Thursday, February 26, 2009

Magical Bum

This is my magical bum. you can use it to see the misc folder in a totally new way, with all the songs given illustrations by the kind-hearted folks at Google labs! That, plus a little artificial intelligence by me, gives rise to each of the songs having an illustration that surprised me in some way, and here they are, unedited, for your perusal:

Edit: I should note that, since it is technically an automated process, while there is nothing NSFW on there now and won't be for presumably the near future, if I ever open the service for others to use, i can't guarantee what google will come up with.

To Winifred, where it may find her ( SANCTUARY! )

To Winifred, where it may find her
by Stumbles McHorsecock

Sanity is always attesting to its heavy nature, and sometimes the levity of madness is quite a relief. It is in this spirit, the relief of madness, the realization that something is broken inside, and you can no longer be expected to fix it on your own (if at all), that I write to you, Winifred Bergsgend, on the evening of your son's trial and subsequent execution, february 13, 1941.

I want to tell you what it seems to me you want to hear - but what would be worse? Telling you it was all a big mistake, your son is innocent? How would that comfort a grieving mother? What's the alternative, that he was actually killed in a secret spy mission on behalf of his country? You won't buy it - you'll see right through me and my smug tricks. So I'm going to tell you the truth. And I'm going to be court marshaled for it, but them's the breaks; I killed your son. I shot him down in cold blood because he threatened to expose me as a corrupt general with ties to dirty money on four continents. Your son was a good kid, but he wasn't executed. He was murdered. About the time you are reading this letter, I will have taken the first bus to Bishkek. You ever been to Bishkek? It's in fucking Kyrgyzstan! But nobody will ever find me there. I hope my exile pays some penance for what I did.

First, let me digress a little bit. Nirvana, the attaining of Buddha-nature, has been the the goal of Buddhism, (and Hinduism) for much of its life. People in the West say these religions are more balanced than the male-dominated Abrahamic ones they're used to. But Nirvana is the place of forgetting that follows a male orgasm, and so attaining it is essentially the Great Masturbation - ha ha! It is a primarily self-pleasuring act and it is directly linked to the male genitals, which makes Buddhism, and Hinduism, male-dominated religions. God silently wanking us off, one by one.

The problem is, there can never be a Western or Eastern female-dominated society again. Even if women made all the rules, they have been taught to seek goals - heaven, nirvana, God's marriage to the Earth, what have you - that serve the most undeniably male-dominated ends. Thus, even when they serve faithfully and strong, they are pleasuring God's organ, improprietous God-sluts destined to forever serve his wondrous sausage.

It all started out on Sanctuary Hill. Your son was taking third watch while I got on ahead with my dirty business. At first we were pretty careful about what we were doing, but as we grew, we started caring less and less whether we were seen. A few of us were talked about openly as criminals, with a list of witnessed crimes; but everyone was too scared of us now to try anything. The only danger we had was to rival gangs and, increasingly, your son.

So how did it come to be I shot him and not one of my men? Everyone knows you don't dirty a man's door with footprints of a shoe less regal than his own - and your son had us worried. That skill is one in a million, and I will miss that boy. I buried him like a king, in a kings' duel, in his own blood. I wanted you to hear it from me before forensics come back on him. The bullets I put in him were silver - just to make sure he didn't come back from the dead.

Please find enclosed your son's shoe along with my fingerprints and those of Donard Rivera, our getaway driver. Don is already in Kyrgyzstan now, you can't fuck with him.


George Horsemanwinger
General, United States Marine Corps

This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden, and WiL Whitlark (that's me) of The Real McJesus. This week's theme: 'Sanctuary'.

Sunday, February 22, 2009

World Machine

for those that have not seen it, my interpretation of a me + davy holmes comic called "World Machine" has three chapters. But I am not in a position mentally to continue it. There are great scenes and many of them in the future, but future is not past. If i did not suck there would be more.

