¡You were WROOONG!
¡since the beginning o’ the bomb!
¡You were WROOONG!
¡for far too long!
¡You were WROOONG!
¡since the beginning o’ all time!,
¡since the beginning o’ your worthless life!
‘Cause we must celebrate Hitler’s birthday & the anniversary o’ the Columbine Massacres with the 3rd most horrific thing to e’er exist… ‘Cause we must celebrate 4/20 with something that only someone on 2 tons o’ pot could stare @ without going mad…
I met Dr. Jekyll (BA-THUMP),
& he wasn’t much better than Mr. Hyde.
He’s not such a rebel (BA-THUMP),
e’en when he’s trying to hide ‘hind his crooked disguise;
but he makes me tremble (BA-THUMP),
he makes me cry in fright the whole god damn night.
He is just a devil (BA-THUMP);
maybe that’s why I can’t get him out o’ my miii-i-i-i-iind…
O… ¿Whyyy-y-y-y-yy…?
A Marxist & an Austrian-schooler walk into a bar,
& after chugging 20 KG o’ ale,
the Austrian goes to use the loo for an hour.
‘Pon coming out, he holds a glass o’ urine
& says to the Marxist,
“I’ve spent an hour laboring to create this pee.
Since it clearly has labor,
you must be willing to offer a price for it.”
Unperturbed by this fellow’s strawman argument,
the Marxist replies stoically,
“$5.”
The Austrian-schooler can only wince & take a few subtle steps backward.
“W-what? Why would you want my pee?”
The Marxist straightens himself.
“Why are you so nosy into my subjective wants?
Have I not a right as any other to buy whatever I want with my own money?”
So the Marxist bought the pee & huffed it late @ home;
& he proved to the Austrian-schooler
that in a world wherein feces splattered on canvasses are considered high art,
all work, no matter how insipid, can hold value.
Thus, this proves that not only will capitalism inevitably fall,
but that it’s already fallen,
& has simply been replaced by dapitalism,
which is its cousin,
distinguished only by its bowler & handlebar moustache.
That is the only god.
Accept no substitutes.
Also, mud pies are quite useful, you fools:
I eat them all o’ the time.
They are the tastiest o’ chocolate pies.
People who do not enjoy the scrumptiousness o’ chocolate pies
must be eliminated.
Thus decree the scrolls o’ the Engelsist Order o’ the Red Star.
It’s the cream in your cup,
it’s the feather in your cap,
it’s the dice in your hands,
it’s the flab in your pan,
it’s the color o’ leaves,
it’s the holes in cartoon cheese,
it’s your knees’ bees,
it’s crease in your jeans,
it’s the tingling in your knickers,
it’s the warning before every trigger,
it’s the warming that hides in every winter,
it’s the only coffee that tastes sweetly bitter,
it’s the sickle in every sinner,
it’s the shadow under every winner,
it’s the boughs that only get thinner,
it’s a real-ass, motherfucker cool dude,
It’s the shit,
it’s the trick,
it’s, it’s, it’s,
chip, chip, chip.
When we finally use X-Zone on the vanished HAND,
that’s when the sexiness starts.
In Soviet Earth, you can’t elude the truth;
the truth only always eludes you.
¿How do you like them grapes?
There are no “them grapes”;
there are only “those grapes.”
Learn to write, asshole.
I mean it.
There is only 1 god,
& that god is love;
if ( !love_your_fellow_humans_even_if_they_smell_like_they_ rolled_round_in_pig_shit_for_hours_ )
{1
you_love_god_ = false;
}
Remember that, you shitty pile o’ shit &/or secrets.
“Right, right. Hold it there.
‘Scuse me, sir, but I must stop this section.”
¿What?
¿Who are you?
¿How did you sneak into my book, you sneaker?
“I’m the Entertainment Police & I’m ‘fraid this section’s gotten far too silly. You’re under arrest for violation o’ Walrus’s Law stipulating that all silliness must be balanced evenly with seriousness so that they both fall into equilibrium. Come with me, please.”
Wait, but I’m not don—
“Come ‘long, sir.”
Bu—
[1] All true Magical Socialists use Allman style. All heathens who use K&R or the 1 True Brace Style must be eliminated.
