Soft Train

everything is art all the time

I’ve been riding the Soft Train throughout Amsterdam, gently gliding along the streets, floating in the air, and hovering over cobblestones. The Train never touches the ground. Passersby gawk and whisper or point and exclaim, “My God, what is that?!” I lean out to answer, “It’s a wave of beauty and wisdom.” The pedestrians, seduced, admire longingly. Motorists, meanwhile, blare their horns and scream hostilities, “Get the fuck out of the way, asshole!” Their anger swells as they spiral into tornadoes of hatred. Motorcycles and scooters buzz past, zipping in and out of the way. The Soft Train is just another obstacle for them to dart past to the next challenge on their way. Cyclists, though, pull up alongside to smile or wave before turning off to go their own way.

Whether the best or the worst, I smile at everyone I encounter. As I travel along, I appreciate the architecture of the old buildings, the churches, museums, and gabled mansions. I dip my toe through the curvature of canals and jump over the humps of eighteenth-century bridges. The lights and colors of the night feel just right, from the garish neon signs along the Dam to the softly glowing street lamps of the Jordaan. Every apartment and shop window is lit up, each containing a different scene displaying a dazzling variety of people and objects on view.

In the mornings I observe walkers and cyclists coming and going, each person gorgeous, independent, balanced, considerate, and kind. Their collective presence is strong and confident but tempered by relaxed smiles, lively whistling, and melodic signing. My curiosity is exceeded by theirs, their wonder profound but muted to avoid drawing too much attention to themselves. Those sitting outdoors at cafes or on park benches are quiet and contemplative, fun-loving and welcoming, or collaboratively conversational.

The Soft Train passes all of them, drinking in some while enjoying their flavor, spitting out others when considering their character. Most are savored then swallowed. No matter the outcome, though, the Soft Train abides all comers, welcomes strangers, cherishes friends, enjoys the good times, and finds itself sexy in a train-like way. The Train changes shapes and colors as it travels from neighborhood to neighborhood, reflecting the evidence of the past, the temper of the present, and visions of the future as ideas give way to the shifting structure of reality.

In its wake, the Soft Train leaves an enlightened freedom and an engorged liberty, each mixing with a communitarian spirit resulting in generous hugs. Every sunny morning the Train bathes in the shimmering light reflected from the canals. As it winds around the Prinsengracht the Train gobbles bitterballen from Cafe Molenpad before continuing on its way. The Soft Train stops wherever it wants, whenever it will, whyever it wishes.

The Train follows its mood from effervescent pink rose petals to delicately marching daffodils to a tye-dyed steam engine blowing a rainbow of confetti from its shiny yellow smiley face. On particularly risque nights, it gives off an odor of hot coastal sex from the Mediterranean. Underlying every mood, though, is an orangeness of spirit.

I take the Soft Train every day, riding it wherever it goes, to Albert Heijn, the Cuyp Market, to Bloem cafe or Eik en Linde, seeing friends, taking in sights and sounds, marveling whenever the Train skims over canals. Occasionally, we become a bridge to nowhere or descend on public sculptures to bring them to life. When we become one everyone who joins becomes us! I never know where we’re going, but I’m always grateful for the ride.

The Soft Train is life’s pleasure and it travels every way. It sometimes beats me when I’m sassy then comes back sober the next day promising never to do it again. Sure, it brings me flowers and candy for a few days but then the Train comes back drunk a week later ready to smack the hell out of me. What the fuck, Soft Train?!

No, no, I kid, I kid. The Soft Train is a softy all the way and so I send the Soft Train to all of you. The Train enjoys having you aboard. You are one of its own. Come hither, wander, whither you will. Smile devilishly or at least try to grin. Cancel your plans, hop on the flow, it’s here you must go. Don’t hesitate, no need to wonder, just climb aboard and you’ll know. A wonderful world awaits as long as you choose anything but straight.

The Soft Train is with you, use it as you will. Such an exciting companion, a length or two of thrill. When I look outside the window a little past 3 AM there is darkness all around except for the wind. Maybe a thunderstorm passed by, angry at each of us for not being grim. As I peer down the street I see an Old Grump pissing all over the place. Bitching and screaming, he’s a furious drunken lout. Still ... here comes the Soft Train taking him in.

I wonder sometimes where the Train will go, if it has a destination. Maybe I’ll never know. I have heard whispers of a ride past no return. The Soft Train may take you to the edge of your mind, show you the darkness of uncertainty, or transport you to a place where nothing is understood. Your choice. Mine, too, of course. Always is.

When you feel the hard wind howling or a siren drawing you near, the Train can send you spinning, untethered yet again. If you awake from your stupor and come back in control, you may find yourself itching for whatever came before. No matter, though, because what comes is only ever what comes next. Will it be a song of silence? A mood you can touch? A moment to the more?

I’m jumping back on board now, on the Soft Train Express. I’m passing signs I’ve seen in lifetimes past. There’s a special kind of strangeness on this ride. It’s clearing cobwebs from my mind. I’m filling up with feelings I could never ignore. You know, it’s a fine how-do-you-do when the knock you hear is you. I wonder how it could be, me meeting me?

Performance Art of Economics

I had an idea for a performance art piece. Six individuals stand in a circle facing inward about an arm's length apart from one another. Four of them hold objects, let's say a banana, a hair brush, an iPhone, and a roll of toilet paper. Two others hold money, a dollar bill held by each of them. For an indeterminate amount of time, the six simply stand there. Then a seventh person walks from off-stage and says "I authorize you to exchange money for goods" before walking back. The individuals with money turn to their right to give their respective dollar bills in exchange for what the other person is holding (the two individuals with money do not stand next to one another). After that exchange the individuals who now hold the money turn to their right and exchange their respective dollars for the goods of the other two individuals next to them. And on and on this goes. The seventh person walks back up to the group and says, "Make the exchanges faster" before again walking away. The six participants begin moving twice as fast to complete their exchanges. Soon, the seventh person runs back and yells, "Faster!" and then runs off. The six move even faster. The seventh runs back in a panic and screams, "Go continuously faster every moment!"

The six do this ... until one of them drops one of the goods and falls out of the "market." The person who drops the item does not pick it up and when the exchange comes her way she is skipped by the other participants. The others keep moving faster and faster until another drops his or her goods. Then another. Finally, the last good is dropped. The only thing left is the two individuals holding the money and they simply exchange the dollars with each other over and over again. The seventh person comes back and walks up to the two individuals and says "Give me those dollars." The two hand it to the seventh. The seventh pockets the money and walks away. The other six individuals look around at one another with a sense of confusion and fright.