To The Moon

a dream:

'My' school (which i have to assume was Purdue) and some other rival school were funding their respective first all-student trips into space. Much of the technology had already been developed by private institutions, so all that was left were to find the money, select the participants, and get students involved in as much of the work as possible. Student unions from both schools had worked on the project for 3 years and had a plan to send the first students up in an additional three.

The money was a big problem. 'Our' school's proposal was for $72 million over five years, and theirs was for 93.6 million, but they had scheduled more trips. By the judgment of everyone involved, both plans were equally viable. So, it was decided there would be a series of contests to decide the final plan of action, all leading up to, naturally, a winner-take-all football game. The amount of revenue generated from the contests would pay easily for both trips over again, so the respective Boards at each school agreed to sign a contract making the contest legally binding.

All participants had to be students, so there was a rush of 30- and 40- year old professionals that signed up for a semester of classes just to be part of the contests. This happened on both sides. The date of the football game was march 12, and they planned to fill the remainder of the day's activities by scheduling the final showdown of other contests - I was involved in a cooking contest to determine who would cater the final space program. The football game was not between strictly football-playing athletes, but between the potential astronauts - and the loser footed the bill for the entire operation.

The media coverage of the event was insane. There were more networks present than there were players to interview. There were vlogging personalities and various other machinations of the future too geeky to go into here. The rival school was doing well, and we lost our cooking contest. While our side wanted to maintain decorum and have some actual students on each team, I didn't see a single participant under 30 on their teams that day, except for the football team, where it was agreed all players/astronauts must be first-time undergraduates under 25, and none of them on their school's football teams. There were students from their school around, posing for the cameras, taunting the other players; but they weren't doing anything.

I had spent all last night calling the rival footballers' hotels and keeping their parents, friends, and relatives from being able to contact them and tell them good luck. I was also tangentially involved in a DDoS attack on the rival school's homepage, and we'd had it down all night. By the time we were finished cleaning up from the cooking contest the game was in its 4th quarter, and we were tied 24 to 24. No big guys on either team (think rocket fuel) meant both teams had plenty of offensive opportinuty, and had four touchdowns apiece. Neither team had made any extra point kicks or field goals.

I watched the last of the game fought with great difficulty, but the game went into sudden death without any further points scored. The star player had emerged on the rival team, a very skinny but profoundly athetic kid, half hungarian jew and half japanese, called Benyamin Tomeda. He was on his school's baseball team and had had an article on him in ESPN magazine.

In sudden death, I took a piece of butter-soaked belgian waffle about the size of a frisbee and bet a rival schoolmate thirty dollars i coudln't throw it through the goalposts. He agreed, so I heaved it best I could and the wind blew it left and right, but it made it through. As I was trying to get him to pay up, Tomeda had intercepted a pass during one of our attempts to score a goal and was running it all the way down the field.

I saw people scramble as the loudspeakers prepared to play their school's fight song and blow off fireworks, but there was a yellow flag soaring through the air as Tomeda ran. Tomeda getting there was a foregone conclusion. the announcer noted that already there was a consideration for Tomeda to have a professional career as both a baseball and football player when he 'got back to Earth'. As soon as he crossed the goal line, there was a hush as the referees consulted about the flag thrown on the play. One of the referees had seen my waffle and was certain it was a kind of interference. The rulebook was checked and interference it was indeed, and a fifteen yard penalty for our team, and required the play be done over if the opposing team didn't decline the penalty. Naturally, they declined, and touchdown was declared. Final score 24 to 24, with the rival team winning. As the crowd rushed the field and lifted little Ben Tomeda above them, and I saw the look on his face as he realized he was going to live the world's most fantastic dream, the kid i was standing next to shoved three ten-dollar bills into my hand and went running toward the field, saying something like "that's fine - now you guys owe us 90 million!" I cried - not because I was sad that we lost, but because I saw that a whole generation of children worldwide would grow up being able to look up to Ben Tomeda and the other astronauts, to emulate them, and to be a generation that followed in their footsteps.

When I woke, I was so sad to discover it wasn't true - there are still no heroes. ;-; maybe someday.

