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court and the supreme dictator of Alopecia did not have access to, let alone knowledge of.

Knowing this, the voice on the other end of the line didn't waste time with the usual opening that had been hard-wired into the brain by evolution because for some reason, millions of years before telephones, people who didn't have it didn't survive. And though he had it hard-wired in him too, he DIDN'T start out like everybody else with the line that had proved to be so crucial to the success, maintenance and very survival of the human species: "Uhhh, yessss. I was just wondering..."

Instead, the voice got right to the point: "The growing confusion and inelegance surrounding the current metaphor," it said, "indicates that this metaphor is operating at too low a level to be useful to comprehension and thus, most of the inherent, unsolvable problems of lower level metaphors would simply "fall out" with the arrival of the appropriate higher level metaphor (which by definition covers more with less, reaches broader and is far simpler -- so the need for many of the faulty lower level metaphors simply fades away -- while other, still useful metaphors become re-instantiated with associations that no longer produce paradoxical results when the metaphor moves outside its own domain and begins to interact with other lower level metaphors. The strength and fit of the appropriate higher level metaphor makes the contradictions of lower level metaphors cease to be. Which in itself is a partial proof of its strength and fit.)"

"Uhhh, yes," I said. "But what about, you know, all the douchebags out there?"

The voice thought for a few seconds, then said, "Hmmm. You're right. Forget everything I said. Let's just blow shit up."

"Whoaaaaa, Awwwright!!!" came the cries from behind me of my fellow sleeper cell folk, cause I'd put the voice on the speaker phone.

"By the way," I said, "Who is this."

"This is UPS," he said. "We have your shipment of iguanas on our loading dock but the box burst open and now they're running all over the place and fucking everything up so if you don't get down here and clean this shit up we're gonna sue your damn ass from here to that place where, you know, one day, so that students would hopefully give a shit about them again, all the metaphors used in science and philosophy to clarify difficult concepts, were changed en masse to sexual metaphors. The second law of thermodynamics, for example, was now expressed in terms of genitalia functioning, and oppositely charged particles were said to wanna fuck the living shit out of each other, while similarly charged particles wouldn't fuck each other if you paid them, and so stayed as far away from each other as possible."

"Yeah, well fuck you too, buddy," I said, realizing this was just one of those prank calls that people used to make albums out of, and which only stopped when someone tried to make a movie out of them.

Disappointed, our frolicsome sleeper cell went back to sleep, but not before deciding to focus our dreams on figuring out what the new prank call would be -- in the same sense of "new" as in the statement "pink is the new black" or "brutal murder is the new religion of love".

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Of course, immediately following his first accidental assassination attempt on himself, earlier today, the president was apprehended, tried, and sentenced to fry in "the chair" by the Supreme Court for the crime of attempting to assassinate the president. But don't cry for the president as this is one of the well-known occupational hazards of the job and every candidate knows in advance that if you get elected you can pretty much kiss good-bye the freedom to try to kill yourself whenever you fucking feel like it.

Anyway, after being arrested and sentenced to the chair, the president was released on Rodney King's or Ozzie Osborne's recognizance and this time succeeded in accidentally assassinating himself for good -- so the Supreme Court can give him "the chair" now all they fucking want.

However (and I'm reading this straight off the RSS feed as I write) apparently the accidental nature of the self-assassination is now being disputed, with the Secretary of Defense coming out (as it were) and saying it WASN'T accidental and the Secretary of Labor coming out (not as it were) and saying not only WASN'T it accidental, but it wasn't even SUICIDE.

Wait, there's more. According to Justice Department spokesmen, terrorists disguised as close personal friends of the president had been sending him cards and emails wishing him a happy 22nd birthday for the last several weeks. And, according to his Chief of Staff, there's even been a few phone calls from terrorists disguising their voices to sound like small school children calling the president up to wish him a happy birthday and asking him what he planned to do, now that he was 22.

And according to a close personal friend of the president, who has asked to remain anonymous (though he visits the White House on a regular basis), the unscrupulous terrorist plot had apparently been working and the president had actually started believing he really WAS 22 and therefore could snort the exact same number of lines (25) of coke per minute as he could snort the first time he was 22.

And according to those present at the time, the president held up pretty well for the first 20 or so lines, but then, a little past line 23, he started calling himself "you asshole" and "you loser" and started taking violent swings at his own face.

