Sunday, May 01, 2005
(11:54 AM) | Anonymous:
You were fast.
You were fervently aligned.
You are dead.
A vigorous regondering.
1. The nature of the doings.
I'm not surprised, I can't say I'm surprised at all. One whose practice it is to throw the hirsute balls of fiery truth at those who prefer to schlurp down power's petroleic ejaculate, and watch as the conflagration sheds more light than smoke on the ills which are caught deep in the throat of the very structures of our society which has distanced itself from the smelly emanations of memy—or rather, us—can hardly expect any better treatment from his fellows than first have his identity revealed and to have a poncy, butter-dick'd buffoon first claim paternity (falsely!) only to rebuke him. How often have I seen this cycle of events play out. Too often! And this time the buffoon is the ponciest, butteriest-dick'd ever.
Ooh, baby I love your whey.
As it happens I am the offspring of Gay Danish Man and Hello Kitty. It is in the third generation that resolution is found, but only if you embrace it! Embrace me. Embrace my curds, my whey—my way—and find solace. For the way that can be grasped is not the true way, but the whey that can be grasped is true. Stick your thumbs in your bums and pull out some plums for your Aunty, Aunty Kamala. You will be perfected.
3. Urine town now, my stolid compatriots!
I said: my soup has lost its savor, and wherewith shall it be flavored? This was the invention of rhyme. Then was there a relieving of another into my soup, in liquid form. This was the invention of puzzled disappointment, but also of a tasty dish.
vos qui scitis, dicite!
But let's not dilly-dally, shilly-shally, hooky-crooky or mictur-ishy. Mr Kotsko proposes silencing me. He couches it in different terms, saying he proposes to get rid of the "H is O" contingent. A contingent which doesn't exist, fabricated solely to give the appearance of organization to a troupe of incompentent half-wits and to place myself in that organization, since it would be unpalatable to the masses at large to get rid of me, for they all love me and I love them, especially you, baby, don't listen to the others, you're the one for me, the rest are trash, lower than trash, trash cans! I don't even know what the "H is O" is. The H Izzo? With respect to The Weblog I am autochthonous. I am an expression of its nature and the agent of its redemption, yet Kotsko purposes to kill me dead. Perhaps he fears my whey. He struggles to convince himself that his actions are righteous! "I must", he says, and thereby reveals more than he realizes: "I, must" is the content of his words, "I, the unfermented, the fermenting, the becoming! I have left behind the skin that held in my colloidal shape, and now my juice runs clear; I am not what I was, but not yet what I will be!" That boy needs to get some yeast. He needs the winnie to prick him to the bare bane, maybe that'll stop his "wonder" years.
5. Five.
What Goodparley calls St. Eustace's head—essentially a great box of knowledge to which you can hook people up—that's what a computer is. We were the computer elite. We had the whole world in our minds, and we had worlds beyond this one in our minds. We programmed past the sovereign galaxies. We programmed the great dance of everything. We ran the blue, the red, the yellow; we ran the red & the black and the seed of the red & the seed of the black. We ran the molecules of the atom and the particles of stoan. Hart of the would and stomp your foot. 1 and 2 and shake of the horns and 1 and 2 and split of the atom.
I feel I may have strayed. I have strayed, perhaps, from my topic, you think. You are, perhaps, a fuckslurping nunshitter, I think. My topic was to have been a vigorous rejoinder, a rogering. But could any rejoinder out-rejoinder the rejoinder that my conduct here constitutes? Look upon me. I am blithe. I am, unconcerned. Long before there was The Weblog, before I existed, I was the spirit which would animate this place. Love me, love my dog, as they say. Kotsko will come all over his senses soon enough.
