Ring-a-ding-ding, it’s future o’clock.  Get up, shake off the cobwebs, feel the morning.  Night, you belong to the river, be dark.  Wake up with a thousand sleeping culprits.  I mean this wholeheartedly.  Become an advantage.  Be loose in the goosebox, bros.  Put the cranium to major elasticity.  Smack the canvas, drip the paint, boys.

Go find a large, long, deep rabbit hole and climb in and wear a suit on the other side, where butterflies alight off your fingertips and the sun is always behind you, all walking deep pavements and bottlecaps make tap-shoes of your feet.

I mean this.  Endure the trials of malignation, be a raise of positivity.  You feel me, dog.

Exemplor the Tanvas

Hi, do come in, it’s been so long.  Haha, Mr. Exemplor believes in a justice, yet a corrupt justice, one of immediacy and expediency, I am wholly sure he orates ornately and orientatedly, as he has a few bings, dings, and dats in his shield.  Hi ho.  Missile captains are usually 24 marks, and we can end in a cold bucket, if you’d like.  I have no preference here.

This gentleman received an ice bucket shower, I’m kinda jelly, not goin’ to lie.

Ladders Live On

You awaken or rise from sleep or fall out of bed or something.  You stumble around on your toes because you have two feet on the ground.  Why should you do this particularly human thing?

Because you are.

You are one.  You are a human, it’s a little hard to understand.  Me, or him, or you, or I, or whoever the protagonist of this tale is.  This is a tale.

You may get coffee in the mornings.  I do.  I appreciate the cup of coffee I make in the morning because the coffee machine is pretty much set and forget as far as I’m concerned.

forget about it, my coffee maker says to me.

I will, says I.

But I don’t.  I love him so, and I love his coffee and I drink it and in a little while I am happy and awake, due to the bean water, my bros.

That’s ok.  We’re forty light years in the future now and you’ve just found this, maybe.  But maybe you didn’t.  Maybe I wrote this in 1846 and I’m a time traveler.  No, I’m kidding.  Maybe I’m transcribing a letter I found in a painting I got at a yard sale, but no, people didn’t talk like this back then.  They don’t talk like this back now, though.  They do then, out there in the future of it all.

Listen, seagull

There’s this damn seagull flying around my head.  More specifically, the seagull is circling the bread I have in my hand.  My dogs drop everything they’re doing when their dog awareness formulates the prospect of food materializing.  Jesus creates a miracle out of a few cans of tuna fish, or some stale Wonder bread, and goes on to tell this same couple thousand people, assuredly, that they weren’t really here for the Lord of All Creation, but more for the lunch that was getting passed around at the time.
Fuck you, seagull.  Can I say that?
“Hey, seagull.  What the fuck?”
How about that?  Is that more appropriate?  We’re all alive, we all eat and kiss the blarney stone, ok?  I get it.
I tear off a piece and throw it for him and of course, he eats it.
Then he comes back for more.  He’s not leaving now.  He was thinking of leaving before, he’s never leaving now.
Is it important that I feed him?
He’s so persistent that he’s probably fat in seagull terms, all seagull doctor hidden away in seagull town telling him his seagull BMI is too high.
“Quit eating so much!” Dr. Seagull says.
“Fat chance,” says this guy, my new seagull.  “Fat chance, we all eat, I bet you ate yourself, today,” says my seagull.
“Fuck you,” says the doctor.  Then he’s sued to oblivion for being offensive.  My seagull is paid restitution and he ends up at where ever I am that this is happening.
This is supposed to be about happiness.

Abnormally Processed

Hi, Captain Lieutenant.  I bet you did not just realize that you were piloting reality and space and time dimensions with Orby here, a galactic messenger come to speak with you.

Hi there.  My name is Orby, I am a galactic messenger come to speak with you.  Seeing as how we have the ability to alter our software and genetics, we have determined that due to our mutation matrix, in which a large factor of knowables are utilized in calculation of data, that we will open trade with your dimension.

From here on, you should start to see and feel some credits coming your way.  We hope you enjoy, and many prosperous evenings to thee, as it seems we should say since we’re translating the signals you’re putting out all the time.



Somebody mentions on one of the various social platforms that I am playing role of bull in china shop on that swearing and curse words are bad, and who really still does that in this day and age.  What a great thing to say.  We shouldn’t use terribly passionate words in mixed company.  When I use curse words in my work, I feel like I am alienating people I do not wish to alienate.


It’s not that I’m proclaiming that cursing is good, I’m proclaiming there is no other word to use but a curse word.  “Use a different word in place of a bad word!” a non-psychotic voice in my head says.

