A pot luck is a thick gumbo that mixes various media & genres together into a thick gumbo. It’s my scrapbook where I keep all my leaves, my schedules, my studies, my research, my poetry, my anecdotes, my memos, my doodles, my recipes, my cheat codes, my passwords, my top 13 lists, my diary, my suicide notes…
Our story starts on a breezy afternoon, the creamy pastures o’ Donut Plains stretching as far as the eye could see—a’least from west to east; from north to south, the land was the thinnest slice. Koopez ne’er knew what’d happen if someone attempted to move latitudinally; he ne’er saw anyone dare.
But Koopez didn’t let such thoughts ruin such a magnificent morn, where the sun covered everyone in a blanket o’ warmth; nor did Koopez let said sun’s stormy anger ruin his day.
“Mr. Sun, ¿why are you always so angry when there is so much to enjoy in life?”
“Whatever enjoyment you get in this game we call life is temporary, whereas cruel game over will be inevitable & permanent,” Mr. Sun replied; “thus I’m getting a head start.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the loud thumbing o’ boots ’pon grass. Koopez turned to the source, only for his already-enormous eyes to balloon.
¡What a sight this fellow was! Though Koopas considered themselves tall creatures, this fellow easily matched Koopez’s height. ¡But this was no mere Koopa! Garbed in fetching blue o’eralls & matching red shirt & hat, this man stood straight as a hieroglyph with his gloved hands & head turned to the side. ¡A stature fit for an emperor! Koopez swooned. But what truly made drool drip from Koopez’s maw was the creamy black fur sprouting under the man’s meaty nose.
Koopez’s heart pounded faster than the speediest TAS as he gazed ’pon this living god. He wanted to greet him, but suddenly found his mouth clogged with Fuzzies—& his head dizzy, as if he’d swallowed these Fuzzies.
Koopez opened his mouth to speak, only to stop when he saw the red-hatted man leap into the air. As Koopez’s eyes rose ’long with the red-hatted man’s amazing height, his jaw dropped in accordance.
So stunned was he by this feat that he neglected to notice the red-hatted man’s shadow loom o’er him, till he felt the force o’ a truck fall onto him, shoving him into his shell.
“¡Ack! ¿What happened?”
Suddenly he felt the world rush below him. This & the sight-slaying darkness surrounding him caused him to shiver as he’d ne’er done before.
As an added poison mushroom, he later felt a heavy smack from the front, & then the world zoomed in the other direction.
¡If this doesn’t stop I’m going to puke & embarrass myself in front o’ him!
Eventually he did feel the world stop by a force crushing down on him from ’bove. Still so frightened, though, he waited a full minute before he carefully reached his head out & rejoined the outside.
When Koopez looked around him, he saw that everything was gone. Mysteriously floating bricks had mysteriously disappeared, & their ?-branded brethren were now signless. Moreo’er, the Koopas, Goombas, & e’en the angry sun, were nowhere seen.
Worse, Koopez’s dream mate was gone.
Koopez hung his head & gazed glass-eyed @ the still grass. I didn’t e’en have a chance to get his name. ¿What if I ne’er see him ’gain?
Well, just in case, I’d better prepare for if I do see him ’gain.
So Koopez wrote out a gorgeous poem full o’ such breathtaking metaphors as, “Your bushy mustache is like a worm that infects my heart,” & paced in wait ’tween the same 2 pipes he stood ’tween earlier for the mysterious red-hatted man to reappear.
The hours sped by in their big turn-key boots, Koopez watching the sun tire himself with exasperation to sleep under the horizon, replaced by the great white sphere o’ the moon. When Koopez stared @ its grizzled face—which looked like a slightly uglier version o’ his newfound love’s, but with triangular nose & zigzag moustache—he thought he saw it wink. He added it to the stock o’ good signs he’d seen that day, such as the 1 that said “Koopa Air” or the 1 that showed a Bob-omb crossing the street.
The sun returned, & so did the red-hatted man. Wary that the red-hatted man’s presence would be brief, Koopez wasted no time reciting his poetry:
“¿How can words do justice to the exquisite perfection o’ your every pixel? Wh—¿Hey, where are you going?”
Turned out that the red-hatted man wasted no time leaping o’er Koopez & scampering on his way. Koopez turned & watched as the man hopped under 1 o’ the many ?-blocks, knocking a brunching Goomba from below.
While the red-hatted man was distracted by some strange species o’ flora Koopez had seen many times before, Koopez leapt @ him, wrapping his arms round the red-hatted man’s neck—which he found quite difficult, since the red-hatted man didn’t appear to have a neck.