Thursday, February 19, 2009

The Forest, the Trees (FORESTS!)

Chapter I

A pocketwatch falls from its fob onto the dreary lazy-day pavement, soaking up the cool crystal rocks with its sour tumbling click-clack, signaling the end of its wretched twoferapenny life.

Chapter II

Farmer Gas rubs ointment on his paunch, desperate for relief from his own sweaty itchy summer skin. Somewhere a boiling kettle spills onto the floor, burning the stupid dog.

Chapter III

Ribbon! Ribbon sucks. Let's move on to the next one.

Chapter XIII

Clive Owen sticks out his thumb at the passing car. Off-camera, a musician normally more attentive strums a particularly passionate chord, spoiling the scene. Except Clive didn't hear 'cut'. He never moved a muscle.

Chapter VII

Inside your stomach dwells a hungry maiden. She thirsts for flesh, and parches except she feast on blood. There's a pill for that, though.

Chapter VI

The long Rockefeller horns dangle twixt your eyeballs, daring you move left or right. You take a shotgun and put an end to it.

Chapter VII

Chesapeake says to his father, "when shall the world end?"

"Now, my son, now," says his father. And it did.

This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden, and WiL Whitlark (that's me) of The Real McJesus. This week's theme: 'Forest'.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

I had a dream

I had a dream

I had a dream last night where I was tormented by the spirit of my future. He was me, a few years older, and there to heap the burden of his blame on his younger self: "Congratulations, William," he sneered at one poignant moment, "you're aiming lower than ever before."

I was sadder then than I have ever been in my life.

Just then a marine burst through the wall, splattered me with the spittle from his bulldog face, and shouted at my forehead: "YOU DO NOT JUST STAND BY WHIMPERIN' WHEN THERE'S WORK TO BE DONE! AIM HIGHER, SOLDIER!" And then, rather than exit through the hole he alredy had made, he burst through the wall a second time on his way out.

I was happier than I had ever been in my life.

- - - -

actually I am typing from this very dream. if I don't watch myself, the voices that lurk in the background will reach out and grab my mind out of its socket, and I will be lost to madness. This is a danger in every dream - that when I woke I would no longer understand the world as it is.
To my left is a large blue electric beetle. He is talking to me at fifty miles a minute, gabbing endless information through his pixie tongue. He is instructing me in fifty languages at once. To my right and slightly behind me is the dark brown-red thing that wants to kill me. He wants to eat my mind, absorb it and leave me in a state unable to control my actions. There is an old woman here who is repeating everything I say to an audience of the near-deaf, using exaggerated mouth movements and very loud booming sounds deep within the echoes of her mouth.
In front of me and slightly to my left is the Dark Father. He is 11 feet 3 inches tall, and no bigger around at the waist than the span of my hands once. He frightened me on the first day I met him, because I supposed he was an intrusion into my life. I believed he would interfere with me and not have my best interests at heart. And he frightened me the second day I met him, but I learned to not outwardly show my fear to him, and he departed without comment. And now, the third day I have known him, I know that he dwells inside me, and he is indeed me.
There are so many voices now it's hard to keep track. A ghost above me shouting, his balding face pale and visible in the night. there was a woman laughing, and several sounds that occurred at once as to make them indistinguishable. A musician playing the rhodes guitar is joined by a stand-up bass and a saxophone. Later, a drummer joins them. The man on the rhodes switches to a barrelhouse upright grand, and they play some of the old boogie-woogie. Then a Japanese man comes in and plays a weird synthesizer, organic and yet alien sounds. Everyone loved it, except the olld folks that always have a stick up their ass. Someone's singing "Vagina Dentata" (to the tune of "Hakuna Matata"). He keeps hoping the man on the ukelele will join in during one of the choruses, but he gets snubbed verse after verse as he motions the man to come up on stage.

The most marvelous aspect of this dream is how I can see without seeing. When I close my eyes, the room still appears exacly as it always does, without exception. Marvelous.