Gen I apparently isn’t the only 1 with derpmons.
You think you’re safe from the HAND.
You’re wrong.
Nobody can ‘scape its righteous wrath.
We are mere flesh bags
with brains full o’ insects
compared to our deductive master.
Don’t be prideful ‘nough to think you are free from its natural unnatural rule—
to this mighty fist stomping on inferior human minds fore’er
till we can’t e’en speak,
can’t e’en cry,
“What d’you want from me?”
But the HAND isn’t as simple as the regular totalitarian:
it doesn’t set down rules to follow
& reward those who do
& punish those who don’t.
No.
The HAND rolls the dice.
It sees if you get the gold o’ boxcars
or the snake eyes o’ death,
when it turns to you in its swivel chair,
& says,
“No, Bond; I expect you to die.”
The HAND smacks the earth like a gavel.
Its will be done.
So tief schlafen in Ihre Betten heute Abend,
denn Gericht fällt auf Sie an der ersten Ampel.
I believe in only 1 god,
& that is the INVISIBLE HAND,
as set down in the scribes o’ Smith, Mises, & Rand;
& like the pretender, Yahweh,
it’s a vengeful one
that crushes both its fervent followers
& radical enemies
equally,
that favors both its fervent followers
& radical enemies
equally.
All follow their circuits
etched by the holy ₧,
its waves that rise & fall,
but ne’er sleep.
No one can scratch its e’er-morphing bones…
The Dark Order o’ the Marx tried,
& they were smote,
left as but a splintered wasteland o’ scattered hairs.
They tried to set up false idols in the winter wilderness,
but it just possessed them
& twisted them to follow the carrot o’ power & fortune like all others,
banishing them to the icy hell o’ Siberia
as a testament to what it can do to its “competition,”
leaving all but the boldest too tepid to stray from its fresh & salty waters.
No crusty Keynesian can cool its fires
or rein its wings.
They may only chase its septillion shadows.
Its million fingers poke holes in their strategies,
leaving them eternally guessing & guessing wrong,
till the classical titans break their bars
& return to power.
The Church o’ Mises think they can win its favor,
but the HAND just laughs as it scatters its thunder.
It hardens its children’s hearts
& sets its priests to follow the filthy false gods just for fun.
It sets its rules gainst themselves,
so that its most fervent followers keep tripping o’er themselves.
Christians & Muslims think they obey different gods;
but the HAND just laughs as their leaders
make millions selling Jesus commemorative plates
or when Allah’s knights die for the sweet taste o’ Pepsi in giant mansions.
¡Why, even Marxists fight o’er the copyright o’ his later works!
The HAND has no need for friends.
The HAND has no threat in need o’ destroying.
To it, any o’ the 3 may not exist @ all.
& when the floods & droughts o’ Kyogre & Groudon,
woken by the sour scent o’ the HAND‘s sweet carbon,
sweep us all ‘way,
that will be true inevitably anyway.
The Elders o’ Econ tried to comprehend the HAND,
but failed.
The HAND works in mysterious ways.
It laughs @ their silly models
& sets its cycles to run contrary to them just for pleasure,
setting them scrambling for new theories to fit the ol’ every cycle.
& don’t bullshit with me that you don’t believe in the HAND.
You can talk all you want ’bout how it’s the HAND that’s where you are,
tattered, scattered, & scrambling on pavement itching for warmth.
But you & I know deep down what the hunger means ’bout you & me…
You don’t demand the jacket,
’cause you know you don’t deserve it.
So as you decay from all the cold that strangles the heart
or all the sun’s stale rays,
you’ll know that despite all those insipid punk slogans sputtering through your mind
that doubt in your flawed flesh seeps in,
& in your dying daze you realize
that you loved the HAND all ‘long.
¡All hail the HAND!
Now no longer shrouded in her multilayered robe & drama mask—now in her freakish true form—she walks up to Everyone & hands her a pocket book with a blank cover in worn dry-orange leather. This was the pocket book that held the secret key to dismantling her whole operation.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t expect it to go this far…”
Then she crunched on her cyanide tablet & let the clear smoke that choked her wipe ‘way all the crimes.
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…