Eventually, though, they start smiling at one another and they pick up the items on the ground. They share the banana, each taking a bite, one brushes the hair of another before passing the brush to comb the hair of yet another. They all nod at the toilet paper and one picks it up and sneaks off stage for a minute before returning, the roll somewhat smaller. Then they all look at the iPhone, look at one another, then back at the iPhone. They shrug and walk away from it. Two of them hold hands and kiss, another two hug, and the other two stare affectionately into one another's eyes. Intermittently, they each start interacting with the whole, smiling, waving, laughing, whistling, and singing.

End

28 Days in May

Occasionally in life there are events that shock social norms and transfigure human and environmental relations. How does the nature of a space alter the potential dynamics of human interactions? How do property rights restrict or enable the ways persons can be in the world?

28 Days in May was one of those events that raised to consciousness these very questions. A Portland resident living on Mount Tabor, staring into the face of an upcoming foreclosure, decided to open up his house to local artists to allow them to create using a variety of media for 28 days in May of 2010. Nearly everything was filmed, from musicians performing, painters painting, sculptors sculpting, art installers installing, puppeteers puppeteering, fabric designers fabricating, welders welding, and on and on, a chorus of creators creating. Hundreds of artists created during that month and it was not unusual for there to be over a hundred occupying the house and spacious grounds at any given time.

There was a rhyme and a reason with art directors and film producers coordinating and collaborating. The talent came and went and came back again, each day unfolding in particular ways. It wasn’t entirely random, although for all the world it appeared like a smiling, spontaneous incoherence. The question that continued to arise was “What is this?” There were more meanings than there were participants and observers—and there were observers. I was one. But by writing about the event I become a participant after the fact. This writing is my offering.

If there were at least as many interpretations of the event as there were participants and observers then what meanings did I witness or even create? I was fascinated by the short-term use of this space, by the opening of a privately owned house about to be repossessed to a mass of creators. The house had the feeling of being possessed by a horde of squatters, random collections of comers and goers, mingling, mixing, mashing, musing, and making. As I said, there were directors, those who determined when and where particular spaces were used by whom. There was a purpose created that rejected the notion that this space was merely a residence, particularly an American residence. Sure, there was eating, sleeping, shitting … but you never knew who you’d be eating with, who you’d be sleeping with, or how you’d shit without interrupting a threesome attempting to have acrobatic sex in the tub while being filmed by someone sitting on the toilet and another crouched in the sink.

Because of this purpose, there existed protocols and norms developed that channeled creativity in the making of 28 Days in May. The sensibilities of the artists at times clashed with those of the directors and there were often competing needs and desires. So, the space had escaped from domesticated life, but not from politics. There were challenges to notions of how a residential property could be used, challenges to zoning laws for sure, but there was no escaping the conflicts that arise between humans in confined spaces at any particular time. What was interesting, though, was how those conflicts were managed and resolved … or not.

There was a hierarchy of power despite the appearance of a chaotic free-flow of events. As I mentioned, art directors and film makers, those who were producing and directing the project, made decisions in a top-down manner largely independent of the whole. A class system existed, almost patriarchal in nature—not so different from domesticated or workplace life—a dividing line separating artists and observers from directors and producers with the talent playing the role of child/labor while the few who controlled the space and time operated in the familiar roles of parents/managers.

It was not exclusively a top-down model, though—there was collaboration on projects between artists and the directors. But in all endeavors there was a director and/or a producer. They were the core and they determined, both intentionally and unintentionally, how each artist settled into their “roles” in the space, whether inside the house or on the grounds outside. There was even a protocol for parking.

Some individuals had shopping duties, cooking duties, cleaning obligations, and so on. Most of those duties and obligations were performed by artists and observers but sometimes even directors. The head of the kitchen, though, was a professional chef who traveled from Argentina donating her time to cooking coordination. The food was incredible. There were no bartenders--you made your drinks on your own. How many drugs were used or consumed I couldn't say. Impossible to even guess.

What I witnessed, in a way, was a miniature civilization, a society born, living, and dying in a matter of a month. I observed a culture’s planned rise and fall, a slice of humanity’s relational pie. The structural dynamics remained the same but the content of the relationships diverged wildly.

During the evening on May 27 a gypsy nomad squeezed her accordion and told those of us present a series of stories. I was transported from unattached observer to actively engaged, enveloped by appreciation for this woman’s presence, voice, passion, and rhythms … I was grateful for her. The totality of the event taken as a whole disappeared from my consciousness and I ceased constructing order and meaning. In a matter of moments I disappeared and connected with the artist’s performance. When she stopped singing and playing the world came back and I felt an urge to scream “NO!” I begged her to continue. She put her head in her hands, smiling and giggling, but came up for air and began again. Once again, order disappeared and life commenced.

That was my golden moment, the reason 28 Days in May existed. But each person, if he or she was fortunate, had their own golden moments. What I sense, though, is that the recordings that came from and may still come from the production of 28 Days in May will not be able to capture the authenticity of those golden moments. They were made stark because of the mass of mundane that existed between times and across spaces. The transcendent quality was the event itself consisting in being present, engaging and participating. Present … in space … living.

As an artist’s playground the space has died. Regardless of order or meaning, the house on Mount Tabor was played for 28 days. Goodbye, moment. I miss you.

Gang Violence and Property Values

            I was near a gang-related shooting in northeast Portland a few years back. Six youths between the ages of 13 and 17 were shot. None of them were killed and apparently none of their injuries were life-threatening. It happened on Albina, not too far north of Killingsworth and Alberta. The shooting followed a high school football game and reports suggested rival gangs were involved.

Events such as these are, of course, scary and awful. But they do one thing well for poor neighborhoods: they keep property values and rents low. Alberta Street, for instance, has long been in the process of gentrifying, attracting youngish hipsters, artistic vagabonds, and well-paid professionals from elsewhere because of the relatively cheap rents, coffeeshops, active night life, and art events.

But that influx combined with the rise in more refined eateries, galleries, yoga studios, and an eclectic mix of shops, led to the gradual rise in the price of homes and the cost of rent. There were—and still are—grumblings about this, of course, because few long-time locals want painters who have high-paying day jobs at Intel driving up rent because they want to be able to continue to live in their neighborhood. But, of course, to the Intel painters, rent looks cheap and the area is cool so they want to live there, too, and they’ll compete to live in the best houses and condos and apartments the area has to offer which, naturally, drives up even the prices of the less desirable spaces.