Of course the secret service stepped in and tried to arrest him, but when he told them to back off they had to obey orders and stop and then when the president called up the pilot of Air Force 1 and told him he wanted to be flown into the Rocky Point Nuclear Plant with a full tank of hi-explosive jet fuel RIGHT NOW!, the president, in an act of unsurpassing courage, profound bravery and intense patriotism, accidentally shot himself in the head.

And when that didn't work, he shot himself up the ass where his head REALLY was, and then fell over, uttering what he could remember of his prepared final words "sic semper uhhh uhhhh uhhhh uhhhhh.... we won't get fooled again."

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But now the food surplus crisis is being blamed for causing the housing surplus crisis. The housing surplus crisis has done much the same thing with rents as the food surplus crisis did with restaurant tabs, and all apartments now come rent-free and real estate agents pound the pavement to find people willing to take free 12- and 14-room houses off their hands for no down payment, no mortgage, no closing fee, nothing. Sometimes they even throw in a free car to go with the house. Their own Mercedes.

Of course, this only starts happening when the real estate agents are given advance warning of the coming car surplus crisis, and they know that, within days of giving away their crappy old Mercedes to someone for taking a free piece of shit 20-million dollar mansion off their hands, they'll be able to run down to Mossy Nissan or wherever and pick up a couplea free Mazzerattis and Lamborghinis or whatever with free full tanks of gas and built-in flat-panel HDTV units as incentive to take these piece of shit surplus Mazzerattis and Lamborghinis off the dealership's bleeding hands.

What's weird, however, is despite having all these high performance cars on our highways, sucking up gas like, you know, big expensive high performance cars or satellite launch vehicles, we haven't been able to avoid the gas surplus crisis which just started a few days ago and now all gas station owners are running up to people on the street and grabbing them by the collar and making them bring their car and if they don't HAVE a fucking car, they fucking GIVE them one, and make them fill their tank, and then buy big 200 gallon auxiliary tanks and make them fill those too, so now every car on the road is a mobile rolling bomb.

And so the debris collectors have already been warned about the coming accidental car bomb explosion surplus crisis on the island and they all have their special suits and debris collection boxes ready, except, deep down inside, as human beings, as PEOPLE, they don't care about any of this, but, instead, are focused on what no one wants to talk about -- what affects them most directly as people, as human beings -- man's big dirty secret 900-pound elephant in the room standing in the corner with your crazy aunt.

They, uhh, you know, they don't wanna talk about what's left when everything's free. How all that machinery that ran when things WEREN'T free just can't stop. And what it gets turned against next. And what the only thing left that isn't free is.

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But now, after rising to the top in all their respective fields in a matter of weeks despite never having shown up for work even once, their joining together, 40 of them, in one of the top 10 most public mass suicides in history, has momentarily shocked the world.

No one stops talking about them. All that talent, all that raw brain power, all that earning potential, all they could have done for the world, gone to waste, thrown away at so young an age, and ON PURPOSE. Why?

Is it a slap in the face to achievement itself? A slap in the face to capitalism? To the human species. To life itself. To raw existence?

Unfortunately, we will never know. The perpetrators of this cruel hoax have all been put to death for conspiracy to dick with the most profound dreams of man.

These "scum", as the prosecutor referred to them, had created full lives out of thin air, random social security numbers, algorithmically-generated names and hand-tailored MMPI profiles. Then propelled these artificial "air people" up through the ranks of class and tribal structures, to the top of society, for the express purpose of publicly destroying them in the end, thereby creating a huge hole in the hearts of man which could only lead to world chaos and the fall of civilization.

These fun-loving hyper-active over-achievers, as the defense attorney referred to them, had merely carried a classic prank to its logical conclusion, matriculating not just one or two, but a coordinated set of 40 fabricated students through ivy league and other top universities at the same time.

And then, OK, so rather than let all these cool non-existing fabricated high-achievers (all graduating much higher than any of the people who'd contributed to creating them and taking their tests and winning scholarships to pay their tuition, and occasionally showing up in the flesh when need be) go to waste after graduation, why not just let them continue on their career path into high positions already calling out to them from the social order? How utterly innocent. How utterly non-invasive.