Yes, of course.  Buttersticks, I’ll say, when it’s time to proclaim a curse.  Fizzlewax, broad spectrum cable, dice boards  !!?! ! !?! !!  AR AHGGH

Most people understand and can agree on what words are taboo.

This is why I use one of those.  They are dedicated to that role.

Bears and Claws

Attention.  Attention, all ye.  Hear this missive, let the sounds ring in your ear, your minds minds eye and ears and voices.  Whatever the language is to you, open ye, and enter a hellish hellfire of burning void.  I do not worry for today, as I am looking out into space.  Outer space.  The place with all the goshdanged aliens and planets, you know the shit I’m talking about.

You’ll never see it.

Can you or I live with that?  Can you live knowing that you’ll never walk on Pluto, yet someone is, or will be, but is, now, because we broke time because we’re humanity, even our own God saves us from our so cursed and broken selves that we really, truly are.  Incredibly powerful and insane sense monsters, bending reality in a tiny, inconceivable kitchen corner in which grows the muck of humanity in the corner of how absolutely huge it is man because the universe goes out forever.

That goddamned outer space, I don’t worry about today.  The sky.  The sky I’m talking about, when it’s red, or blue, or whatever the fuck it is, we gaze into the Abyss.

The abyss ladies and gentlemen and others, the plague of dark matter that will never touch your life and you’ll never see, but from thousands of miles away where your consciousness resides.  Just a man in a cave.

I tell you a story.

It is our only link into the darkness, everything the light is not.  In a caveman’s cave there is furs and fires and meats and warmth.  A cool night, the stars so glorious that he will weep with his knees in dirt to live on this unspoiled wonderful Earth with lions and tigers and bears, oh my.

We live in worlds of our own creations, and we can change ourselves.  Over time, our drastic ability at society catapulted us into manipulating the very stuff of the cosmos, and we become forces.  It is our way.  We find, in the outer scope, humanity hasn’t changed much over the last couple and several thousand years, but that’s it.  Our culture and technology has accelerated completely unbelievably, but we all tend to do what we’ve been generally doing the whole time, who knew.

As ugly as a monster that this writing is, let me tell you this.  We’re microscopic, minuscule we might not as well even be truly existing.  Who is to say that a multiverse isn’t real, and all things exist, and we live eternally, experiencing these massive realities, these massive levels not really truly yet knowing at this point what it really is.  Let’s reach these higher planes of existence, since we can.

I write of the great diaspora humanity will take as a whole species.  Different groups will become so totally fucking different in biology, physiology, in all this we had some kind of common stock, but it is easy to make enemies with genetically altered men and other genetically altered men.

right now we’re all just root stock.  hallelujah.


Fat butter, man. Slap a pat of it on some toast. In America, we call that breakfast, I can’t speak for other places. I assume that in Islandia, a made up country, they put grape jelly on their toast, that sounds alright, I will visit there some day in my dreams.

“Come, sit!” someone will say to me. I’ll sit, and we’ll feast on freshly baked loaves of bread, churned butter, delicious grape jellies and other fruits candied. “Yes, yes,” I’ll say. “Line up these plates, let us have a delightful time, as we sip coffee and drink liquids, and chew our buttered bread.”

I can’t think of just me. “Good morning!”

“Good morning, sir.” We’re all eating, this food’s coming from somewhere, and we’re grateful. Maybe someone’s making it, or maybe it was a group effort. That’s usually the easiest way to deal with, everybody cooks, everybody serves, but if you show up later than that, please, by all means, sit and enjoy, that’s why we all put it there.

It was for that.



Burn one and turn one, man. It’s the end of the yesterday, it’s the beginning of the today, everyday. Hooray. Are we dead? We’ve tried to figure out if we’re dead, and maybe we’re in another dimension, like a butterfly in the jar of some aboriginal scientist. Does sand make glass in Dimension X? Where is Dimension X, give me the answer.

I want there. I want that, homey. I want Dimension X, it’s this dimension, but it’s an alternate reality, it’s just a little bit different.

Reality Realty just called me, they want to get me to buy some property in Dimension X. “Will you move there?” they ask.

“I’ll most assuredly move there,” I said. “Sign me up.”

They debit my account and now I’m left wondering how I’m supposed to get there. Hitch a thumb on the hyperstellar reality gateway, Dimension X or bust. Bring me to the place. Aliens are reappearing asking me if I signed my papers. Not space aliens, aliens to our reality.

<– Reality Aliens–>

I’m checking my SEO now. It says yeah, reality aliens, bro.