So he took the thing he'd shoplifted from the real world -- a massage chair -- and set it up in his unreal living room.

The chair seemed to vibrate which would have been appropriate if it had been plugged in and turned on and in the real world, but it was none of these, and appeared to vibrate because when you put something from the real world into an1 unreal world it becomes, like, all highly quantumly uncertain, or whatever, oscillating between all possibilities when you're not looking, then settling down just in time whenever you happen to glance at it, so you think it's really there, but it's still vibrating a little cause it can't totally settle down fast enough.

Of course, when something from the real world comes into the unreal world and starts to vibrate, the unreal world becomes uncertain too. Suddenly it has this shaky thing in its midst and it doesn't know what to do with it and soon, it starts shaking too. Maybe the unreal world is more real than it wants to be. Than it deserves to be. Than it should, by definition, be.

There's as much fear in the unreal world that this chair has brought the real world with it, as there is on the part of the chair that maybe it's NOT one of 7 pieces of furniture, picked to live in a house and find out what happens when people stop pretending and start getting REAL (i.e. drinking, going out to bars, drinking, having repressed sex, drinking, bars, jail, repressed sex, drinking, drinking, minor skirmishes with locals, drinking, talking about sex, talking about drinking, talking about talking about sex while drinking while drinking, etc.)

So microorganisms from each side commingle at the edges of each modality, contemplating full-on TRANSFER.2

Things got so woozy, as a result, he thought he needed to go shoplift something new from the real world to balance off the effects of the chair.

What is the opposite of a chair he thought, and he answered without hesitating that it was art, because a chair lets you plop your ass in it or down on it, but art doesn't wanna have anything to do with your ignorant ass.

The title of the exhibit he went to shoplift at was "Art That Is Not About Getting Laid," and everybody showed up because they thought it must be some kind of joke.

When they got there, the room was completely empty, and when they looked around they realized that the museum was completely empty and then when they wandered out into the streets, they found that the city was completely empty too, and not just of people.

However, instead of stop, the street signs said things like: there is another nothing you think you know.

Then, farther down on the next corner, there'd be a sign that said "You think you know this nothing, but, really, the nothing you know is ANOTHER nothing."

There were no turns off this street and you couldn't U-turn and there were no driveways or even lawns to cut across so you had to proceed down to the next corner where as with the previous two there was a sign that instead of stop said: "and the name of this nothing is you."

Footnotes

1. The article "an" here specifies that, though there is only ONE real world, there are many, or at least more than one, UNreal worlds.

2. The two feed off each other at right angles -- and this in fact is the definition of right angles, or the reason why there even fucking ARE right angles. Because the real and unreal worlds have to have a STANDARDIZED way to interoperate. And it has to run across all time, and any changing it does has to be in accord with the fundamental law of information -- itself.

But that's irrelevant here at this time.3 What IS relevant is that the chair, being a chair, does not understand quantum physics the way humans being humans understand quantum physics and so the chair thinks it's doing what it's doing because it's just trying to fucking BE in an unreal world.

While the humans realize that symmetry is just an artifact, and that things are NOT symmetrical AT ALL in any dimension above the one that everybody wastes their time perceiving in.4

3. Oooops.

4. (footnote 4. removed by fact-checking department due to containing ONLY sentence in all of Acid Round the Clock that could not be proven mathematically by crack teams of Fields Medal-winning mathematicians working round the clock on peyote.)

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Though kept in jars for years, they'd nonetheless managed to draw themselves together to propagate the ideal that people needed to constantly try to kill themselves in order to be most fully alive.

Just like walking is constantly falling forward but never falling down, living, they argued, is constantly committing suicide but never winding up dead.

So living was trying, with every waking breath, to die -- but always failing at the last possible moment. Always "choking in the clutch" when it came to death.

And this, all in the name of the cause of entertainment.

And this, ALL for society's fucking sake. Not for fucking yours.

But did society even appreciate or understand? Noooooooo. Which is why they were rushing the stage or the field now. They were tired of you pissing on them. They were tired of you not giving them what they wanted -- but everybody knew that what they REALLY wanted WAS you pissing on them, and NOT giving them what they THOUGHT they really wanted -- and so the REAL reason they were rushing the stage or field now, trying to kill you, was because you'd given them TOO FUCKING MUCH of what they wanted, and they were sick of it, and sick of realizing that what they really wanted was the opposite of what they kept telling themselves they really wanted.