So, in a way, nearby gang-related shootings seem like a good thing because the well-paid certainly like cool but violence is another matter. If enough violence occurs the well-paid riff-raff may flee preventing the area from completely turning into a playground for wandering trust fund babies and overpaid techies who desire quality sushi, amenable coffeeshops for telecommuting, overpriced bars for picking up tattooed and pierced women or men, and a front row seat for the happenings on Last Thursdays.

The problem, for those who don’t want that sort of thing, is that it’s been precisely what the area has become and the process has been in motion for more than a decade. That is known well enough. Even Killingsworth has its own stretch of gentrification, though not as severe. The property values are still lower and the rents are still cheaper than north and south of Alberta (if not affordable for the true vagabonds and wanderers, the poor and underemployed).

A band of young men and women, about a dozen of them, all squatting in an abandoned house not far south of Killingsworth, but quite a bit farther east from the shooting on Albina, brainstormed about ways to not only keep the area from gentrifying further but to drive down property values and rents. The shooting changed their thinking about what they wanted to do. They hadn’t considered violence previously but once they realized how effective it was they thought: “We need a more visceral, public, violent act to create an even greater scare in the area to chase away the young and robustly middle-class Tech fraternity from venturing ever further this way, driving up the prices of chai tea lattes while pushing for neighborhood yard maintenance ordinances.”

So this group came up with a plan. Their planning was meticulous. They decided on an event but only as the first phase in what they hoped would become a long-term complex of interconnected events to scare the shit out of anyone with middle class money from moving to the area. If all went to plan, they might even be able to scare away the middle class money already embedded in the northeast neighborhoods.

The first phase of their plan was to create a nuisance at a busy intersection. They chose Alberta and 15th. Four of them were to stop traffic coming from each direction by holding handmade “stop” signs. The other eight were to split up into groups of two and set up four orange cones around themselves to create a space in each quadrant of the intersection. While within their cones each pair was to drop his or her pants and shit on the pavement. Once they had all shit, each was to pick up their respective piles, walk or run over to the cars directly in front of them in their lanes and spread their feces all over the windshield, the side windows, and door handles—provided there was enough shit to cover it all. To make sure there was they saved up excrement in the days before the event. Anyone trying to stop them from carrying through with their plan would meet with far more physical hostility.

The event itself went off rather well … for a time. The stop sign holders successfully halted traffic despite the honking and yelling from drivers. As the shitting pairs began their business most of the honking and yelling stopped. The happenings became more of a fascination rather than an annoyance. It was Alberta Street after all. As the shitters finished shitting, perhaps aided by laxatives, they picked up the fresh feces or reached in their bags for day-old spares, ran to the cars nearest them, and began smearing the windshields with feces. One elderly lady driving a Saab sat in shock as her windows and door handles were smeared with dark brown and greenish slime. A middle-aged woman driving a Prius screamed but otherwise did nothing. A younger couple in an old Volvo were overwhelmed by fits of laughter.

The last car, though, a brand new and very large white GMC pickup held a stout middle-aged man who screamed obscenities and then got out of his car with the intent of hurting the young man who had climbed onto the hood of his truck to smear his shit on the windshield. The others saw this and quickly ran to the young man’s aid. The stout man of the white truck had grabbed the curly-haired youth and landed a couple blows but the gang of curly’s mates dove onto the big man, wailing away with punches and kicks.

As the melee continued, a number of filmmakers descended onto the scene. Some had been in the process of making their way to the intersection having heard through the social media grapevine that there was a happening, one had been there from the beginning filming with his iPhone, and others were catching the scent of the action. From up and down Alberta, men and women ran with their hand-held cameras and smart phones to cover the action. In all, there wound up being fifteen filmmakers who descended on the ass-beating of the middle-aged truck driver. They surrounded the group and caught the action from all angles. The iPhone lad filmed the scene from above while lying across the hood of the cab of the white GMC. Before long there were sirens in the air and a heavy wave of police officers descended on the fracas to break it up. It took some doing as the officers realized that they were all being filmed. There were cries of police brutality as some were pulled off rather violently from the pile. One of the young men, not curly, took a swing at a police officer (later claiming he didn’t know he was an officer) and was soundly slammed to the pavement with his face ground into the asphalt by a knee pressing down on the back of his neck.

Another wave of police officers came onto the scene to arrest and herd away the young group and, gently, walk the filmmakers away from what was being called the “crime scene.” The middle-aged man was carted off by paramedics to an ambulance parked a few blocks away—that was as close as it could get with all the cars backed up. Yet another wave of police came and began directing traffic. Within an hour there was little evidence that anything at all had happened.

As the participants in the event were being booked, the filmmakers conversed with one another and talk of a collaborative video or movie-short arose. However, too few wanted to share their videos with others, insisting that they had the best footage and thus didn’t need to collaborate. Instead, what emerged was an idea for a film festival, one with jury prizes. There were to be fourteen films competing and because only the iPhone user got footage of the events that led up to the beating it was agreed that his film would be the feature and not in the running for prizes. The various filmmakers called their contacts, agents, event organizers, and whatnot, and by the end of the day the festival was being advertised everywhere around Portland.

Newspaper accounts called the Alberta event a flash mob gone awry. The local television anchors chuckled heartily at the idea that it was a prank and then nodded solemnly when acknowledging the violence before smiling again to announce upcoming stories like that of Chippy, the three-legged dog who could climb trees!

But the spreading rumors were where the action lied. “Was it a gang of terrorists?” people in Lake Oswego asked. At churches and bars in Beaverton the discussions turned to the disrespect for property rights. In the Sellwood neighborhood there was little talk at all as people listened to folk music in coffeeshops before wandering down the street to browse through antique stores. On Division, Hawthorne, and Belmont the conversation was all about the film festival, about where it was going to be and how to get tickets. On Burnside and even Broadway the conversations were mixed, some talking of the event itself as incredible public performance art while others claimed to know one of the filmmakers before launching into great tales about what had happened. Of course there were many other conversations besides, some just saying, “typical northeast violence” or “I wish shit like that happened more often in Portland.” Only rarely was the event considered political activism.

The participants themselves were looking at a series of misdemeanors and felonies. A few filmmakers and journalists who had not been present desperately wanted interviews with the supposed performance art assailants. They chose to remain silent and allow the event to speak for itself. The problem, of course, being that no one understood the event and not a single interpretation suggested the purpose was to scare the middle class from the neighborhood.

At coffeeshops in St. John’s conversations swirled about how there happened to be so many filmmakers on the scene so fast. In one conversation I overheard, an individual said, “If you throw a dart anywhere in Portland you’ll likely hit a filmmaker, musician, writer, or software engineer … or somebody who’s all of the above!” It was agreed that filmmakers in Portland were a dime a dozen. The conversation then shifted to wondering why there weren’t more filmmakers on the scene to capture the entire event. Only the lonely iPhone user caught it all.

