Monday, July 19, 2004

I hate the world-wide internet
or: What to make of fan fiction featuring yourself?

I really don't know what to think of DARPA.

They can be strange characters, that is for sure.

I'll never forget that weekly movie-night get-together institution established by yours truly and some favored DOD buds (one time we put up a "no State department surrender-monkeys!!!" sign on the front door but we had to take it down when Bolton got his ridiculous handlebar facial ornament in a twirl over being called a "surrender-monkey." That incident almost got him as pissed off as when we wouldn't stop teasing him about being dubbed "human scum" by the North Koreans).

We decided to invite our geeky brethren to watch "Minority Report" and indulge in those first-class dark-chocolate brownies that you can only get at Trader Joes (yes, I understand that there must be making some kind of sin against the conservative god by patronizing a store famous for clerks in Hawaiian shirts and food stuffs with a minimum of 10 grams of insoluble fiber per serving... well, I am a rich man, but even I cannot keep up with the volume of wine that Wolfy can go through, so I must stock up on the "two-buck-chuck" Charles Shaw shiraz before he darkens my door. The wine is taking a toll: did you know that Wolfy is only 35? Not even Jerry Garcia aged so badly. But alas, if you are going to ride the night train, my friend, then you must pay the toll).

Feith and I were having a swell time heckling that diminutive follower of Lafayette Ronald Hubbard, that actor who has confused good acting with a "intense" stare from piercing eyes that have been subjected to hundreds of $1000/hour hypnosis sessions. The infamous Top Gun, Tom Cruise!

Ha! Maybe Rupert will buy the rights for that fatuous waste of silver-nitrate and I'll be able to submit my own director's cut:

Scene 1. Gratuitous Cruise Shot.

Scene 2. Cruise sucked into jet turbine, becomes a very finely ground grade B actor-meat smoothie with overtones of high-volatility petrochemical.

But back to the issue at hand!

We weren't five minutes into that "film" until the backroom boys were zapping each other's retinas with their pocket-laser-pointers. I'm sure that can't be very good for them, but I knew their eyesight was being sacrificed for the future of biometrics. Later on we were more than convinced our guests were afflicted with Asberger's when one asked me if I "I am sorry to bother you but do you have a sterile room suitable for surgery and a small supply of simple electronic components? We are interested in the implications of subcortical stimulation using timed charges delivered to produce controlled artificial sensations of reality. Also, we will have to converse with Marvin Minsky. May we check if he exists at his home by telephonic means? Do your religious views prohibit us from using laboratory animals in what may be mortality-inducing experiments? If so, we can relocate to the garage. Elseif we will perform said experiments in your house."

As you can imagine, I was a little alarmed. Rat blood is so hard to clean up, even with scotch-guarded rugs.

However, Feith convinced me that had these geeks not been allowed to take apart every lamp and television in McGeorge Bundy's house, the first model of the internet may not have been created.

So we let them play. But next time, we will now better, for we now know what dark fruits their brilliance will bear!

Well, my beloved audience, I was ready to hop into a time machine and make sure the internet never happened after I "googled" myself. I saw something that was at first disturbing, then surreal, then somewhat arousing, then physically reminiscent of that first glass of cheap red wine consumed on an empty stomach at the age of ten (I could have sworn that I lost my frontal lobe from the vomiting).

You will not believe it, but there is such a thing as "Neo-con Slash literature."

All the followers of Bloom and Strauss were there, and we were performing amazing acts on one another, some familiar, some that I had to look up on various erotic sites.

The quality (and I use this word with reservation) of the writings varied. I thought the one where a younger Rumsfeld and I were technicians in a ICBM silo beneath the soils of Nebraska was quite good. We pass the long hours by telling each other our deepest secrets... when one day the call comes: we have to deploy our prodigious payload to protect the United States. We hold hands and turn the keys as we realize we have 20 minutes to express our secret feelings for one another. What ensues is an illustrated(!) graphic novel executed in gratuitous detail. I'll leave the rest to your imagination.

Well, if that was one side of the quality-spectrum rainbow, the following story was on the other.

I was reminded of grade-school literature: strings of declaratives executed in a simple vocabulary. I can't do it any justice, here are some excerpts.

Somewhere secret, in one of the deep dark depths of the pentagon:

[Perle] and Bolton once had a fling, but Dick dumped him for growing a moustache.

"When you toss my salad, I can't tell where I end and you begin," he had offered as a reason, but now working so close to him had rekindled the flame.

"Twat's that you say? I cunt hair you. I have got an ear infucktion, SIR!" said Cambone, laughing and almost falling out of his chair onto his cute, tight ass.

Wolfie wondered: how long had it been since he had even sucked a cock? The last was a "quickie" blow in the Safeway bathroom with the lights off-- don't ask, don't tell.

"Yes, Secretary. I can feel the lust and the distraction he is feeling in his horniness," Krauthammer said. "He is in definite need of a good porking."

"Well go on boy! Serve your country by servicing him! Double-time!", Cheney exclaimed, "Hallelujah!"

"This isn't any position you'll read about in Men's Health: They call it the J. Edgar Hoover, and there's a reason its classified."

"Ohhhh, sssssss, ahhhhhh," he moaned and groaned, as mini-orgasms exploded like cluster bombs hitting the earth.

"Shit, shit, shit! Fuck, piss, shit! Fuck! Piss! Shit! Fuck, fuck, fuck! Piss, piss, piss! Shit, shit, shit! FUCK!"
Perle sighed to himself privately as he thought: "When I say 'Talk dirty to me'', I don't mean this. After all this time you should know what I want... talking about Israeli tanks rolling into Tehran sent me to the moon." Perle began to fret as the wondered: "Do we even know each other anymore?"

Wolfy began soaping. He soaped his arms and chest. Then he soaped his cock and reached around to soap his ass. Then he reached down to soap up his legs. That was the moment Perle had been waiting for, and he entered the shower.
"Surprise!" A very horny Dick said as he boned young Wolfie up the ass. "Who's the Ubermensch now, huh?"

"Arrrgh! What the fuck?!" Cheney exclaimed as his load shot in his pants. He hoped the rest of the NSC wouldn't suspect anything. The news of Baghdad's fall were stirring, to say the least.

"A handy modification of the neural stimulator, Chief," Cheney said, grinning widely. "Poindexter, your state of the art sex toys are worth their weight in gold."

[Don't drink anything before reading this one]
"Ungggh, hunnnhhh,"
... After the climax
he pounded the ground with his fists and ripped the head off his burning penis.

Monday, July 12, 2004

Ari, you are a crafty one. You'll let Shim-Peri have your thigh, and just enough rope to hang himself.

Ho ho ho, foreign minister indeed! Let us see that cheery countenance once you have jousted with the A-rab.

The first duty of a true revolutionary is to stay out of jail, and attack in feigned retreat is no vice!