So I take up the part of me that will not listen to their fears, and I put it inside of the whale of my ears. I am hearing sounds in echo, and the perspective of the solid ground goes in and out of function, leaving me unsure of which way is up.

Something is spoiled in me, something rots within. I feel the form of my body collapsing around me, I can feel the minutia of life dissolving away in a stream of pure unconscious filter, the secret hind-mind watches in governance over the new arrivals, deciding which events in the day made long-term memories and which were forever lost. What spoils within are the memories of the day, bouncing back and forth in my brain desperately trying to stay alive, tricky memes, but damaging the brain in this way. By deciding what makes long-term and what doesn't, the secret mind lets the conscious parts of the brain rest while the hippocampus goes to work on the memories, encoding them as information within the brain, permanently wired, and forever retained.

I don't know whether the roaring sounds I hear outside, and the sound of a chainsaw, is real. But they're exceptionally loud, and thus it is difficult to say to yourself, "no, these aren't real!" becuse of the immediacy and presence of these loud sounds. There's jackhammers mixed with whalesong, sirens, televisions blaring static of every variety, an operatic soprano warming up with some scales in an unbelievably screechy high voice. And two humming tapdancers backed up with a full orchestra.

I thought as a kid the wall would extend forever, keeping out bad and good alike. It was the wall around my first elementary school, first grade, the little brick fence perhaps two feet high that told me I was somewhere safe. I remember the windmills just on the other side, a vast jungle of gardening with "McClenalls" painted in blue on an old wooden sign carved in the shape of a cow's head. Sunflowers seven feet tall and higher, and anywhere there wasn't foliage of some kind, a large red fence towering well over our heads blocked out the rest. Why this never struck me as ominous I don't know, but doesn't it stand to reason that the worst thing to have near an elementary school is convenient snatching spots? Still, I was young and thought nothing of it, and as I, reincarnated as a lizard, run across your back, and up your friend's face to get to the top of the jar, I hope you have recovered sufficiently to forgive me and let me inside where I can transform back into a human being.

I am turning into a volcano of pain. They say there is no pain in dreams, but there is volcanic pressure which turns into pain, psychological pain, discomfort. I am about to have a painful experience. My system is preparing for the shock.

Such is the shock and awe.

Saturday, February 14, 2009

Even more prolifia


I finally understand why the great artists do what they do and why.
New misc is up.

Link for those of you not yet initiated:

At that link the newest stuff will always be at the top.

Prolifia (Continued)

Blink and you'll miss it.Subject: World 1832-1839

(Click the image above for a view much increased)

John D. Rockefeller (1839)
Edwin A. Abbot (1838)
Grover Cleveland (1837)
Winslow Homer, W. S. Gilbert (1836)
Andrew Carnegie, Mark Twain (1835)
Dmitri Mendeleev (1834)
Johannes Brahms (1833)
Lewis Carroll (1832)

Friday, February 13, 2009


Abstraction! (Click on image above for higher res version)

That's the 17th of a series of images on death that I haven't titled yet. For giggles, here's the 16th in that series, subtitled "Triptych 1837":

Short Story

A Short Story About Two Strangers Meeting in Central Park:
a story whose title has exactly six times the word count of the story
and which explains itself too much
then a little too much more

"I'm from Brooklyn."

"I'm from Queens."

Thursday, February 12, 2009


This is a challenging story. I trust you will accept its challenge and see it through until the end.

by Madman in a Henhouse

"You can't be inspired unless there is something there to inspire you." Rupert's father paced across the floor. "Can't you be a little more real-world than that?"

Rupert was five. His mother (and the papers) insisted that he was the world's youngest philosopher. His father was Rupert Sr. He didn't believe the boy was a genius.

Rupert was calm. "Father, this isn't a fleeting moment. Life has continued on this earth much as it always has, with people being born, living, and dying. To say in modern language what should be ensconced in timelessness is to falsify and diminish those truths, and make them seem charming and dated to later generations that could gather so much benefit otherwise."