Later that evening the film festival started. In a matter of days the event was ready and a venue was chosen. Alberta Street seemed like the prime location to host the event but competing interests won out and the Clinton Street Theater was where the films and videos were shown. Each one was roughly the same but from different angles. Some were shaky and slightly out of focus, leading some viewers to proclaim that they were superior because they captured the “rawness” of the violence. One video’s audio perfectly captured the cracking noise of the man’s skull being stomped by a woman’s heavy steel-toed boot. Oohs and aahs rang out throughout the theater. After the fifth or sixth video the “narrative” was well-known. There was disappointment in the videos that missed the woman’s boot cracking the man’s skull, but hearty cheers for the only video that caught curly biting the man’s ankle.

The audio on some video was almost nonexistent and that created yet another effect, the effect of soundless violence. During the first video shown without audio the audience sat quietly, almost reverently, enthralled by the visceral effect of violence without screams or expletives or crackling cheekbones. But during the second video without sound that was shown the audience yelled out the sounds on their own. As the videos kept coming the audience took on the vibe of a Rocky Horror Picture Show crowd, yelling expletives along with the “characters” in the videos, standing up to footstomp along with the woman, pretending to be kicked in the gut and doubling over. Laughter and jeers rang out.

After the last video was shown the iPhone video was played. It started from near the beginning of the event, capturing the four who held stop signs and the other eight setting up their cones. The audience was fascinated for many had only heard about what preceded the violence through rumor, most of which turned out to be completely wrong. By the end of the showing, after the sky’s-eye view of the beating from the top of the cab of the white truck, the audience stood and gave a thundering ovation. The iPhone filmmaker stepped out along with the rest of the filmmakers and they took a bow. The jury chose the video with the best crackling sound of the woman’s boot striking the man's face as winner of the festival. Presumably, contracts were signed with small independent film outfits for distribution rights, though some of the videographers had set up their own Web sites to show them online. One was already on YouTube by the end of the festival (it had been agreed to hold off sharing any of the footage online before the festival concluded).

The buzz, after the festival, was that Alberta was where things were really happening, where real artists went to create, to enact public performances. In the months following the incident, there was an even greater influx of professionals who moonlighted as artists descending on the Alberta Street area, spilling over to Killingsworth, across 15th and even MLK toward Albina. They came from all over, from Division and Hawthorne, from the Pearl and the Southwest Hills, and even, surprisingly, the Murray Hill area of Beaverton. There were camps, of sorts, where those from Intel, Tektronix, Yahoo!, IBM, Nike, Adidas, Magnum, and more, moved in and around. Alberta and the surrounding streets between 8th and 15th became known as Little Niketown and Killingsworth between 18th and 25th became known as Tek Town. Property values doubled and rents tripled during that time.

The man who had been beaten severely suffered multiple lacerations on his face, a crushed cheekbone and eye socket, a broken jaw, cracked teeth, broken ribs, and severe bruises throughout his body. He recovered, over time. There was little public sympathy for him. It was discovered that he was a contractor with corrupt relationships with city employees and members of various councils. It was revealed that bribes and kickbacks were his means of gaining sweetheart deals through city zoning and county contracts. In a way, it could be said that justice had been done.

But if that was the case then the political activist/performance art/violent perpetrators wound up not as heroes but as caricatures in a film festival. They faced a battery of misdemeanors and felonies. The police and attorneys had tried to shut down the festival, wanted the footage for evidence, but the videographers and their handlers had moved too quickly. The footage from some videos was used in court and it led to a series of misdemeanor convictions for nine of the defendants. They received probation, community service, and heavy fines. Two of those nine received sentences for thirty days in county jail. Three others were convicted of felonies. Two of them were sentenced to a year in prison and the woman whose boot was caught on film cracking the man’s cheekbone and eye socket was sentenced to two years. In alt-news interviews a few of those convicted of misdemeanors expressed humiliation and disgust that their efforts had led to an explosive influx of well-paid professionals to the area. Their plan for further events never materialized. As far as anyone knows, the group simply drifted apart.

Mole People: Herb's Perspective

Hey, there’s that Fabrey kid always runnin round the yard pickin his nose, lookin for worms. Dumbest sombitch ya ever did see. Not a damn bit a care what any un else inna world thinks, though. Gotta give him that. Stubborn. Just a mess, though. Stupid as all hell. Put a fresh hot soggy dog turd in his mouth last week. He gag, spit 'er out, and start cryin like a bitch. His momma come runnin out and grab him. Probly wash his mouth out with Listerine or some such thing. Three days later eats a dry dog turd. Why the hell a kid do that? He jus' put a fresh dog turd in he damn mouth three days go! No sense in the boy whatever. Dumbass chew the poop and scrunch his face like he bit a lemon. He gag again then puke. All-out bawled, whole while puke drippin off he chin. He shirt, mind you, bright pink from all that puke. What a hell kid eatin, ya know? Strawberry ice cream? Cotton candy? Pepter Bismul? Don’t know, but it was nasty.

What I sayin now? Not sure what I gettin at, but Mole People gettin lotsa news lately. First Iraq then Ghanistan then some other shit an now is Mole People. What I don't figure is what the hell Mole People have to do with nothin? They behind the whole al Qaider thing? Other day I's talkin Bob Johnson on Maplewood over there yonder roundabout and he say them Moles ain't part the whole Muslim deal. Say they got resorts, underground Vegas or somethin. Ya go down there get hammered, play blackjack, and fuck some Mole whore. Sounds damn patriotic to me, I tell ya!

Ya know, not sure I's gonna say that. Not sure what I wanna say, but wassin that. It a thing I say, but not what I wanna say. That clear? What I wanna say, now I thinna bouttit, is no matter how many shots a Tequila I drink I can never get the image of a donkey fuckin a pig outta ma head. Is just, that’s what’s there, you know?

Charlie

Charlie had never laid eyes on anyone quite like her.

Ever.

He saw her full, shoulder-length golden-blond hair bobbing up and down with each sure step she took, a college student wearing an over-sized high-school Letterman’s jacket. The jacket had a crimson body and dull white sleeves. She wore a short green and blue plaid skirt, pearl-white knee-high socks, and fluorescent pink sneakers. He watched her walking on the wide concrete path toward the campus media center. Nothing could shake his sense of wonder about how George Lucas rather than Shakespeare or Kafka had first come up with Star Wars. Charlie did not know the woman. He loved her, though. He wanted to tell her so she would know that he loved her. By her knowing, he thought, he would expand himself into her consciousness and thus have access to her experience of living even if only through what he saw in her eyes while speaking to her.