The defense lawyer assured the judge that the mass suicide was never planned, never even envisioned. It arose, he claimed, naturally, when the artificial high-achieving fabricated people and the real corporate-capital-human nature-driven political economic biologic world collided.

"Despite being at the top of their fields and the apex of society, even disembodied artificial non-existent people," he said, "just wanna die when confronted with the sentence of 'life' in the corporate world. And, being artificial, whatever they dream becomes reality."

And the people behind the soul-destroying nationwide longitudinal prank? Innocent high-school friends who'd dreamed it up the summer before freshman year of college.

But now, given the opportunity, before dying, to explain themselves and apologize, they refuse to do either. Or to even acknowledge just how deep they've stuck the knife of some ironic or paradoxical truth into the soft throbbing gut of the world's social orders and dynamic lack of possibility.

Instead, they order for their last meal undeliverable shit like the cosmos, like infinity, like the moon, like the Mississippi River, like the urine of dead celebrities.

At their funeral, the president gave the eulogy. Even fabricated life is sacred, the president said in defense of the death penalty for these people. And these people, the president said, have fabricated these lives and then had these fabricated people murder themselves against their own fabricated free will. And this, according to the constitution, is no different at all from those movies on Telemnudo or Univision, whichever, where there's a big field and everybody drives up in their pickup trucks and then they all get out and slowly, systematically proceed to shoot each other down. Everyone out in the open, only a few feet apart, no one trying to shield themselves, everybody taking his or her own sweet time so there's plenty of time for him or her to shoot a few people and plenty of time for him or her to be shot several times simultaneously by many different people, with multiple spurts of blood emitted from all over the body on multiple simultaneous ostensible impact.

Of course, when the President said "free will" he was really thinking of the movie "Free Willy." And, of course, when he thought of "Willy," he was really thinking of the object of his own personal name for his dick.

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This system has just been upgraded.

The reason for this system upgrade is to improve the loading speed of this page.

This system upgrade manifests most noticeably in that, now, ony the 2 or 3 most recent articles are loaded (no pun) and displayed at the top of the page, whereas, previously, ALL previous articles for the current month were loaded (no pun) causing significant slowdowns in page loading, especially with that piece of shit Microsoft Explorer.

The remaining articles which are NOT loaded (no pun) and displayed are shown, instead, as empty borders with the title of the undisplayed, unloaded (no pun) article at the top. As indicated, clicking the title will load and display the article in its fucking box. The page itself will not reload.

If you experience any difficulty or improper functioning of this page other than that coming from its "content", please notify us by clicking the contact button and typing your system problem into the box. Please keep all other problems to yourself.

Note that this page has been tested with Netscape 7.1 and Explorer 6.0, and, theoretically, Explorer 5.5 and 5.0 "should" work too. If you are using some other browser, you probably won't even be able to read this and so you won't know why you are just seeing bullshit, so why am I even fucking bothering to say this here?

Well, I suppose I am fucking bothering to say it in the hopes of turning this fucking system upgrade notification into something with far more far-reaching implications. I mean, what would be cooler than a system upgrade notification that suddenly went all wacky and had ramifications for understanding, like, all the shit that came before the big bang, and before there was time, and the true nature of consciousness, and you know, the nature of the control of cell differentiation, and, like, "why they hate us?", and when is Christ coming back, and what's he gonna be wearing, and what's REALLY gonna happen to all those people running around clutching copies of the Left Behind Series, arms extended screaming Me, Me, Me, Me, Hey Jesus man, don't fucking forget ME! Tim LaHaye game me your word!

Unfortunately, and, of course, needless to say, this system uprgrade notification does none of those things -- it simply invokes them in the hopes that you, YOU, will take care of them on your own and soon. I mean, I would, but, you know, I'm just too fucking busy doing system upgrades and writing fucking system upgrade notifications that don't transcend themselves.

[Hey, and be thankful I didn't tell you about the fucking intermittent bug that happened only in Explorer, not Netscape, and somehow inexplicably seemed to depend on the number of characters in the title you click on to get the unloaded (no pun) articles to load (no pun). I swear. And there was ABSOLUTELY NO EXPLANATION FOR THIS. I mean, if the title had 20 or 23 letters as in "Stockholm City Blues" or "At Home In the Universe", it would fuck up the page in ways I won't describe, but by deleting a single letter, the fucking up ceased. This delayed deployment of this system upgrade by many hours, and there was much swearing and thowing shit and many neighbors calling police to see what the fuckig fuss was, so, "dear fucking reader" I hope you fucking appreciate this fucking system uprgrade, the notification for which is now OVER.

