If top journalists can't get today right, why assume yesterday's historians got last week right?

( 99 words, posted Sept. 24, 1996; not to be read before Sept. 24, 1999)


I went out and bought the kind of car that was only considered street legal if the license plate critiqued all History in no more than 8 alphanumeric characters.

And the only people who could own this car were the kind who weren't afraid to sit around cafes pretending to read books like Flaming Whore Slut Virgin Scum of Sodom, while, in reality, reading books like The Letters Of St. Thomas Aquinas, hidden behind the fake cover of the former.


I owned the car for several months without any problem, then, suddenly, it was taken away from me, because I was caught reading Scum-Sucking Pimp Whore Virgin Slut Pussy-Whip Psycho Cargo Cultists from Alaska hidden inside a fake cover of The Confessions of St. Augustine.


But I didn't care, and almost out of spite, I developed a series of training seminars called "How to Stop Worrying and Learn to Love World Economic Collapse," which was in great demand everywhere.

Then I was asked to design whole new seminars for whole new cultures which were springing up everyday out of the old myths and heroes and dances and foods and songs and clothing and popular wisdoms of old established peoples who were now selling off or licensing out their histories and traditions in return for enough spare change to buy a week's worth of Twinkies and cigarettes.

Since everybody seemed to suffer so tragically in these transactions, on both the meta-spiritual and meta-psychological levels, the only genre of therapy that seemed at all appropriate for them was the oldest one in the book. You know, the one where you just call everybody a bunch of fucking assholes for even bothering to exist at all -- then grab your honorarium and run.


Then I was arrested for practising neuro-surgery with my eyes shut, on a moving train.

As soon as I was paroled, I went home and tried to get things back together in my life, but I kept being interrupted by these endless calls from the pushy agents of various youthful, up-and-coming serial killers and serial killer wannabes.

"If you'd just meet her," they'd plead, "Even if you can't help -- I know it'd still be a powerful source of inspiration for the rest of her career."

Then they'd come over, and the wannabe'd sit there all starry-eyed and nervous and shy, barely saying a word, while the agent went on and on about her future and then on and on in praise of my brilliant career and especially my most famous and beloved killing sprees: the Bulletin Board Murders and the Hail Mary Murders.

Meanwhile, as the agent talked on, I was busy watching the vidscreen directly behind him, where the tape of the war between the Alcoholics and the Nazis was playing. The score was 7 to 3 in favor of the Alcoholics, but the Nazis were moving up fast. Their kamikaze pitcher, Bertolucci, had just come in to pinch hit.


ventually the agent got tired and left, and I got sick of living in this world and got in my Alzheimer's (347-GTX coupe) and headed for the edge of the planet where, it was rumored, you could fall off into unknown, timeless, ceaseless systems of hell.

On the way, I passed through all the brand new countries born from the latest round of world repartitionings.

Old countries with new, non-contiguous borders and new predispositions and new odors and new names like Hungentina, Perugoslavia, El Belizador, Iceway, Luxemania, Polmany, and Germanand, had all been reshaped and reconfigured in a wildcat, last-ditch attempt to save the world... again.

And, since, like everybody else, I was just a sucker for the lure of the infinite prolongation of the near-death experience, I decided to settle down in whichever one of these places had the bitchinest flag, or bitchinest groove in its national anthem.


That turned out to be Costa Lavakia, one of only 7 countries in the world deemed absolutely un-repartitionable and, thus, still stuck with borders and a national personality left over from 2 or 3 world renamings ago.

Dr. Spider Ray Our lived there, and you could always count on him waltzing into whichever bar you were drinking at, that evening, and regaling everybody with the story of his accidental lobotomy.

"The members of the surgical team had all recently stopped doing drugs," he'd say, "And there were some personal problems at home -- so they were already having a bad day, when I was wheeled in.

"Well, one thing led to another and before you know it, they'd messed up a bit and cut out the wrong thing. But they did such a good job at what they did do, and they were so nice about it all, that I never really complained.

"And, eventually, when word got out about the operation, it was so positive and upbeat that, from then on, people started flocking to them from all over the world, whenever they wanted their surgery to be fashionably off by an organ or two."


efore his lobotomy, Dr. Our had gotten rich by turning dried spider legs into a gourmet delicacy so expensive and so rare, that the common folk could only dream about it, while the wealthy were forced to eat tons of it every day, like it or not, just to validate their place in society and keep the respect of the middle class and the poor. He'd also written the hit book and pop opera: Elvis Presley: Child Molester, right after that, but then he hit on hard times, and nobody wanted to know him. Eventually, he got back on track by doing ugly, filthy, stupid, hypocritical 30-second spots, and everybody loved him again. "Otherwise," he said, "There is only just shut the fuck up and take it."


"Clearly I had to devote some serious time now to thinking about how fucked-up I was.

And when I wasn't doing that, I had to devote even more serious time to getting out there and being that fucked-up person, so I'd even have something to think about.."