He approached her and said, “Hello, I’m Charlie. I love you.” He watched her expression change from quizzical to shocked to confused in what he perceived as a sequence of twelve or perhaps fifteen distinctly different moments but believed was a never-changing eternal moment. On one level of consciousness he felt guilty about creating this experience for she-he/she but he realized on another level that the guilt was limited to the thinking of I(she-he/she). On the I(she-he/she)/I-me level of thinking there existed considerations of irony and contradiction. On a visceral level he felt desire, a desire for sex, to consume her and make her part of him. On a caring level he projected himself as her (I/Thou or I Art Thou) and felt a self-love in the form of abandonment of himself to himself as himself-as-her (self-self@self-as-other).

He became anxious when he realized he needed to urinate. He wanted to continue thinking about what was happening, to say something more. However, the urge to relieve himself overwhelmed him quickly so he turned and walked away very fast.

As he walked away he hoped he could make it to a bathroom in the media center before pissing down his leg. He found one and as he opened the door he unzipped his pants. A wave of elation overcame him as he relieved himself. After he finished he felt morose as he focused his attention more fully on the thoughts that emerged: How must that woman feel right now, how might she have felt when I turned and walked away? Did she think I was afraid, that I panicked? Did she think me deranged or unbalanced?

He felt shame and he hated his body, the same body that allowed his eyes to see her, his nose to smell her, and his ears to hear her. After he thought the latter thoughts he came to the conclusion that—

Why am I thinking about this stuff? he thought. He made a decision: I should pull up my pants and get the hell out of here. I'm supposed to meet Loretta at noon! He zipped his pants then washed, rinsed, and dried his hands. He left the bathroom and looked around. Computers were everywhere, row after row of desks with students tapping away. The space seemed as big as an airplane hangar. He turned to his left and walked to the door. Everyone is looking at me, he thought. They somehow know that I told that woman I loved her and then ran to the bathroom with what must have been an expression of horror on my face. What must they think of me?

But they didn’t hear what I'd said, he thought. They couldn’t have heard me say “I love you.” They know nothing of the exchange. What they saw, if they saw me, was me walking very fast into the building. Who saw me and who didn’t? Should I hop up on a table and ask them or perhaps tell the story of what I recall experiencing just to set the record straight? He chose not to do so.

Charlie spent his days this way, over-analyzing every decision he made, agonizing over the words he spoke and the actions he took. He did this obsessively day after day, week after week, month after month, for an entire year. On the anniversary of the first day of feverishly analyzing every moment, he suddenly stopped. He did not reflect for even a second about why he stopped. Instead, he just stopped and began thinking as a sociological analysis might suggest a middle-aged middle-class white man thinks if he lives in Tigard, Oregon, votes for Republicans, earns an income between x and y, is divorced and childless with such-and-such a credit history and a particular sequence of Web sites browsed since the inception of his Internet searching as well as further additions to his demographic and psychograhic profile.

These days, Charlie’s attention is focused on activities such as driving to suburban strip-mall sports bars to watch “The Big Game” with Joe, Stan, Lester, Smitty, and Tank. He drinks, whistles at women, gets slapped. He eats Buffalo wings and is occasionally gracious to his favorite amply-breasted waitress. He sometimes feels guilty for treating her well based on bust size, but not for long as he shifts the focus of his attention back to the game, cheering loudly and high-fiving his companions whenever his cherished team scores. He drives home drunk sometimes and he’s been charged with two DUIs. His lawyer convinced the judges to drop the charges in both cases due to technicalities related to procedural errors.

One of the arresting police officers became enraged that Charlie had weaseled his way out of a conviction. The officer believes that Charlie should be behind bars. Charlie, though, knows none of this. He goes on with his life as he’s been living it. There are other things he does besides going to sports bars. He brushes his teeth and works at a job, but those are just particulars.

Charlie’s life went on until his death. After he died, the narrator focused attention elsewhere.

The speech Obama will never give

What if Obama gave this speech tomorrow night? How would you react?




Good evening. One year from today, there will not be a single homeless person in the United States of America. Not without a choice for shelter. Not without a choice for food. Not without access to health care. Not without publicly accessible transportation. Not without access to education or employment if either is so desired. Every American will be allowed to become who they want to become and the U.S. government will serve in any way possible to make that happen.

The citizens of the United States are amazing human beings. They are capable of doing so much if they receive the support and resources they need to make it in life, to make something of life. There are engineers out there who don't know how to take even the first steps toward engineering. We will show them the way. There are artists who haven't had the support to develop their skills or display, sell, or share their art. We will create programs to serve states and regions around the country to provide live-work spaces, materials, resources, equipment, and distribution to allow artists and aspiring artists to learn, create, share, eat, sleep, and live well.

The same will be true for those who want to work in the health care fields or wish to invent new technologies or products or desire to live and work as journalists or builders or plumbers or computer programmers or anything else at all.

Those who want to sit for the next three years twiddling their thumbs while not pursuing creative, entrepreneurial, educational, or employment-related opportunities can do so. But only in exchange for eating a nutritionally healthy diet and regular exercise. Both activities will be monitored. Hey, if you want food, shelter, health care, transportation, and the like and you don't want to pay or contribute toward it at all? Well, the least you can do is conform to certain rules and regulations and, let's face it, these things are good for you. Yes, your body will be tested and monitored--while protecting your privacy--to ensure that you are eating properly, getting enough exercise, and plenty of sleep every night. We will provide all of the support you need to transition to a healthier, more fulfilling lifestyle. We want you to be healthy and happy. We don't want you to turn to a life of crime and violence or to overburden the health care system because you have decided to waste your life away eating Doritos and drinking Big Gulps. I know you have problems. That's why you'll have all the support and encouragement you need. We will customize this support as needed, learn together on the way, and transform lives of cynicism, self-loathing, and despair into lives worth living within a civilization worthy of life.

You need help. Some more than others. The government will help you. Your life will become better than you ever imagined it could be. The best of you will become great. The least of you will become good. The United States, as a whole, will become a better place to live with citizens the envy of the world in their caring, generosity, passion, ambitions, health, learning, knowledge, understanding, wisdom, and creativity. A new age with human beings who have not only transcended class but transcended prior conceptions for the best of what humanity could become.

We will be a light on a hill and the government will make it happen. No more will we give away your hard earned money to corrupt corporations and institutions who provide so little to humanity. We will improve everything and we will improve the lives of every human being. This will happen.