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Thank you for not reading this article, page, site, or novel and for not even accessing it in the first place.

As a result of your not reading this article, page, site, or novel, we don't have to fucking worry about fucking offending your fucking stone age fucking sensibilities and therefore we are free to say or do whatever the fuck we want. We also do not have to make any half-hearted attempts to appeal to your sickening tastes, predilections, fetishes, or infantile longings, thereby saving us the embarrassment of hating ourselves that much more.

And because you are not reading this, we are able to engage in the most profound and off-the-wall experimentation reaching bold new heights of creation and understanding and making startling discoveries never dreamed of before, which no one would want falling into the hands of worthless scumbags like yourselves, and which we'd therefore have to leave out, if you were reading this.

Of course, if you've read THIS far then, obviously, you're NOT a non-reader at all, and none of the above curses and profanity apply to you. In fact, I have it on good authority, that by virtue of being a reader of this article, page, site, or novel, your life expectancy has just been doubled, your rent/or mortgage payment has just been halved, and all your food for the next year will be free.

So thank you for being a reader of this article, page, site, or novel. By reading it you have done your share to prevent the destruction of the cosmos by helping keep our fragile egos just slightly above the breaking point. That's, you know, the point at which, when it (our egos) drops below it (the point), we suddenly start to go all wacky and could easily give away hard-earned Minuteman launch codes to random falafel vendors on the streets of Jalalabad, or social engineer a Norad secretary into shutting down the continental power grid with a quick burst of surprise stealth fighter-bomber sneak attacks.

-- the Eds.

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In elementary particle ("high-energy") physics, the way to understand something is to take huge tracts of land many square miles in area, and build vast "accelerators" on them designed to get elementary particles to go as FAST!!! as humanly possible, and then SMASH THE LIVING FUCK!!! OUT OF THEM, preferably against similar particles, going at similar maximum speeds in the complete opposite direction.

Thus, in order to understand how television works, for example, simply load up a couplea big old rickety flatbed trucks with lots of tv sets of all sizes and ages and then get them going at about 110 or 120 mph, by starting them on the same road but at the top of opposing hills on opposite sides of a deep valley, and letting them go so both reach the nadir at roughly the same moment, while going, by the laws of physics, at top speed.

Of course, in this example (which is used because it is easy to understand by almost anybody and because it is easily extrapolated to the endeavors of politics, sociology, history and the general study of current affairs and culture in general), the deep understandng gained from studying the results of this collision is somewhat muddied by all the random pieces of truck engine and tire tread.

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He brings to the table acres of unique content objects. And he claims he can project, you know, given enough time and processing power, all possible objects of ideation. That his is a one-stop-shop for anything from the space of all possible culture.

Nor has his penetration been diminished one pico-curie by the new laws of advertising which prohibit even authorized spokesmen from saying anything more than "OUR lies are SOOOO much cooler than THEIR lies."

And so, as a result, he is single-handedly responsible for the reduction of human want to the highly manageable sputter we find everywhere today. Not by fucking fulfilling anything, of course, but by the repetition of an increasingly decreasing number of core words over and over, so that whole desires disappeared within moments of the word for them and the words for their pathetic little objects having been finally driven out of the last synapse and forgotten.

Now he sat at the generic bar, nursing the proverbial bloody Mary, running the standard-issue metaphors for second thoughts about the rote projection of absolute authority in the interest of permanently overriding the one true truth that there is no truth, on the grounds that, what with it's being an infinite corkscrew loop of mutual self-abnegation an all, it would ultimately lead to another universe, not as much a piece of shit as this one. And who the fuck would wanna live THERE!

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So we are here, in the middle of a sequence of instructions -- masquerading as one, ourselves, on your behalf. But the instruction we are masquerading as is the NOP or No Operation -- the zero or null of instructions -- so that our presence is tolerated and not read as a syntax error, while having NO net effect whatsoever on any final values and only affecting actual execution by at most one cycle, and possibly none if the processor knows enough not to waste a fucking cycle on a fucking NOP in the first place, the way a train shouldn't slow for about-to-hatch birds' eggs balanced on the edge of the rail, even though there are no more of these birds left and its balance contradicts all known laws of physics and would, at the very least, require major modifications to the qualities of the hoped-for but non-existent Higgs bogon or boson.

