Void: Lord of the Beard

I would just like to take a moment a point out the beautiful wonderful people that inhabit America, the greatest country ever of all time fuck you if you think otherwise damn the torpedoes get’r'done fuck fuck fuck explosion guns America. I don’t dislike America. I love America. I love it because it’s a disfunctional fuck hole that is so easily hated and spited and full of bile and fire and… America.

This past week saw a week of family togetherness and love and friends gathering for good food and drinks and giving thanks. Thanksgiving lasted several days for me. And for many others. This ends on THANKSGIVING.

WHY? Yes, why?

BLACK FRIDAY. Asian and European tourists have actually been traveling to America the past few years because their money is worth so much more than ours and they can buy a lot of crap but also for the same reason Americans go to Spain to run with the bulls. The spectacle. The fear for ones life. No seriously, the actual possibility that you will be beaten to death, shot to death, robbed, stabbed, run over or even trampled by a bunch of wild eyed greedy cows rushing to beat one another to the newest talking this or tickle me what’s his name. The bulls were on parade this past black friday.

At a Wal*Mart in New York Friday a man was trampled to death as around 200 big fat women of the ghetto charged the door, ripping it from it’s hinges, toppling displays and Wal*Mart employees alike, causing some to actually have to fight the women for their lives.

| (taken from the NEW YORK DAILY NEWS): “He was bum-rushed by 200 people,” Jimmy Overby, a co-worker of the man’s, said. “They took the doors off the hinges. He was trampled and killed in front of me. They took me down too … I literally had to fight people off my back.” |

At the very same WAL*MART, just before the crowd slowed in their mad feeding frenzy long enough for the Coroner and Police to get near the body, one woman actually suffered a miscarriage. She was probably busily buying toys and clothing for the child to be thinking, ‘Oh won’t this be wonderful, I’ll fight hundreds of other fat cows for shit my as of yet unborn (and now never to be born) little Timmy or Tammy won’t give two flying fraks about because their infant brain will percieve it as colors and either something hard or soft. Oh I’m sorry Tammy, Timmy or Pat you’re dead… undead… unborn now. Maybe it’s for the best. Some people shouldn’t reproduce.

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This week in world news, an as of yet identified group of militants entered the penninsula at Mumbai, India’s financial capitol and a center for international tourism, and began a reign of terror that would last for the next 60 hours and still leave authorities and those affected by the mayhem with far too many questions.

Yahoo News reported:

” Officials said they believe just 10 well-prepared gunmen were behind the attacks that brought the city of 18 million to its knees for three days.

“Nine were killed and one was captured,” Maharshta state Chief Minister Vilasrao Deshmukh told reporters. “We are interrogating him.” Another official said the captured attacker is Pakistani and the gunmen were constantly in touch with a foreign country. ”

This was in conflict with earlier reports being broadcast by MSNBC and CNN that as many as 24 gunmen had initially entered the penninsular via raft and many more may have been in place already, including possible sleepers in the hotels, using their rooms as command centers.

An organized wave of chaos and destruction, seemingly indiscriminate, swept through Mumbai Wednesday night killing 195 people and wounding 300 more. Among the dead were roughly 20 soldiers and police officers, including the chief of police.  After attacking the police station, gunmen hijacked a police car and began firing at bystanders of the other gunmen’s terror from the passing police car.

There were at least 10 other specific buildings targeted around Mumbai, including many hotels which housed foreign tourists. Some of the gunmen were apparently asking who was British and who was American, planning to single out those two nationalities,  perhaps for execution.

Perhaps the initial reports of two dozen well organized men were premature and due to the chaotic situation and communication breakdown after the police station was hit and the chief of police was killed. It would be difficult to believe that just 10 men could hit all of those targets with such precision and ease and move onto the next, finally winding up holed up in flame engulfed hotels in a stand off with Indian commandos.

There was security camera footage from various places around Mumbai being shown as the crisis escalated and you only ever see teams of two gunmen. Perhaps the most discomforting thing that the security footage showed was that some of the gunmen seemed to be very young and very calm. They were cool calculated killing machines. Surgical instruments of destruction and chaos.

A little known Muslim sect inside India has taken credit for the attacks, while India is blaming Pakistan, due to the sole surviving gunman being Pakistani.

I suppose we’re in for a long winter. See you all in 2012.