Fortunately the police are able to hold them off at the barricades with rubber bullets, tear gas, and new sonic weapons, and new nanotechnology Placebo weapons which work by just shooting out harmless blue light beams, but people always think it's some kind of super laser -- and with killer nano-technology to boot -- and so the placebo effect kicks in and their skin starts to burn.

Ladies and gentlemen, you try to speak to them over the PA system once the police have them a little more under control, ladies and gentlemen, Please... I know... yes, thank you..., I know.... I know you want to kill us right now (pause while audience screams and applauds in the affirmative) -- but, I think you should know that... we WANT you to kill us even MORE than YOU want to kill us.

But that means... that you're NOT independent agents following your own desires and drives to kill us with love or love us with murder, but rather, taken collectively, you're just a blunt instrument, created by us to kill ourselves with -- YOU are the method of suicide to be listed on our forthcoming death certificate, instead of a gun or fall or Phenobarbital.

The audience, hearing this, quiets down, grows all sullen. The police hand them nanotechnology marijuana candy to further mellow them out, and doritos vendors are placed on high alert.

A nanotechnology omni-mike pervades all the air and picks up everybody's speech, sighs, movements, body sounds, and an auto-sensing system routes it all now to the PA.

Suddenly, everybody gets all recursive. The physical elites evaporate and lazy thugs fill the vacuum. So though violence is now no longer methodical and perfectly honed, it is now more sloppy, random, incomplete, illogical, deleterious, self-negating, counterproductive, unfocussed, underachieving, forgiving, forgetting, and stupid.

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You wouldn't want to make a mistake about what Time is, before wiping it out. You have to be sure the Cosmos won't stop too.

But right now, in an empty room, in a sound studio, surrounded by a blue screen, it's clear that Time has been fucking everything up since, you know, the beginning of time. And, since ANY accident is Light -- who needs Time?

And if you're wrong -- well, at least you won't have to brush your teeth anymore.

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But for one low subscription price you get the Everybody's Shit cable channel and unlimited access to the Everybody's Shit website -- plus Everybody's Shit Magazine comes to you weekly, the Everybody's Shit e-mail update 3 times a day, the Everybody's Shit RSS feed minute-by-minute, the Everybody's Shit newsletter alert whenever, and the exciting new Everybody's Shit E-bill boards (which are readable only with special glasses provided free and ONLY to paid subscribers and designed to work ONLY with their unique retinal "fingerprint") are everywhere.

But the Everybody's Shit website is really the focus for the exciting new power that everybody now has -- the power to paw through everybody else's garbage and e-mail and refrigerators and drawers and cars and trunks and glove compartments and safety deposit boxes and bank accounts and medical records and home videos and surveillance videos and phone books and rolodexes and pockets and wallets and purses and computers and back-up disks and mail and answering machines and voice mail messages and attics and basements and storage sheds and closets and medicine cabinets.

And every few months there's a bonus. For no extra fee, you get to look behind everybody's refrigerators and stoves and under their beds and you also get a detailed second-by-second chemical analysis of exactly what's coming out of all their drain pipes -- along with a complete readout of the reverse engineering of these chemicals back into not only what's being poured down their drains, but also what these people are puking and spitting and dumping out of their gut -- the innermost temple of their selfhood.

Already, new celebrities have risen from this exciting new medium of Everybody Else's Shit. But these new celebrities are based more on unique sets of gastric juices, than on the genetic predisposition to give casting directors hardons, that used to determine celebrity in the past.

And a new breed of NGOs is forming as well -- a sort of open-source SETI type operation where all the worlds people's unused processor cycles and disk space is used to take all the world people's packaging label garbage and grocery slips garbage data and compare them with -- on an individual by individual basis -- the chemical composition of all the world's people's drain pipes (after subtracting out, of course, all detergents, drain cleaners, and cosmetics), so that with these 2 end points plus some medical records input, you can pretty much interpolate back into and know what's going on INSIDE anybody else in the world, on a person by person as well as on a pretty much day by day if not hour by hour, and approaching, along some dimensions, minute by minute basis.

But what the FBI, the DEA, the moonies, and El Asshole fear is that with this kind of direct access to each other's hearts and souls and guts, people will begin to turn away in droves from the former babes and athletes and charismatic and charming and audacious figures who comprised the celebrities of the recent past.

But, fortunately, old-school celebrities aren't taking this lying down.

They have started the We Need a New Day Foundation whose mission is to show everybody how we need a brand new day -- a day when we get our collective shit back together, and start giving a whole new brand of lip service to a whole new breed of lies.