So, we are here inside this set of instructions and what we can report is that, well, there's a struggle going on. You wouldn't expect this from what appears to be a static, sterile list of instructions that are sequential in nature and simply take their turn according to the pulses of some external clock -- but the struggle is palpable -- because instructions can collude to write other instructions or sets of instruction into or out of the flow of control, using, possibly, knowledge of and access to certain variables up ahead, or by colluding to modify themselves or other lines of code.

But of course, one day, some other chunks of code can collude to change a variable back to what it was, and re-open some whole colluded against chunk of code's can of worms again...

But now this chunk of code wants revenge or at least reparations for all the time its been wrongfully out of the flow of control. But the original colluding code chunks say, hey, it was an accident -- or even an accidental by-product of some other computation -- or, in fact, an accidental by-product of some other computation's call to yet another computation, which really is to blame for this utterly collateral damage.

But the chunk of code, born again, refuses to believe the other scattered lines of code which had colluded against it for so long.

And needless to say it starts actively seeking to take revenge, and, needless to say, the colluding lines of code either continue pleading innocence or try to arrange some codely settlement or else, more likely, they re-collude to once again expunge the chunk of code for good this time, or to at very least defend themselves against any avenues of coding that might be capable of removing THEM from execution.

Because, after all, being executed is ALL a line of code lives for anyway. And, contrary to 1st degree murderers, a line of code doesn't really START to live UNTIL it gets executed.

But much like humans, where the more plane crashes you're in, the higher you are in the pecking order, a line of code's stature rises each time it's executed.

And so, of course, at the top of civilization are certain instructions contained in loops that never stop, and only have a few lines, and these instructions, these lines of code, get to experience the manic rush of being executed over and over and over again every instant, for crimes that can't be invented fast enough to keep up with the rate society needs to execute them at in order to survive. And THAT is why people kill.

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So if this world is just something I've dreamed up, then why have I created all this crap?

And why the fuck am I wasting my time dreaming this and why did I sink so low to dream a world that sinks so low?

I must have not had any imagination or maybe, as the song says, "I don't really know. I must have been drunk at the time."

But then I think, well even championship baseball teams lose over a third of their games, and often only a few of their hitters are batting over .300, and even batting .300 still means being a fucking loser 70% of the time -- so maybe this stupid stinking world I've dreamed up is just par for the course when it comes to what a world can be.

But then I think, but baseball only exists in my world, the one I've dreamed up, and even though there's Babe Ruth and Ted Williams and Sandy Koufax, maybe in a REAL world, in someone else's fucking dream, in their world, in THEIR baseball, everybody bats .999, and all the teams win all their games and all their pitchers' ERAs are like .002 and their won-lost records are all 32-0 and the World Series never ends and everybody's in it, just like their All-Star game. Meanwhile, their Ted Williams and Babe Ruths and Sandy Koufaxs have long since been rounded up and shot for performance unbecoming a citizen of the world.

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From the inside, though, you can easily see what people are carping about and why they hate so much. It is the inadequacy of cosmetics -- first in terms of raw quantity, but even more in terms of raw cosmetic power. People today are incensed because cosmetics do not go far enough. In this burnt-out world of EXTREME!!!! dog food, "Where are the EXTREME!!! Cosmetics??!!" the people are screaming.

And where THE FUCK are the digital cosmetics? Where are cosmetics that pixilate the whole body, then re-project a modified (photo-shopped) version only a few nanometers ahead behind above and below the leading edge parts of the hard-wired old-fashioned flesh and clothes, shoes and hair. At the very least, cosmetically speaking, you should be able to project some shitty avatar from some lo-res online virtual world of 1997, around your boring corporeal being and then let the other non-virtual, non-digital, non-extreme-cosmetized "individuals" out there sort it out. It's THEIR problem now. not yours.

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The judge said "be seated," and the entire city had been sworn in. Then another larger hot air baloon came along, holding the jury. But the start of the trial had to be delayed several minutes while a member of the defense team was called back from an overlong stay at the bottom of a bungee jump from the attorneys' balloon.