From Time To Time A Man Needs His Madness. It Fills Him. It Comforts Him. The Vast Pools Of Energy We Are Oft Time Filled With Sans Direction Are Maddening To Some Who Feel They Should Be Doing Something Greater With Said Energy. Some Men Destroy Themselves Before Accomplishing This Task. Some Men Destroy Themselves In Accomplishing This Task…

Space Rachel

Your Life, In The End, Is But A Story. Be It A Tragedy Or A Comedy Or Even An Epic, Wouldn’t You Want It To Be A Good Read? A Real Page Turner? I want My Life To Be On The New York Times Best Seller List For Years.

Just A Thought…

-Lord Beard, King of the Moon.

We think, therefore we know that we are here. The mind, a living computer. The City, a cold blooded system of hot blooded thinking, fucking, killing machines. We, the violent, alcoholic dystopia, are the organ unsettled. As the skin is an organ, so are we, the surface and the soul of the City, it’s identity. Carnivorous, cannibalistic. Feast, feast, fuck, drink, feast. Buffets, gang bangs, binges. Gluttony. Orgies. The City is a child of progress and stagnation. It is born. It grows. It dies without fresh meat. Feast, foul beast, and fuck yourself to sleep. If the old guard fail to keepsafe that which it has already forgotten then burn it, tear it down, leave it behind. Higher and farther, into the heavens we reach, as we breach the ever living godhead that is Mother Earth’s bonnet. Hate the salted earth, concrete stained. Damn the rotten waste of technocracy. Progression. Whatever that is. Pick a direction, progress in the orderly fashion. Wrong turn? Now what?

-E. Crashpool

I propose that we legalize organ farms. If this cannot be done properly through cloning I suggest we scrap that idea for a secondary fall back. Allow my forthcoming proposal to fall under the realm of the ORGAN DONOR program.

As of yet we can not hope to transplant brains. The brain effectively becomes medical waste. Refuse. A once brilliant light snuffed out into the nothingness beyond.

I think that we should research into the specific bio-chemical reaction that causes the brain to “dream”.  Once this is found out, I believe we could then synthesize a hallucinogenic  compound that will rival the most potent LSD.

For lack of proper research, Plan F would involve a crack team of neurosurgeons and psychologists who have been stripped of their licences to practice for various reasons, all working in conjunction with a shell corporation in Mexico.

This will involve kidnapping the socially undesirable in America and transporting them across the border, which shouldn’t be too much trouble seeing as the rule is “Shit Rolls Downhill” and the border guard won’t pay much mind to people sneaking into Mexico.

Once over the border we’ll keep them in a chemically induced comatose state while harvesting their “Dream Serum” as they produce it. In theory the brain in it’s extended RM sleep will seek to overproduce the Serum to make up for that which we have removed, so as long as the body is alive there will be an endless supply of the Dream Drug.

Pay off the FDA to allow marketing of the drug in diluted portions to stupid rich people as sleep aids. These will involve mixing the drug with antidepressants and small doses of over the counter sleep aids, to allow for deep, pleasant, happy dreamy sleep. This will be called MR. SANDMAN

We will then use our “street” connections to market must stronger dosages. Two that I can think of. The first, the serum alone, should be enough to give the kids some interesting times listening to their grandparents Pink Floyd albums and zoning out in a living dream. This will be called March Hare.

The coup de gras comes when we market a stronger concoction for the real hard cases who want to kiss God. This cocktail can be any of the hard stuff really, I prefer the combination of good old Cocaine and Dream Serum. They’ll dance and sing their night away, building a universe of vibrating, gyrating light and sound all around them. Let’s call that one Mr. Warhol.

PCP and Dream, now there’s an interesting combination. I can only begin to imagine the hell to be unleashed on suburban America if this was plentiful and cheap and no one was told it was PCP, because we all know that has a certain stigma to it. The kids hooked on March Hare and their parents hooked on Sandman will all want to try the next best thing, and this is where we give it to them. Cheap as we can. Open the flood gates of debauchery and madness.

I don’t have a name for this yet. I shouldn’t tell you all anyway. You’ll know when it happens. You’ll think, “Man, he was right.”

He always is.

- A.E. Dillinger

I have been to places greater than anything you could bring to bear upon this plain.

I have seen worlds where you could successfully exist no more than I could stand at this moment and fly to the heavens alight with flame and glory and approach the gods themselves.

We are two different people. We are too different people. I exist here to further my ventures elsewhere.

These flights are of fancy, but their image burns deep. My soul is no longer my own but everyone I’ve ever met. Every eye I’ve ever shone upon, I now belong to them.

My life is for the edges of darkness that envelope every bit of light in the universe. I exist to keep it all at bay.

I am one with the void. I am not the void. I am king. I am man. I am become Man.

Eternal will I be, if but for a short time. Find the logic in that and join me.

The Void Engine Never Ceases To Further The Propagation Of The Void