“¡Wait! ¡Don’t go without telling me your name! ¡Please!”
To Koopez’s shock, the man seemed to shrink under his very grasp with rapid flickers. He gaped @ this newly half-sized person as the red-hatted man jumped back in shock, slipping through Koopez’s hold as if immaterial.
The red-hatted man then edged backward, but was too late to escape before Koopez clutched him ’gain.
“¡Wait! ¡I don’t mean to harm you, sir! I just want to get to know you. ¿Would you like to join me for a couple cans o’ Chuckola?”
The red-hatted man threw his arms out & jumped; but this time, rather than moving longitudinally, he went o’er the thin edge, disappearing down into the abyss with a melancholy jingle.
Koopez’s face hang so low it almost touched the ground, & the corner o’ his eyes filled with steamy tears.
“I can’t believe he hates me so much… ¿Am I so ugly? ¿Do I smell so bad?”
Shattered senseless, Koopez trudged forward without seeing where he was going, sighing @ every tuft o’ red grass that passed his feet. Eventually, he reached the end o’ a cliff; but he didn’t care: his lives weren’t worth preserving.
And so he fell into the ether, disappearing just as his love had.
The sun stared down @ this with a surly smirk still smothering his visage, shaking his face.
“As I said: game over will eventually come & wipe ’way all happiness fore’er. As if hard-coded, it never fails.”
Viewed through blinds, your smoky scents
with your rattling tracks & wheels
passes straight through my brain stem
with the rusty steel that peels
scraps & bolts & coal-black fire,
painted muddy brown & red.
Midnight chugged without a tire
& a million-meter bed.
Sure your ghosts are sure cliché,
floating in their dirty rags;
I’ll ride nightmares any day.
1st, the phrase is redundant. All justice is social. Justice is nothing mo’ than comparing how 1 person is treated to ‘nother & seeing that they’re equal. E’en if one believes in meritorious justice rather than equalitarian, one believes that greater rewards are balanced by greater liability in the form o’ greater effort. Balance ‘tween people is an inherent part o’ justice; that’s why justice is represented by scales. A scale by itself has no relation to justice ’cause a person cannot injustice oneself, ’cause people have control o’er themselves; it’s only how people treat others wherein justice becomes an issue.
Anyway, the people who criticize “SJWs” always try to present themselves as cool nihilists who care only ’bout humor, only to get just as bitchy when their own petty issues are stomped on. Thus we see rich ditzes whine ’bout how they shouldn’t have to care ’bout boring oppression gainst minorities, but then ne’er shut the fuck up ’bout the pettier suppression o’ their ability to waste every airspace with their insipid bullshit. Their logic is clear: I shouldn’t have to care ’bout anyone else, but everyone else should care ’bout me. Utter inconsistency. If such so-called nihilists don’t care ’bout injustice, then they must be consistent & accept injustice gainst themselves.
Thus we have the stupidity o’ GamerGate, a movement dedicated to making money whining ’bout some random women making money whining ’bout sexism in gaming, all for their noble fight gainst people who soil media ’bout 1st-world playthings by nobly fighting gainst things. It’s the same “centrist” shlock that infects regular political media: they criticize anything they disagree with as “biased,” since they have no actually rational arguments gainst it, ignoring that to define a certain viewpoint as “biased,” & a different (theirs) as “the middle” is to be biased ’bout what is the “middle.”
Economists do the same: they define heathens who dare to have independent thought on the proper distribution o’ wealth from their invisible hand god as “social justice” folk, as opposed to level-headed economists who then bitch & moan ’bout their imaginary model economies being tampered with or the injustice rich people go through by being “stolen” from (that this definition o’ “theft” & “true ownership” is just as arbitrary, & ultimately backed by government law, is ignored, ‘course, since economists replace authentic analysis with ideological regurgitation). ‘Gain, if economists want to be cool, emotionless scientists, then they have to be accepting o’ all “injustice.” People who sneer @ those who whine ’bout the innumerably corrupt & unjust actions o’ the rich & corporations, but then get in a hissy fit when workers form unions, regulate, or redistribute wealth are simply bumbling hypocrites who should be laughed @ themselves.
