Did you say when does the real thing start? Did you say when does the real case start? Did you say when does the real life start?

I wrote "A Polyglot of Babel" more than one hundred years ago and I just now discovered that Blake had also rendered an image depicting humanity overcoming the false God of the Old Testament. It’s on the cover of the book The Laughing Jesus.

If you’re wondering what all this has to do with the adventures of a temporic-spatial slipstreamer, Bane Savage, Beat Germane to the a priori "whassup?!", I can only say my strange sojourn has intensified an interest in what is called scripture, both in its divinely inspired and superstitious crapola manifestations. Unfortunately, the latter gets a lot more media attention. Rat Pobertson is a porn merchant. And it’s boring second-rate porn. The bible a bloated patchwork of mediocre supposition. Anyone sanctimonious over this tripe should be summarily eaten.

I can’t stand characters invested in pat archaic beliefs anymore. In life, in novel, in film. It’s bad enough that anyone feels any need to believe anything. It’s that loose stone in the stream, folks, don’t put your whole weight on it. Oops, your mega-millennial encrustation just tanked in the vortical slipstream. Pope of what? Based on what? Based on what? Poop? Follow it back to its jack-off origins, say 200 A.D. when mystic authenticity was inconvenient to religious-political appropriation of mass attention.

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Anyway, I went to see the MoneyGuy. Resplendent he was in black satin. His iridescent skin a reminder of casual rips in the reality fabric. I said I’m tired of clever killer chimp world. He said he understood that and fired an antique musket in the general direction of the nearest presidential library. He’d made his fortune chilling the internal organs of miscreant aliens and selling them to pro sports teams for transplant and enhanced performance. The cyborgization of human absurdity continued.

I need a cable channel, I went on. Sanctuary for intelligence in the fragmentary fray. Everywhere vicious simulation is taken for reality, and Reality considered a distant vague outre` notion. This is ridiculous.

Yes, very very few have checked out of the vast holodeck since the dawn of time, whatever that means, he averred, clearly contemplating a blunderbuss.com website.

We saw all this in The Matrix, of course, but the nightmare continues. Gnostics thousands of years ago already knew this. What meaning has machines taking over from humans, when the humans are already machines?

Back to the thought-drop expanding in concentric circles-gone- elliptical orientation, the MoneyGuy mused. Kosmos bursting from ineffability. Clockwork oranges for breakfast, for lunch the instant vast.

Money is some mutant fucking utensil, I said.

Pass the lentils, he said, playing it by ear, as I always do myself.

Psi-Fi Channel probably, I mused aloud. Imagine the surreal Sci-Fi Channel spots extrapolated into parabolic features. As it is, that channel falls off into formulaic hardware snoozefests, instead of pushing the envelope of perception. Twilight Zone where it’s happening to the viewer almost as much as the dramatis personae. Matricizing the holodeck of space operas. Of course it needs to be a game platform too.

And reality formation script, MoneyGuy added, blowing on his still-smoking musket.

Language is under constant siege, an ongoing abolition of context, I mused, reflecting my latest leading edge reading re a long-time concern.

How about action thrillers like non-stop pinball tracing the contours of global brainfarts? my MoneyGuy continued.

Interdim aliens whose kosmic utterances freeze the tracks of zealous automaticities. Hmmm, how can we vary Matrixian slo-mo?

I think blue minxes a la X Men grrrl should rape covert operatives on the brink of the usual violencia amour.

Strap-ons? Or the patented psiospheric mind-shatter?

MoneyGuy smiled, and we shook hands in the timeless Now.

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Faux newz around the third rock:

1. Another car-bombing by muslin extremists. The android in the front seat was wearing coarser material than that delineated by the profit in the korn. Meat crispians and suckular hem-haws had begun replacing themselves in this ongoing errorist debacle.

2. The Wore on Error continues at the molecular level. Politicians’ faces begin exploding routinely at priss cuntferences. Subsequently there are more stories about kitties stuck in trees, at the national level.

3. The "Hello Kitty" disembodied brand is ubiquitous; the PersianKitty porn portal mega-traffic central.

4. Rabid naked male apes afraid of real female sex and thumping pseudo-scripture, drop their rocks and Uzis and fall down on their knees worshipping pussy in their thermal-throbbing minds’ eyes.

5. Egyptian cat goddess Bast rises again as a dominant icon in the world’s religious imagination. Healthy soulsex rules.

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Did I mention that the mother of all tomorrows is Death?

We all have mothers that die – the mother of all tomorrows is Death.

She may have resembled Gaiman’s seductress once upon a time, in the family of the dreaming. Increasingly, over time she came to resemble Lovecraft’s unspeakable Old One, whose loathsome form sends men gibbering into the ninth hell of madness. Finally, a macabre Gahan Wilson crone crowing the banality of Death and Evil.

Branded black hole of the flesh’s evanescence.

Her imploded cobweb tradition of reeking meaningless bones bothers me not.

The awesome aperture of her absence redeems existence.

I’m the son born and reborn of the black hole sun at midnight.

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God’s a comedian playing to an audience too terrified to laugh, said Voltaire.

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We’re always at the last outpost of a hope of peace in the galaxy. The hard calculus of outer space dilemmas is fueled by repressed shamanic emotion.

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The Book of Insane Beings is the only gospel anybody knows.

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