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So ideas decided to get as slimy and smarmy as they could. They decided to kidnap and BE kidnapped, to impregnate and BE pregnant. To be total fucking assholes and BE in the presence of even more boring total fucking assholes.

Ideas seeped into the processors under the hoods of cars and made them swerve out of control in the presence of people CNN and FOX couldn't resist.

Meanwhile, ideas kidnapped all the pregnant, murder, mistress, baby, news fodder that wasn't already run down by runaway cars.

The runaway cars was some other idea's idea.

It turned out there was more than one idea and each idea could be as fucking recursive as it wanted to be. Just like dennis rodman (anybody remember that asshole?) could be as big an asshole as he wanted to be, but does anybody remember THAT asshole?

It also turned out that half the ideas were found only in the back-projection portion of our signal (the signal which we are all, as everyone knows, apart of, and of which we are each only the lowest order most insignificant bit -- except of course for you and me, though sometimes, of course, I'm more not so sure about YOU than you are of course sometimes so not so sure about ME).

In the back-projection, when his car runs down a celeb or someone yet unknown but with a high TV-Q only now discovered posthumously on the fly, the mathematically idealized driver nonchalantly tosses off a curt, world-weary "yeah, whatever" at the anguished cries of family and friends squatting down on the ground over the bodies, looking back up at the vanishing tail exhaust of his Lambourghini convertible moving off rapidly into the sunset.

As revenge and in a brutal blood rush, the people who have witnessed these nonchalant hit-and-runs of loved ones swear to from now on always make ancient timeworn symbols take on new meaning, like using people's initials or hip-hop names as superscripts to number-coded concepts -- like 2JFK, or 5J-lo. Meaning "glad to see you, this isn't just a roll of quarters in my pocket" or "thank you for the flowers", respectively.

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It is Liberal, Kansas, 1879. Or Normal, Oklahoma, 1924.

If the car hadn't been invented yet, then he invented it -- just so when he couldn't drive any more, he could pull off the road in it, and drive into the woods. When he stopped he was breathing heavily from the excitement of having escaped.

He'd been chased down streets, through subway cars which he'd had to invent if they didn't already exist, up fire escapes, in through windows of strangers' apartments where people are caught in the act of just trying to find a way to just fucking BE, chased through their living rooms and kitchens, back out their windows, across the 4th or 5th story ledges of their buildings, down another fire escape back out onto the street, jumping on a car, falling off 4 blocks down, commandeering someone else's fucking car, smashing into phone poles, blah blah blah, chase, chase chase, escape, escape, escape. Adrenaline rush, adrenaline rush, blah blah blah.

What he'd just escaped was the world where everything was 2. 2 literatures. 2 strains of culture. 2 tribes. 2 beliefs. 2 truths. 2 dreams. 2 sexes. 2 political parties. 2 sides. 2 opinions. 2 sports. 2 teams. 2 players.

All scores were tied 2 to 2 in the 2nd with 2 on and 2 out and a 2-2 count on whoever.

There were 2 mathematical proofs for the existence of each body part, but if either was right the other had to be wrong, but they were both right, so neither was right, so fuckit.

And, by default, the ruler of this world was Bishop Desmond Tutu.

And in each other instance where there's 2, one rules the world and the other is given grudging lip service, usually as the butt of jokes, or in metaphors of failure, worthlessness, and futility. Yet somehow it persists or it is grudgingly allowed to persist... until... one day...

The system flips. And it's the same thing all over again but with names swapped as to who's the douchebag and who isn't.

This couldn't go on, he thought. With the motor running he tuned to (inventing the radio if it didn't already exist) a station describing what 3 would be like. And --SURPRISE! -- it wasn't ANY fucking better than worthless uselss 2.

The station carrying the description of what 4 would be like was being heavily interfered with by 2 surrounding stations and could not even be fucking listened to without becoming sick in the head.

Everywhere else there were just stations carrying these loving glowing sanctimonious descriptions of what 1 used to be like... ahhhhh.... Everything was so beautiful and perfect when they were all, like, 1, but here we are today at ugly stupid 2, and looking ahead to even worse 3... if only we could get back to 1...

He flipped off the radio. Here, in the woods now, in Normal Oklahoma 1924 or Liberal Kansas 1879, possibly having invented or grossly updated everything around him except the world... what?

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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."

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The car in the lane to your left is projecting porno outward on its side windows in the hopes of causing drivers in your lane to loose control because every car crashing in YOUR lane is a point for ITS lane.