Then the witness box blew past. It was in an F-16.

Case dismissed.

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We chose one about 3 blocks from the downtown offices of our company because the luxury was a little less excessive there than at closer ones. Still, great gobs of potatoes and huge racks of lamb were served on hand-painted plates with intricate 10th century celtic design. Exotic vegetables from unexpected sources like drain pipes or sewer bottoms overflowed the steam pots while exotic and plain people from nearby and faraway were also there to eat free, without design, ulterior motive, or wish to control anyone else's life or unjustly glorify their own.

Of course, the great chefs of the world have come here to prepare these meals for free, just for the publicity, and for the right to finally compete with each other without external pressure (cause nobody's paying!) to see finally who could put together the most profound and trenchant meal.

And then, after we were seated, had ordered and were waiting expectantly, making small talk about how society and culture were now so much more stupid than ever in history, and just as the food started arriving and we had begun to anxiously finger our utensils, our forks, in fact beginning to levitate from the table top, at that moment, a line of men walked in from the east entrance -– their zippers fully unzipped, their internet-drug-enlarged penises hanging out. As they walked, they were drinking from huge 5-gallon jugs containing a thick sludge of unrefined petroleum blended with tofu chunks.

The man at the head of the head table, stood up and went out to meet the head of the line of men. They stood there and haggled impassively in the distance while all eating and ourselves were put nervously on hold. Finally the man from the head table came back and leaned over his plate, already stacked high with hog jowls.

"For $1000," he said aloud so everyone in the place could hear, "they won't stand on the tables and piss on the food. -- And, for an additional $1000, while we're eating, they also won't stand around beating off and talking loudly about the objects of their, you know, desire."

There was some rumbling as all the tables discussed it and then we voted unanimously to let them piss on the food. When the decision was relayed to the men, standing respectfully by the door, they all got happy and excited as though pissing was their first choice too, and they all started smiling and waving at us like now we were brothers and sisters.

Around dessert, when no one had pissed on our or anybody's food yet and so we were still highly expectant, suddenly the manager came and stood at the head table and announced that the threat of the men pissing on the food was all part of the meal and meant to not only enhance the flavor and trenchancy of it all, but also to bring forth antagonists to key stomach enzymes suppressing digestion so the meal would last longer in the soul (i.e. stomach). He reminded us how this wasn't just another meal, but rather a media experience in the medium of food that also engaged the whole emotional and intellectual and historical range of the person, much as music or literature sometimes did.

Despite this or because of this, and despite being right in the middle of dessert or because of being right in the middle of dessert, more than 50% of us puked at the very sound of his words and were unable to finish eating. And of the 50% who didn't puke and were able to finish eating, more than 90%, soon thereafter, either committed suicide or were committed to various kinds of institutions.

That distribution of outcomes was also a planned part of the meal and if we'd just turned over the menu, we would have seen it described in full detail there. But then what fun would eating be?

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"Lights Out!", the most massively popular massively multiplayer online role-playing game in history, differs diametrically if not dialectically from all other current MMORPGs, normally played with virtual characters who become so real that real people buy and sell them for high prices on eBay.

Instead, "Lights Out!", is played with REAL people who become so virtual that REAL players (i.e. people) don't seem to give a flaming flying fuck what REALLY happens to them or how many of them REALLY get wiped -- as long as, ultimately, it racks up lots of bonus points or contributes, in a substantive way, to some super-elegant game move.

Yet despite all that, a certain level of maturity prevails and it appears that actual body count, as an end in itself, has not (yet) become a compiled and rewarded and regaled statistic of the game, or actual element of play. As has also number of players incarcerated for first-degree murder, and/or sentenced to death by lethal injection, hanging, electrocution, or shotgun, not become a regaled or rewarded statistic or beloved and addictive element of play.

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A: Because he knows, with great foresight, that when it all comes crumbling down (as it inevitably must because of what a piece of shit he is) there will at least be lots of really cool rubble for entertainment till the sun burns out.

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Of course, what he's pissed about is this whole Mel Gibson, thing. See, Gibson gave the Holy Ghost, like, TOTAL screenplay credit on his "Passion" flick, and, meanwhile, what does Christ get? Bupkus! That's what Christ gets. Not even a lowly associate producer credit. Not even a craft service credit for the last supper.