There will be grumblings. Howls of discontent, of resistance, of protest. But we will prevail. I will not let the poor be abandoned because it displeases wealth. It is time for those with the most to help and serve the least. They need it. They have always needed it. It's time to shift values, attitudes, and ethics. It's time to end purely selfish pursuits and spend time helping those who clearly need help. There will be time for leisure for everyone, including those helping others. No one will want for playful fun, exciting adventures, or relaxed peace and quiet.

That means those in the most desperate circumstances will have loans forgiven. No one will lose their home to foreclosure. New homes will be built for those without homes. Homes sitting empty will be used in the coming months to provide shelter for families who have lost their homes in the past and for those who have never had homes. No home shall sit empty. Those whose businesses are negatively affected by these changes will be provided resources and support in the same manner available to all citizens. If your business is no longer viable or even necessary, then opportunities such as those I mentioned before will be available. Everyone benefits.

Except for those with extreme wealth. It's not that they will live lesser lifestyles, it's just that they will not be privileged in terms of political power any longer and economic policies will not be changed for their benefit, but for the benefit of all.

Furthermore, to deal with the growing immigration problems, the U.S. government will work with governments around the world to implement such a system everywhere else in the world. Africa, South America, Southeast Asia, China, India, the Middle East, Central America, Russia, you name it, it will happen. Those countries considered to be developed will work with countries with extreme poverty and unrest to heal wounds, ease tensions, develop infrastructure, and provide relief. With a focus on environmental sustainability and universal human rights there will be nothing that cannot be accomplished. This is now the mission of the United States and the world. We can end global poverty and violence and we can do it by providing a floor below which no one will ever be allowed to fall.

Thank you.

Mole People: A Doubter's View

All this mumbo-jumbo about the Mole People is just another overblown media-created event. I ain’t never even met a Mole Person so how the hell do I know if they exist? The computer imaging they can do now, shit, I’m going to need to see one of these freaky things “in the fur” before I’ll believe they exist. Come on, man! Mole People? Are you fucking kidding me?!

Interview with Steve Jobs and Oprah Winfrey

Several years ago I came to the realization that I do not know what to do with my ideas or understandings. I had, for decades, been thinking I could figure it all out and make some good decisions about how to live my life well. It never happened. I never got it. Maybe I should have waited longer, but I decided I wanted to know, once and for all, the answers to my deepest questions about life. I realized it was ridiculous to put it all on me to figure it out. As egocentric as I am I lack the delusions necessary to maintain a belief that I am the greatest human being who has ever lived or will ever live.

I first thought of asking a man for the answers and I thought that man might be Steve Jobs. But then I thought that perhaps I should go to a woman for all the answers and I figured Oprah would be that woman. I could not decide whether a man or a woman held all the answers, but I was sure it was either Steve or Oprah so I decided to interview both of them. Together. At a Denny’s off an Interstate exit ramp heading south out of Portland, Oregon.

The following is the transcript from that interview:

ME: Thank you, Steve and Oprah, for joining me. I hope you don’t mind me casually addressing you by your first names.

OPRAH: Of course.

STEVE: I mind. Call me Mr. Jobs.

ME: Fair enough. I’ve asked you to meet with me here at this Denny’s just off the Interstate because I want answers about life, about America, about what is really possible and what is not, and more, much more. I thought this setting seemed perfect because of the juxtaposition between the grandiosity of each of your romanticized versions of contemporary American life and the reality of it. There’s the beautiful music that comes pouring from your iPods, Mr. Jobs, and there’s your magazine giving all of us hope in Hope, Oprah, but then there are our bodies, the physical actualities of them that exist beyond the dreams and beyond the sounds emanating from tiny earplugs. It seems to me, Mr. Jobs, that your technological gizmos are little more than blinders preventing me from despairing as I and others lose access to more and more land, liberty, and leisure. And it seems to me, Oprah, that your pie-in-the-sky dreams hide the dismal truth of our Nows by clothing the future in full-figured fashions.

We have been living in an age of romanticism, haven’t we? For maybe thirty or more years? A post-Vietnam romantic period of hyper-consumption, the gluttonous beast of American middle-class appetites fatting itself on the shiny objects and happy thinking the likes of which the two of you have been dishing out relentlessly, both of you haloed by the media now and then as Jesus come to save us or the Virgin Mary to intercede on our behalf. It seems a tried and true formula, that one. Messiahs. As such, I was wondering if you could answer a few questions.

Oprah: Sure.

Steve: I could buy you, ship you to China, sell you to a contractor, and watch as they turn you into packaging for an iPad.

ME: I’ll take that as a “yes.” Okay, first question. Let’s say you were a workaday single mother of three, forty-two years old, overweight, addicted to cigarettes, burdened by diabetes, no high school diploma, holding a full-time job at Jack in the Box and a part-time job at Wal-Mart while receiving government assistance to help with rent and food. You have an anxiety disorder, your oldest daughter is eleven, just had her first period and is also having sex, your father died suddenly and unexpectedly from a heart attack, your mother is clinically depressed and may deteriorate rapidly now without your father, a nursing home is beyond your budget so she might need to move in with you if she’s unable to live alone, and your youngest son has autism which is exhausting and heartbreaking and infuriating even with special assistance from schools and government programs. You have no siblings and no close, trustworthy friends, just a couple of hit-or-miss friends who, in a pinch, might rush you to the hospital if needed but otherwise won’t be there for you over the long haul if you’re in real trouble.

If that’s who you were, do you believe you would benefit most from (a) an iPod, (b) a facial, (c) psychotherapy, (d) sex, or (e) an enormous donation of cash?

Steve: You’re an asshole.

Me: Excellent.

Oprah: I’d say sex and cash.

ME: Only one answer, please.

Oprah: Oh. Then cash. And sex.

ME: Very good. Next question: What is the meaning of life?

Steve: It means whatever I say it means.

ME: What does that mean?

Steve: It means that I’m a genius and you’re not. I doubt we are of the same species. I speak in English only because your puny brain requires verbal language for communication. If you had a greater capacity for awareness you could read my aura and absorb the entire history of not just my thought but of all thoughts along my genetic lineage dating back to the very first thought ever thought. I have read your aura and found your history as pedestrian as that of any other human. You disgust me even though I relish the fortune I’ve made by persuading many like you to pay huge sums of money for things you don’t really need. I also despise you because I feel like I’m a well-paid court jester squandering my genius entertaining slack-jawed dullards. I hate all of you for being my creative and entrepreneurial inferiors. I am the Lord thy God and you shall worship no other god but Me!