On its passenger-side door facing you, written out in white adhesive tape, is the driving ideology behind its driver's life, the lives of his lane-mates, and of most drivers in most lanes: "My lane, right or wrong!", which likewise echoes back from your door facing his passenger-side.

The driver's name is Joe Driver. His passenger's name is Lisa Passenger. After a while, they release a carrier pigeon. His name is Walter Pidgeon or Paul Carriere. On the soundtrack, John Ashcroft, benign dictator of the history of the time, is singing his hit single, Let the Pigeon Fly. He is famous for having a hit single like this for every bird, all of which have become the number 1 song of all time because who among you would dare step forward to single out a species of bird which should NOT be let fly. And fortunately, when Let the Chicken Fly became number 1 with a bullet, people had figured out a way in their heads to not have words mean anything anymore, so it didn't matter.

But, suddenly, the film running on the side window of the car in the lane to your left switches imperceptibly from porno through the histories of cinema, soap opera, and literature respectively, and you can't tell the difference because there is no difference.

Then, almost as suddenly and twice as imperceptibly, the shot dissolves into being just a real-time shot of what's going on inside the car, and it's a shot of all the things you couldn't see through the window from your vantage point, like what's happening on the floor in the rear.

But still, all you really see are ultimately just fragments of arms and legs and hands and random objects rising and falling into and out of the frame, so it could be something brutal and something sexual, or it could just be washing red lettuce and cauliflower for a salad.

...until you realize it's not the same car. Your lane has imperceptibly been picking up speed so now you're doing about 450, which is the perfect strobe rate to converge the 24 cars you pass per second into a single frozen image of a single car, with only the film projected from inside each on the side window changing so smoothly you can't even tell if there are cuts, though the difference between what's really happening and what you're seeing is like the difference between MTV at 3 am and MTV at 9 pm. Or MTV in 1980 and MTV today.

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And since points could only be scored on defense, the offense was becoming restless, depressed, questioning their reason for even being at all.

As a result offensive fielders stood at the plate with their glove hand hanging out their fly, the fingers arranged in what would be cutesy animal shapes if projected in a darkened room against a wall. The bat existing only as a pictogram, to be aimed at by the pitcher, on the bill of their cap.

And if you stopped moving, the fucking world kept going. But if you kept going, the fucking world stopped moving, so everybody got shaken off the edge.

Against this background, I thought I'd try to shake the bogosity code. I mean break the bogosity code. The bogosity code is (and I'm making this up or only coming to understand this as I write) hidden in phrases where a single word is simultaneously used as 2 distinct parts of speech by two different conjuncted phrases in the same sentence.

(e.g. "...local celebrities co-opted into being global celebrities in order to and as a reward for their stand against them". The phrase "in order... to stand" uses stand as a verb while "reward for their stand" has it as a noun.)

But once you broke it or shook it, what then? Well for one thing you'd have absolute incontrovertible proof of the bogosity of all things -- or at least you'd know precisely which things were bogus and which things weren't -- though, since everybody already knows everything is bogus, really all you'd know is the one or two tiny little things that everybody was wrong about. The few next-to-nothing things that had some slight patina of non-bogosity to them.

And this would do nothing for the melodrama of heavily anti-doped-up people playing with but-officer-I-didn't- know-it-was-loaded hand guns at kitchen tables.

Because games and culture, war and religion, all fit in the same part of the brain where babies accidentally shot in the crossfire are registered. But the only babies allowed in have been already held and smiled at by the action hero in the opening scene of the film where its whole filthy in vitro infantile back story is revealed -- so now, as the baby lays dying, it all comes slowly painfully back to the audience semi-subliminally, forcing them to project the baby's future farther and with far more density and velocity by far more people who care now than had the baby lived and tried to project one-tenth of this same fucking future his or herself.

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Their old story was, you know, either no longer operative or too over-operative to be useful as an armature for their deep-structure assholity anymore.

Meanwhile, of course, our job as anti-reenacter reconstructors was, you know, simply, to just clear them the fuck out.

So, while they are busy thinking, like, kidnap missing pregnant babies husband murder kindsa things, our team is still busy thinking, like, people dragged away from kitchen table kindsa things.

All us bozos, apparently, therefore, are just accidental clowns or clones on this bus or bust -- just looking for action kindsa soap operas where there's no time for baby backstories or the mother-father thing, just N quick-shot tears for massive coverage up of the anus.

