lovely, dark and deep

I’ve decided to make my own calendar. I encourage each of you to do the same. I don’t particularly care for Jesus. So, I don’t care to observe any further a calendar that was intended to center on his birth and failed even at that. My ideal calendar would start at the birth of the universe some 13-14 billion years ago. Unfortunately, we don’t know the age of the universe precisely, and, in any case, a multi-billion-year calendar isn’t quite human-scaled.

Instead, I’ll formulate my calendar to incorporate the births of Benjamin Franklin and Henry David Thoreau. So. My calendar will start at the birth of Franklin in the first year 0, advance on a day-for-day basis with the Jesus cult calendar to the birth of Thoreau in the first year 111, loop back on an accelerated basis to the second year 0 at the time of Thoreau’s death, then advance therefrom to the present on a day-for-day basis with the Jesus cult calendar. Which presently places us firmly in the year 147. But I’ll need to introduce some offsets because I’d like the first day of every year to be the autumnal equinox.

Also, I’ll be having 12 months of 30 days each. With 5 days at the end of every 360 that technically do not exist. Further, from here on, officially, nothing happened before the birth of Franklin. And all mankind everywhere will disavow the nonexistent 10,000-year greatest mistake that has been agriculture.

Finally, I encourage each of you to formulate your own language and begin speaking it exclusively. The total dishomogenization of culture is our only salvation. Thank you.

It is so ordered.

As in. Welcome to. Please enjoy your stay.

Papers. You will show me them. Now.

Deserving of its own thread. You will agree.

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This goes to show how backward this culture is. We kowtow to cultists. If you’re merely negligent and just sit there, letting your sick child die (of undiagnosed diabetes, no less), well then, we’ll lock your sociopath ass up forever. But if, on the other hand, like a good cultist, you hold hands and pray to your favorite angry desert god while you just sit there (preferably while also humming, singing, or chanting gibberish), negligently letting your sick child die, well then, you’re almost like one of us, maybe just a little more mistuned and delusional than is generally accepted, it’s a token jail sentence and probation for your sorry ass.

And, of course, the dumb cultist jackasses still don’t get it: “‘We live by faith,’ [the father] said after the sentencing. ‘We are completely content with what the Lord has allowed to come down, but he is not done yet.’”

Beam me up. Please.

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Under normal circumstances this would merely be idiotic. In the midst of the worst economic downturn since the Big One and with trillion dollar annual budget deficits for as far as the eye can see, it’s criminally insane. There is no money for programs with merit let alone stupid ideas like this.

Life is about more than showing up, in this case by being born, something that requires no conscious effort on the part of the birthed. This is like the current grade-school practice of awarding sports trophies to winners and losers alike. We can’t have anyone’s feelings hurt. That might be too much like real life.

What is awarded or given away without having been earned is meaningless. A waste. A farce. A fraud. Flushed down a hole. What’s worse in this case is that, as with any government expenditure, the $500 first would be stolen from you and me through taxation, or borrowed from the Chinese, before being pissed down the hole.

We are so doomed.

Our proprietary pawn shop/plasma bank/pole dance indicator continues to make new highs for the cycle.

“No matter how cynical you become, it’s never enough to keep up.”

Truer words were never spoken. By Lily. Written by Jane Wagner for the play “The Search for Signs of Intelligent Life in the Universe.”

It has a toilet. Maybe also a sink. No bath and no shower. Certainly no bed, daybed, setee, or recliner. I don’t rest there and I don’t bathe there. So, why is it called a restroom or a bathroom? Why not a urination/defecation room? We can shorten it, uridef would be fine. Because people are ill at ease with themselves? Disturbed that food goes in one hole and shit and gas come out another?

The “in” part we can stomach, we have dining rooms after all. In fact, we make a communal activity of it, travel great distances, have holidays and festivals. The “out,” not so much. No shitting rooms. No elaborate, two-hour, cross-country family shitting ceremonies. And that part, at least, may be a good thing. But so delicate. So polite. So silly.

Maybe one day we’ll be able to outsource those unacceptable bodily functions to some lesser-developed country (assuming there are any less-developed countries by then, to me it’s looking like the shitting just may be outsourced here). I know, for my own part, if only for the sake of convenience and time saving, I would gladly pay another to crap for me. Until then, get over it.

I have wondered whether our ancestors aspired much to indoor plumbing. Over the course of the billion to two billion some pre-civilization hominid nights they were just out there, hunting, gathering, roaming, evolving into us, and relieving themselves when and where they felt like. Did they dream of having special rooms for the purpose? Was that their goal? Is that what gave them the will to struggle on? I sense fossilized laughter at the thought echoing through the ages. So proud they would be?

We who are about to flush salute you.

I don’t care for them. Yes, I own two pairs. That have never been worn and feel very lonely and ignored in my closet. Perhaps I’ll give them away soon. I find denim uncomfortable and jeans unattractive.

Jeans are much like Jesus in that they started with the underclass and spread up the social pyramid. Very working class. Very peasant. Then. Very tired and unoriginal, today. But if I tear and shred them just so, then they will be novel, unique, and quite trendy, right? If you need to destroy your clothes to make them better, perhaps there’s a problem there. Just saying. Could just be me. Probably is. That’s fine.

I heard a report the other day on BBC news or NPR about jean sales in India, a young woman there spending more than their average monthly salary to buy two pairs. How sad. Please, no. It is not worth it. Leave it be.

I don’t use it. Maybe. Just maybe, it has a place in healthcare or field situations where running water is unavailable or, questionably, for those with compromised immune systems. But it’s being used everywhere. Offices. Schools. Nunneries. It’s such a half-assed precaution anyway. Where’s your mask? Your full-body condom? Your protective plastic bubble? Ridiculous.

Bacteria and viruses are everywhere. What happens the moment you put the hand sanitizer down, and god forbid, touch an unsterile surface, which is essentially every surface? Oh my! Life is dirty, messy, unclean, and disease-filled. Get over your germ paranoia. Get used to it.

One wonders how ever was man able to survive for so many hundred millenia without hand sanitizer. Oh. The horror.

We’re not sapiens. No. We’re idiot monkeys.