ME: Thank you for your answer, Mr. Jobs. Oprah?

Oprah: What was the question?

ME: Meaning of life.

Oprah: Oh, yes. Now, is this another multiple choice question like the first one?

ME: No, it is not.

Oprah: Oh. I like multiple choice questions because when you can’t think of anything then maybe one of the answers is right anyway. And you guess that answer. That’s what I would do.

ME: Oh come on!

Oprah: Sorry. I was just joshing around, quoting Sarah Palin. She was asked why she favors standardized testing.

ME: Funny stuff. Scary woman. So, do you have a real answer?

Oprah: I really don’t. I just tried to become famous and make a lot of money. That’s worked out pretty well for me. People really love me, too. They don’t actually know me, but they love the idea of me and it makes me feel good that people love the person I’ve publicly projected myself to be over the years because it means I’m still a money-making powerhouse. The fame is great, but it’s really about the money. Fame without money? Think it’s any consolation to Jeffrey Dahmer that he’s famous?

ME: I suppose not. He’s dead, anyway. Thank you for your answer, Oprah.

Oprah: You’re welcome. You’re very well-mannered, by the way. Soft-spoken. I appreciate that.

ME: Thank you, Oprah.

Oprah: You’re welcome, Anti-Dada. You’re genuinely genteel.

ME: No reason not to be civil. I’m mostly here to ask questions and listen.

Oprah: Well, you’re very kind and I thought you should know that. You’re special, you know? We’re all special.

ME: Okay, let’s move on. Both of you are big believers in belief, especially in the belief of the possible. You focus attention on what is possible. Mr. Jobs, your beliefs lead to investment in imagination and innovation. Oprah, your dreams of making the impossible possible led to an entertainment kingdom as you launched the celebrity of countless others, they your knights and nobles, you their queenly benefactor. The problem is that your respective beliefs are ridiculous for the majority of people. In other words, your beliefs function well in the context of being billionaires and, even before becoming billionaires, possessing relentless ambition, sense of self, intelligence, vision, inspirational talents, access to resources, and so on.

What I’m getting at is that all men and women are not created equal. You’re obviously aware of this, Mr. Jobs, as you employ among the most gifted and talented individuals in their respective fields. And you, Oprah, chose guests based on amazing abilities, skills, talents, experiences, resiliency, etc. You sometimes pluck the plain and sprinkle some dust on them to make them look different but even then you’re focusing attention on making what is ordinary … extraordinary.

Now, if I’ve been out of a job for a couple years and I’ve run out of unemployment benefits should I keep looking for work or focus my attention on my dreams, using my imagination to create a better situation for myself and bolstering my self-image with thoughtful affirmations?

Steve: Stop being a douchebag and use your brain, you fucking idiot!

Oprah: I think you can make your work your dream and your dream your work. It’s all a matter of looking at things from the top down and then from the bottom up.

ME: Any more clichés, Oprah?

Oprah: No, that’s all for now.

ME: Why is it still necessary for people to work given how advanced technology has become? If we have the resources to feed and shelter everyone then why don’t we? If money is the adversary then abolish money. After all, if you’re both saying that anything is possible then why do we need money? Shouldn’t we all just believe that things would be better without money and then … they would be … because we’d have thought positively about a world without money long enough to figure out how to create it?

Oprah: I believe in the power of thinking positively about money.

Steve: Your questions are shit. I got geniuses working for me, loser. Geniuses. I dwarf all of them with my infinite mind, my iMind. I shit Mozarts and Einsteins while you’re trying to figure out how to pull your thumb out of your ass.

Mole People: An Anthropological and Archaeological History

The Mole People are an ancient underground civilization noted for developing the only known written language of the underground world as well as spectacular performance art, monumental architectural structures, astounding engineering achievements, advanced technological innovations, and sophisticated philosophies and mathematics. At their peak, the Mole People had developed one of the most densely populated and culturally dynamic societies in the world.

The Mole People civilization shares no features with other ancient civilizations due to the lack of interaction with above-ground cultures. They independently developed writing, epigraphy, and a calendar. Today, the Mole People and their above-ground relatives form sizable populations above and thousands of feet below the earth’s surface of Central and South America. They maintain a distinctive set of traditions and beliefs regardless of geography. Gopwili is the primary language spoken by underground Mole People. The above-ground Mole People primarily speak Spanish. The Dibbly Spittlbenny, a play written in Gopwili, was declared a masterpiece of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity by UNESCO.

While the Mole People area was initially inhabited around the 10th millennium BCE, the first clearly “Mole” settlements were established in approximately 1800 BCE in the Hubbafeezy region seven hundred feet below what is now Bogota in Colombia. This point in time, known as the Early Jackassic Period, was characterized by slothful communities, the introduction of pornography, and fired clay dildos.

Archaeological evidence suggests the construction of ceremonial architecture in Mole People areas by approximately 1000 BCE. The earliest configurations of such architecture consist of simple burial mounds, which would be the precursors to the brassiere-shaped structures erected in the Late Jackassic Period. Prominent Middle and Late Jackassic settlement zones are located in the southern Molean caverns, specifically in the Leppledinky and Gorbattsicky Caves. Important sites in the southern Molean caverns include Melthook, Eshtabi, Corplitty, and Uddulguffy. In the Kickidooty Mudstumping, the Frawgortapy Order emerges around 800 BCE. For many centuries it controlled the minerals of the underworld. The important early sites of Snaka, Jaffterdas, and Voorfilluke Regerstylop were the primary producers of food around 600 BCE. Mid-sized Mole communities also began to develop in the northern Molean caverns during the Middle and Late Jackassic, though these lacked the size, scale, and influence of the large centers of the southern caverns. Two important Pre-Jackassic northern sites include Nebble-Douser and Zqworhzy.

There is some disagreement about the boundaries which differentiate the physical and cultural extent of the early Mole and neighboring Pre-Jackassic Mole-Mimic civilizations, such as the “Fodstuff” culture of the Kildern caverns and the Zobztobs-speaking peoples thousands of feet below Chiapas and southern Oaxaca, respectively. Many of the earliest significant inscriptions and buildings appeared in this overlapping zone, but there is little evidence suggesting that these cultures and the formative Mole People influenced one another. Bubajazi Kumfuddle, a thousand feet below what is now Lima, Peru, is the only site where Mole-Mimic and Mole People artifacts have been found together.