But it wasn't always like this. We started in this game long ago, of course, out of the pure idealism that comes from watching hidden surveillance tapes of machines and animals plotting together against humans. Plots that went far in destructiveness beyond the well-known deal that Washer-dryers and dogs have had going for years -- where the washer-dryers set people up with face-covering armloads of towels, dishcloths, underwear, pillowcases, sheets, so dogs are free to atack their "masters" at will, head on, and after the tragic owner is dead just plead how, you know, your honor, I just saw a strange buncha moving folded cloth objects reeking of All Tempa-Cheer, so I attacked.

Gradually though, it became apparent that machines conspiring with animals against humans was just the tip of the iceberg. Humans were also in league with machines against animals, and animals in turn had something going with humans that was designed to really screw the shit out of those fucking machines.

And then someone came along one day and so-called "did" the so-called "math" and showed on paper how the nature of things cancelled each other out and all that was left at base, all that anyone needed to maintain in the end, wasn't all these bogus animal human machine allegory of the cave categories and distinctions, but, really, all it should take is just the senseless exercise of words against the senseless exercise of paragraphs.

Or a rock-scissors-paper war against each other's ass. Whichever.

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Tonight, the fans would be the entertainment. Tonight the fans were, as they say, "in play."

Everyone around me got on their cell founds -- everyone around me got on their cell phones as soon as they either heard or believed the rumor. Telling loved ones, friends, acquaintances, a "certain someone" on the other end of the line: hey, "I am down here for you!"

"What? You're breaking up," the voice on the other end of the line usually said. Apparently we were in a comm gully, an intermittent comm hole.

"We are Here," the voices around me shouted back into their phones, uncertain whether they were being heard, "where, for the first time in our life, it's not ALL stupid."

But the announcers, up in the booth knew better: "This is just the pull on empty air," they warned us, the crowd, as though it were all part of the fucking play-by-play-by-play.

I was seated with a coach for the Human Theology League. He was the designer of the human-theology interface which had achieved brief success with stoners and CEOs and stoner CEOs.

"We've been selected to die so a new game can be played here," he said.

"I think I'd like to get the fuck out of here," I said, "Where's the fucking exit?"

But we were in Franco-American Spaghetti-O's Stadium, so it was shaped like a franco-american spaghetti-O. In other words, Huis Clos/No Exit.

OK, so the first thing that happened was a new team from GAME2 came through the dome, rappelled down to vanilla defensive positions on field and killed the GAME1 players currently playing them. The GAME1 players put up no resistance cause they knew GAME1 was over. So they died peacefully and happy under their own control -- GAME2 was about GAME2, not about rubbing it in.

The offensive persons at bat and in the on-deck circle and the on-field coaches were also killed and replaced, while the players in the dugout wouldn't be killed and replaced until they tried to take the field either offensively or defensively.

People in the stands started dictating their last wills and testaments into their cell phones to whoever was on the other end.

I leave the toaster to Bobby said one.

I leave all my cell phone to Eurethra, said another.

People didn't start leaving the contents of their secret drawers until the 7th inning stretch.

Meanwhile, whole new heroes and winners and champions were emerging each inning. Their profiles began appearing on the handhelds on everybody's seats. This meant there was no plan to kill us, otherwise they wouldn't bother educating us as to who our new fucking douchebag heroes were gonna be henceforth till we passed from this mortal hole.

Immediately this deduction spread through the stands and people quickly got on their phones to cancel the wills they'd so stupidly made just moments ago. They now lived in the hope that by the end of play there'd be somebody far better on earth to leave all their shit to.

But as new heroes were presented, all of us in the stands began to feel our own meager power diminish. Fist fights and cross-regional intra-generational skirmishes that had broken out in the cheap seats suddenly wound down, ending with hocked logies from either side colliding harmlessly in mid-air and dropping to the ground exterminating no one.

Suddenly, we were all potential celebrities and the real celebrities couldn't afford to let us live. Celebrity could, after all, be so diluted by numbers that it would become almost meaningless, rather than just the haven for would-be scumbags which it was now.

So, instead of the 9th inning, the players headed into the stands with machetes, but the fans were ready and pulled their RPGs and M-16s.

The carnage was stupendous and that's when I realized I should change my name to Dale Carnage and teach people how to be successful in a difficult world. Hi, I'm Dale Carnage, and if you follow my simple 10 step program you won't die like all those other tragic fucking soap opera losers all around you.

To Be Continued...

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