"You're just like your mother! Go to your room, and don't come out until you find at least three of the logical fallacies that riddle your argument!" Rupert (that is Jr.) knew that his father didn't know three logical fallacies in his argument, not because he didn't believe there weren't any, but because his father had been drinking, able therefore to follow only inebriated logic.

But before possibly cheating and telling you what Rupert so famously said to his father in that moment, the philosophy that would drive and satisfy mankind through all these centuries, I will tell a little more. Don't worry, it's only what you need to know.

Rupert's father (that is Sr.) was a tough old army man, a little tight-toothed pick-faced willow of a man, all bones and sinew and pure harnessed rage. He never once ate anything but meat. He believed in living as high on the food chain as possible, and for him nothing but meat would suffice. You may think he developed scurvy, goiters and gout, but he did not. He was made of a different clay than us: harder to form but stronger than steel when fired.

Like any man, there were some parts of Rupert's father that never came under control. His temper, for example, burning white and hot and fiery beyond belief, fouled his actions and prevented the furthering of his career beyond a point, that certain point where raw brutality no longer suffices and intelligent, democratic solutions are required in every situation. Some men never get that under control, and that's why there's a lot of sergeants and almost no generals.

"He was a quiet child, thoughtful, oh, how deeply thoughtful!" This his grandmother said of him (his mother was very young, at only fourteen, to have him and so he knew only his grandmother's touch, and presumed his mother his sister). Until recently, Rupert's father never insisted on having Rupert Jr. around. Most assumed his son making the papers four days in a row had grabbed his attention. Rupert knew the true reason: his father was still in love with Rupert's mother, whom he (he meaning Jr.) saw as sister.

Rising through the ranks of intellectuals to become the star figure in the world's passion play of deepest thinkers, Rupert was at five what no other could hope to be. It wasn't through reading, though he did read, dictionaries mostly. It was instead, impossibly, the power of reason that drove within him, that machine of logic ten billion times more powerful than counting by human means.

While we cannot know for certain what Rupert truly was, we guess this much: it is known that the brain would be able to processes literally tens of thousands of lines of logical thought if only wired properly. Rupert (that is Jr.) was wired exactly for just such cogitation. Why? There is no why. The most pure circuitry a human brain has ever developed, with only minor redundancy, hummed like a well-oiled machine in Rupert's soggy young brain. There is no why. If anyone were to mar that most delicate piece of human machinery, it ('it' here referring to the loss of human progress) would be devastating.

So when Rupert's father dropped him on his head, forever destroying the machine that was his thoughts, the intellectual community was pretty bummed out.

Still, there is that one thing, that one utterance, the one perfect cogitation that escaped Rupert's lips before his father (that is Sr.) grabbed him by his ankles and brained him on the concrete:

"You only said that because you think three is the lucky most perfect sphere!"

Why significant? Because awaking from the coma, great genius instead of greatest genius, Rupert dedicated his life to finding out what he had meant. The result has given us international discussion on the nature of life and meaning. Rupert had no reasons, but he knew: those words, those words were the most valuable in the history of time. Without them, man would have never harnessed his own instinctual urges in an effort to preserve and permit survival of the species.

Now united, our generation wanted to prove they were sufficiently advanced to require no further Darwinian polish.
The "little genes that could", so to speak. Within sixty years, we had harnessed all the world's resources and made for the stars, learning to live on the very little light deep space bestowed, and later learning to live on less, and even less, as the galaxies dissipated and entropy surrendered the universe to its infinite night.

And now, we human beings, the last organized things in the universal endgame, Send back through cracks in time messages peculiar to tell, and hope they are received. And if any of you has the wherewithal to shoot Rupert Jr. in the crib, by all fuckin' means.

This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden, and WiL Whitlark (that's me) of The Real McJesus. This week's theme: 'Superstition'.

Thursday, February 5, 2009

i am in
a great place
my ugly yellow chair
is an island of peace

Monday, February 2, 2009