Mole People: An Alternative Perspective

I have an altogether different opinion about the Mole People than those other two assholes. My opinion, well, it goes like this, see, it says to everyone “Hey, if you’re a Mole Person, I want to fuck you!” I do it all, man, I even had the glands of a Mole Person implanted in me so I could be more scentually attractive. All I want, all I really want, is to pound some stanky-ass Mole Poon!

Mole People: Counterpoint

I completely disagree with my esteemed colleague on the issue of the Mole People. The Mole People are sincere and gentle, loving souls, our brothers, one hundred percent homo sapiens sapiens. It is a vile, hostile, divisive, fear-mongering, hateful, malicious, vicious, and cruel myth that the Mole People are not human, not the same species as “us.” This is hogwash. The Mole People are simply people who have facial structures that resemble those of moles. The thick coat of fur is another environmental adaptation that brings to mind a number of furry burrowers. However, these people share the same DNA and are as human as any of us.

Yes, it is true that they live underground. However, that’s just a consequence of their being ostracized over millennia. They formed vast underground communities and a global tunnel infrastructure over thousands of years. Their technology actually exceeds ours. But, I want to clarify, that when I say “they” I am referring to the fact that these people have developed a vastly different culture than we have. In no way am I categorizing them as a different species. Do they have a different appearance? Yes. Do they have a different genetic makeup? No.

The fact that top secret programs from military and intelligence agencies in the U.S. government, the former Soviet government, the members of NATO, Japan, and China have had contact with the Mole People during the Cold War era does not help matters. There is a fierce sense of betrayal that such a profound discovery was kept secret for decades! We’re just now hearing about the Mole People in the last year or so after sixty years of secret intergovernmental knowledge.

But that’s neither here nor there in this case. The point I’m trying to make is that the Mole People deserve our respect. They seem to genuinely want to work with us to help us. They seem to have developed a very creative and harmonious culture. Some oddities from our perspective, yes, but that’s understandable. My colleague mentioned a few of those differences in a disparaging manner, but there’s much to recommend their rituals and norms, quirky or unusual or off-putting as they may seem at first glance. I find the practice of publicly deflowering virgins to be less spectacular than most. Sure, it’s a bit much when the young woman is unwilling, but who are we to judge their culture? I mean, it would be a very individualist-oriented thinking that would put the woman above a tradition dating thousands of years. Removing such rituals from the lives of the Mole People could result in a loss of faith, a lack of meaning, a sense of despair, the first step toward suicidal and perhaps even homicidal nihilism. Toleration of other religious and cultural practices is essential if we are to move forward into the new millennium without never-ending war. If coercing unwilling virgins to copulate is the compromise that needs to be made then so be it. We have to be realistic and look at the long view.

It’s like U.S. trade with China. Should the U.S. wait until China adopts human rights protections to allow businesses to trade with them, to allow goods manufactured in China to be imported into the United States and sold to American consumers? Whether we should or not, we do. Is it right? No, how could it be? But it is politically and economically practical in the short-run and the thinking is that political reforms will come naturally as China’s economics and politics continue to evolve over time. As the economics and culture changes, the people’s demands will change. China's citizens may become more aggressive over time in demanding Western-style freedoms and rights to go along with the growing Western-style consumer culture. The same holds true for the Mole People!

Regardless, don’t blame the Mole People. No, blame the people who drove the people who eventually became the Mole People underground. Yes, blame the people from thousands of years ago. Blame them even though they’re dead. Those are the people who caused all of our current problems. So, let’s stop this inane talk, drink some beer, and have a laugh, okay?

Mole People

Let me just say that I am openly against the Mole People coming to power. It may not be politically correct—"All citizens have the right to run for public office, even the hideous offspring of the freaks who copulate with moles"—but I believe “above-grounders” are simply a better species, one more capable of leading all of us into the next millennium and beyond. We can make globalization work through the air and the sea and over the surface of the land. We do not need to ship anything through underground tunnels where the Mole People could easily commit acts of terrorism against vulnerable, but essential, transports.

I also find the idea of converting dirt into air quite filthy. Call me “old school” but I like breathing air existing naturally within our atmosphere. I don’t need these alternative conversions of dirt into energy with oxygen as the dominant byproduct. How is that even possible? There’s no way that’s possible. Yet, I’m supposed to trust “under-grounders,” strap my face to a tube, and hope that I get oxygen instead of a swarm of bees unleashed down my throat? I don’t think so.

I haven’t even mentioned the giant worm orgies, the fecal-friendly androgynous sex scene, or the armpit-sniffing crew. These lifestyles, I’m sorry, I cannot abide. I am flabbergasted by these whippersnappers. They are nothing but a bunch of guttersnipes. Furry rodent creatures pretending to be just like us? They Are Not Like Us!!! I’m sick of it! I will not idly stand by as the Mole People build technologically advanced super-communities connected by a vast but secret military infrastructure!

These creatures want to wreak havoc, rape our women, abduct our children, and enslave our men! Who will stand up to the Mole People? Who will drive them back underground?! Who will destroy their infrastructure?!! Who will exploit them as cheap labor?!!!

Let us advance now to weed them out! They sit on vast untapped resources, they have first-hand knowledge of middle earth, and they can withstand great heat and bitter cold. But they can’t handle the sun. We must use light against the resistors. Underground mirrors, electric lights, pyrotechnics, blind them out of their communal holes, isolate them in their endless tunnels, capture them, beat them, enslave them, work them, whip them, degrade them, torture them, kill them!

They will overwhelm us soon if we do not act quickly. They are draining the government coffers, thriving on welfare, free education and health care, food stamps, public housing, government break after government break. Why are we doing this? So the Mole People can be better prepared to dominate us? Oh, sure, you say they are friendly, just like us, that it’s just their culture and traditions that are different. Well, yeah. That’s my point. Fucking giant worms and drinking the menstrual blood of virgins are cultural differences I can do without, you know what I’m saying?! Besides, THEY ARE A DIFFERENT FUCKING SPECIES!!!

Some say they’re extraterrestrials, from somewhere else in the universe, that they can change shapes and the color of their fur. The point is, they are reproducing and thriving underneath the earth’s surface. They are threatening our way of life. If we do not kill them, they will kill us. There’s no question.

There’s a theory going around that they’re magic, that they’re immortal. We couldn’t kill them even if we wanted to slaughter them. I say bullshit. Let’s try to fuck these things up at least. If we can’t kill them, so be it. At least we tried. The world’s full of fucking quitters. I just … I fucking hate everyone who thinks the Mole People are “one of us.” They should be rounded up with the rodents and shot. I’m just … flabbergasted!

I’m getting all worked up now. See how you got me going there? That ain’t right. That ain’t right!