But what really got Christ (prematurely) on his Holy Teleporter back to earth was when someone snuck him a bootleg copy of the raw, unedited footage of Diane Sawyer's interview with Gibson. Moments after he finished watching it on his combo DVD/VCR unit, and moments before taking off, it is written that Christ spaketh something along the lines of "man, I gotta sue this douchebag Gibson's ass off. Guy's so slimy he makes that sleaze Paul look like a saint."

Though Christ's lawyer is currently in talks with Gibson's lawyer, Gibson has adamantly refused to compromise the Truth with Christ's self-serving version of history and is even counter-suing, accusing Christ of returning to earth under false pretenses, not to bring the kingdom and salvation for the righteous, but in order to do a pirate re-mix of "the Passion" flick, where he's totally changed the subtitles so now all they say (more accurately) is either "Oy Vay!!!" or "Jesus Fucking Christ!!!"

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Of course, we all know the kind of dickbrain that hangs out at Nobel Prize ceremonies, so somebody's bound to jump up (insensitive to the implicit "'nuff said" in my remarks) and ask, "like, WHAT reasons, bro [or dude]?"

So at that point I can either be honest and say something like, well, if you REALLY wanna know what the REASONS are, and since I REALLY don't have the time to waste on you buncha sniveling Nobel Prize sycophants and hangers on right now, you can just go to my website -- although, unfortunately, the last few times I checked, the server was down.

Or, on the other hand, maybe I should be more gracious in victory and just make up some convenient lie, like about how I can't accept their stinking Nobel Prize on account of I wanna, you know, spend more time with my stinking family. After all, my murderous aggressive hostile teenagers will never be murderous aggressive hostile teenagers again, and I don't wanna miss it.

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Thank you Allergic reaction, anxiety, chest pain so much for chills, constipation, heartburn, high blood pressure all the wonderful decreased sex drive, difficulty sleeping, pharmaceuticals, commercials, dizziness, diarrhea, boils side-effects, and killer pricing policies. enlarged breasts in men, eye irritation, fainting, Of course you shouldn't feel bad gas, general feeling of unwellness, gout, that you long ago hair loss, hemorrhoids, hives had to give up as unprofitable inflammation of pancreas, impotence, joint pain, the search for any real cure liver disorders, loss of appetite, vaginal inflammation for any of the sickening diseases memory loss, sudden death, indigestion that plague man muscle cramps, muscle disorders, nerve disorders because, after all, runny nose, nausea, shortness of breath since the placebo effect, black-tarry stool, sweating, swelling will take care of it all anyway, tingling, tremor, ulcers you really shouldn't have vertigo, vision disorders, gastrointestinal inflammation even had to bother looking, in the first place. flu-like symptoms, flushing, bursitis