‘Course, the greatest paradox is that anyone who rails gainst “social justice warriors,” by railing so fiercely, is already a social justice warrior. The only difference is that they’re just shittier versions. So if I have to choose ‘tween supporting social justice warriors, I’d rather support those who fight for social issues that actually matter rather than petty garbage that has to twist words round to hide the fact that it’s petty garbage. It’s just like “political correctness” or “intellectualist”: it’s a way for people with rationally useless philosophical views to attack rationally useful views not by actually deconstructing them logically, but, ironically, by sarcastically calling them rational. “O, so you’re the ‘warriors’ who put effort into making society fair—i.e. logically consistent. Phhh, why don’t you go back to your college for smart people, smarty sweats.” It’s like the passive-aggressive people who call themselves “conservatives” & say, “O, well I guess I’m dumb then,” whenever “liberals”—people who are bad ’cause they disagree with their views, thus creating a self-fulfilling ideology—are mean ‘nough to point out how illogical—i.e. dumb—their views are. & nothing’s mo’ unjust in this world than people with dumb views having their dumb views called dumb.
& if they do support justice, but just don’t think that feminists, or whatever group they hate, supports is justice, then they shouldn’t use the term “social justice warrior.” So either way, they’re stupid. ¿If they truly think their definition for justice is better, why don’t they ‘splain it ‘stead o’ relying on meaningless epithets as useful as “poopy-head”?
& for the record, I’m not a “Social Justice Warrior”: I’m a Social Justice Black Wizard, ’cause I chose Black Mage (way to be reverse-racist in giving the black mages the badass offensive magic, Square) & totally gave Bahamut his rat tail.
I’m wrong.
All wrong.
--& I’ve been wrong since the beginning o’ the bomb.
«¡Ack! ¡You’re wrong!
¡Stop being so perverse & admit that everyone’s a lemon wedge on the edge o’ tea!»
But they’re wrong,
& that’s what makes them right,
for the wrongest wrong one can wreak is being right.
Look @ these black leaves strewn ‘cross
pavements oiled in acid rain,
oozing cheap mascaras cross
pimpled skid-mark-darkened f--
«¡Now stop! This imagery is too extreme;
O’ it we’re getting quite so sick. ¿Why don’t
You write ‘bout nice li’l things? Like angel cream
With golden smiles & smokeless, vacuumed ho--»
¡Wrong!
¡Wrong!
¡Wrong!
¡Wrong!
It’s too late to save my brain;
better the sweater is thrown ‘way
than sentenced to life in barnacles from the rain,
no matter how the mold bakes heat aches...
Now, ¿who wants heart aches?
¡Una trampa!
You won’t miss the dead leaves
when you’ve got white cream;
don’t rage @ the dying o’ the midnight,
¿all right?
But when I wished myselves goodlight,
muttering, «You’re right, you’re right...»,
sweaty-eyed, I realized
that they stabbed me with my own knife.
¡The supes in suits strike ‘gain!
¿Why?
¿Why?
¿Why?
Still bubbling–
sidewalk spit.
Crumple all my papers under
bellies hungry for a scratch;
feel & hear your dormant thunder
while you ready paws to snatch
jackets trying to pass by.
But I know you always flee
from the wall-clung fly-fast lights,
even though just made by CDs.
Playing poker, you beat me;
now I need to pay the fee:
scratch your chin eternally.
Rain scattered o’er his face & chin & eyeballs. The sky was bluer than blue chairs. He was hungry. He was skeleton thin. His joints were somehow both sore from sleeping on the drywall & numb from the ice box in his heart. His fingers were crawling with hangnails.
‘Twas while trudging through the sky’s slices o’ swamp in his broke jeans full o’ pulled springs that he met the bearded man. The bearded man wore a rich robe o’ blood red & held a scarlet scepter whose star-&-sickle head twinkled in the moonlight. So did the bearded man’s eyes.
The bearded man held his hands out & said in a soft, slightly whispery voice, “I know what you need…”
“No…”
“Shhh. It’ll all be OK. Come with me. Our kind shall rule destiny.”
Our hero’s knees stumbled & fell. Our hero was now in the bearded man’s stomach.
¡Por ahí! ¡Mira!
¿Ves aquello espacio de estacionamiento
que tiene las grietas y los bultos en la corteza?
Es…
No, viento, no puedes tomar este poema.
Malo, ¿cuándo estaba yo?
Por supuesto:
soy eso espacio agrietado yo.
Ahora, ¿Ves aquello espacio con la boca erótica de tormenta?
No soy eso.
No seré eso nunca.
No.
♪ …así arrugamos… ♫
¡There! ¡Look!
¿See that parking space—
the 1 with the cracks & the bumps in its crust?
That’s—
No, wind, you can’t have this poem.
Anywhere, ¿when was I?
O yeah:
that cracked lot is me.
Now, ¿see that parking lot with the swanky storm drain?
That ain’t me.
That’ll ne’er be me.
♪ …so we creeeeeeease… ♫