But the real reason I am writing you Abnormal vision, fainting, fever is to let you know the results of a 15 year study I have recently completed at MIT in conjunction with acid indigestion, nasal congestion, urinary tract infection Brigham and Women's Hospital. abnormal dreams, abnormal ejaculation, vomiting Our findings, it turns out, will save you asthma, Abdominal pain, back pain, Lots of money and so bloodshot eyes, bone pain, breast enlargement, we would like to get in on cataracts, coordination problems, muscle pain the ground fucking floor. cough, depression, difficulty breathing, Now just what IS our fucking discovery difficulty swallowing, dilated pupils, you are probably asking. drowsiness, herpes, well, simply put dry mouth, emotional or mental disturbances, eye inflammation or pain, it's like this. other eye disorders, fainting, falling, See, it turns out that genital problems, gout, gum inflammation, not only are all the cures you claim for your drugs, attributable in 99% of the cases to the placebo effect, heart problems, increased night-time urination, but now, according to our study, increased pressure in the eyes, insomnia, it turns out that the itchy skin, joint disease, light sensitivity, FUCKING SIDE EFFECTS, are also loss of bladder control (urinary incontinence), you know, caused by the placebo effect as well. migraine headache, muscle ache Who knew? numbness, oral inflammation, painful erection But, of course, what this means is prolonged erection, raised skin patches vast money saving for you as you will no longer have to spend all that rapid or throbbing heartbeat hard-earned research money, trying to come up with ever more rectal bleeding, respiratory inflammation, malevolent and virulent side effects to stay ahead or just keep up in the race for ringing in the ears, seizure, sinus and throat inflammation whose piece of shit med does the best job skin rash, skin ulcer, slow reflexes, of conning that buncha sickos out there stomach or intestinal inflammation, into believing that weakness, Heart attack, stroke the more obnoxious and virulent dangerous surges in blood pressure, respiratory tract infections, stomach discomfort the side effects are swelling of the legs and ankles bronchitis, fatigue the more "potent" back strain, baldness, blisters (i.e. successful) the drugs will be bloody nose, blurred vision, cartilage problems thereby triggering the placebo effect confusion, conjunctivitis (pinkeye), cysts and the justification for decreased mental alertness, dental pain, dermatitis paying you lots and lots of money drowsiness, ear infection, ear pain, ear ringing, ear wax, fluid in the lungs for the right to fucking sweating, swelling, Abdominal bloating HEAL THEMFUCKINGSELVES. fungal infection, gas, gastrointestinal infection, hallucinations, hepatitis, hernia of the diaphragm impaired sensitivity to touch, inability to urinate, infection Sincerely, insomnia, joint pain and swelling, kidney failure, laryngitis, liver failure, menstrual disorder, mouth infection, mouth and throat sores, muscle spasms, muscle nail problems, numbness, painful urination, pelvic John Q. Sicko pain, pneumonia, rapid or slow heartbeat, sciatic pain severe increase in blood pressure, severe skin peeling, skin dryness, skin inflammation, skin tingling or burning, sore throat, sweating, swelling, taste disturbances, tendon inflammation, tingling sensation, tonsillitis, vein problems, weight gain, wheezing

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"Those poor pathetic miserable buncha impoverished lowlife slobs and losers out there," a spokesman for the noblesse writes in this month's issue of Oblige: the Journal of Those Buncha Rich Powerful Beautiful Wonderful Loving Caring Noblesse Out There, "simply no longer DESERVE all our (the rich powerful beautiful talented successful caring giving noblesse's) heartfelt attempts to assuage our guilt over being wealthy happy beautiful powerful moral honorable, talented, spiritual successful and fulfilled people who just happen to have inherited all this from parents and ancestors who just happen to have had to endlessly fuck over, rip off, cheat, and generally screw their (those poor pathetic miserable ignorant ugly impoverished vile lower class lowlife losers and slobs') parents and ancestors repeatedly up the ass throughout all history, in order to gain and maintain our (the wealthy happy beautiful brilliant powerful well-dressed well-coiffed sweet-smelling noblesse's) vast wealth, happiness, beauty, brilliance, power, big closets, personal hairdressers and family perfumeries."

Those buncha poor pathetic miserable impoverished low-life wretched ill-clothed vile-smelling glue-sniffing losers and slobs out there have responded in a guest editorial in the current issue of Loser: the Journal of Those Poor Pathetic Miserable Buncha Lowlife Losers and Slobs Out There, saying, like, how "all those buncha rich powerful beautiful well-dressed, well-coiffed sweet-smelling top-quality-coke-snorting well-spoken well-mannered noblesse out there can take their lame, self-righteous, precious little snotty-assed oblige and stick it up their (those buncha filthy-rich, wonderful beautiful powerful, self-obsessed, nepotistic, conspicuous-consumptive jejune noblesse's) excessively over-corn-holed collective anus."

Since then, noblesse across the political, uro-, procto-, and gyneco-logical spectra have come forward to express like, how cool it will be to no longer be forced to waste their precious beautiful wonderful self-fulfilling time being paid huge sums by popular (i.e. pennies squeezed out of poor slobs and losers) charities to organize vast schmooze fests where they (the wonderful saintly rich powerful beautiful happy humanitarian caring giving loving noblesse) come to schmooze the crap out of each other, with the stated goal of any crumbs accidentally dropped to the floor being immediately swept up and sent on to those poor pathetic miserable wretched ignorant vile-smelling brutish homicidal lowlife losers and slobs out there, by way of balancing the books and in the hopes of shutting up their (those poor pathetic buncha ugly stupid miserable worthless losers and slobs') incessant whining -- which of course will now no longer be necessary or in any way justifiable.

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