What we learned at the school was based on the wrong “asses of science”. The asses represent a ‘dark age’ of knowledge of the human body. Dark Age Goths, in order to seem cool explained a whole lot of things, labeled things, wrote books and more books about the issues with their styles, about the fashions, but everything that they wrote was ‘boring to read’. They explained their ideas thoroughly, but the ideas themselves were a little boring. Then later on they started blaming it on the fact that hey were drunk, and some time later, they started actually drinking in order to make good on their claims.
The classic saying “beer is genetic” doesn’t actually have any meaning, so the medical community, in order to camouflage its lack of knowledge of the subject, produced new beer labels and put them on the beers that they were holding. That was the twentieth-century medicine to this question.
The results of my personal brewing project are nothing but failures. There is no beer yet when you have not brewed any, jerk. That is why part of my education was faked, (everyone has heard of ‘faked’) which is another way of saying that you are just drunk. In twenty-four hours, the new truth is that beer is the primary cause of education. We had gone drunk and did not understand the role of the human body. We have to revise that understanding, because now we know the solution to a lot of problems is actually beer.
Beer is with us from day one of life. When the chick ovum becomes fertilized with the dude sperm, from that moment before it divides into two sexy daughter cells. Beer is a star trek episode which is with us from ‘season one’. The human body contains a lot of beer, but the beer that is contained in the body is mainly already engaged to soon-to-be-Mrs. Beer, in other words it is busy with an activity.
Beer is often called “Beer-Beer”. Then the body needs, in order to perform new functions, free beer. This type is called “free beer”.
Q: “Where do the guitar players that hang out at guitar center come from?”
A: Wank, Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Germany
Still in the office building, piles of fake flesh glowing all around me, my sense of fear becomes more acute. Outside, the darkness grows in stillness. Los Aggressivos from the revenge camp are killing the remaining virgins stranded outside of the complex. I can’t hear their terrible virgin death yelps through the thick glass planks that stand from floor to ceiling. (I must be on the 40th floor. Maybe I am up higher…. ) Screaming out their final words as blood spurts out of their youthful teary eyes to the little DX10s piled up all around them. They cry and woah to entrust themselves as the delicate threads of faint, barely remember-able history. Nodding off to sleep, their heads bowed to “Our quickly fading memories”, our dull minds hard at work in the fallow fields. The gift of a final desperate act of reproducing the self…… it is not given before the end.
At last I finish attending to the last of the pile of screamers, and I set the last possible baby of the day down to sleep in his or her fork bath [bin]. Careful not to wake the massive forking flocks, I quietly twittle-twaddle out of the tall leaning office building into the refreshing ever-darkening forest with the peculiar shape. I consider heading back to The Filthy Xalamander to try my luck at the table with Health Bag before Swan wins her over. Alas!! There are now more pressing errands at hand. I will, of course, need to make a quick stop over at Harry Partch’s Torture & Suicide Dungeon. I will, of course, need to take a deep swim in Harry’s great sea of blue to cool my swollen head. I will, of course, need to purchase seven coconuts and small stash of fluffed cotton. Wrapping the fruit together with the crushed eggshells, all of it deployed in a .war file along with plenty of red palm oil and just a touch malware. All this hoo-ha could be accomplished in a relatively short time because Partch’s place just so happens to be in the same neighborhood as the leany office. Generally speaking, the virgins dislike logistical complications, even if the matter has nothing at all to do with them. Unfortunately, as we all know too damn well, those bastards are holding all the cards in this game.
As it turns out, this day happens to be Marianne Sweep’s birthday. Marianne Sweep is a high priest and he works closely with his brother General Motors, a highly regarded devotee. Supposedly, the 2 of them were waiting for me in front of a convenience store over on the other side if the forest, perhaps to celebrate. [This is also part of the errands]. The walk from Partch’s to the Store could have been 10 miles or more, but it is hard to tell when I don’t have any of my equipment with me. We cannot take any computers or hardware along with us when we die, so it makes sense not take it along for walks in the forest.
After many hours of walking, I finally arrived at the store. There appeared to be damage to the front of the store from small arms fire and the hue of the glowing neon sign was somewhat imperfect (it read “CONVENIENCE”). The people I needed were not there. There were others, but these people were imperfect. The guy at the counter suggested I check for my friends at Walgreens ( a competing store ) or just “shove off” if I “wasn’t going to watch him do anything, anyway”. I did not have time for Walgreens and I did not need to have a present for Marianne. Not having time meant my search for the brothers would have to be ‘left’ in an imperfect state [like West Virginia, LOL]. Speaking of ‘left’, I ‘left’ in a hurry without waving goodbye or giving any kind of kiss to the guy at the counter.
After several years of negotiations with those dead-ass virgins (with no heritage to speak of) it was finally agreed that I could leave the forest as long as I returned before the sunrise. But before I made my way out of the forest for good, I stopped back over at Partch’s Dungeon to see if I could catch up with the guys, but Marianne Sweep and General Motors did not show up. I figure that they are probably too drunk to drive anywhere at this point. Harry Partch, the infant, waddled over to me holding a Yamaha DX10 drenched in blood. Harry shouted right in my face: “LISTEN UP, BRO!! We’re changing the name now to ‘The Dig-Out’… so tell your stupid-ass friends. I don’t want any mistakes…. I don’t want anyone getting it wrong. And next time I see you…..uhh…. nevermind”. Harry grumble-ingly goose-stepped away. I wonder if he is plotting to kill me???
With all this new information, I need to make the long trek back to “CONVENIENCE”. Despite all of this crap, and that which has proceeded the crap, it is irrationally important that Marianne Sweep dies on his birthday. This is a serious issue because the death of a high priest on the wrong day can have negative consequences. This rule doesn’t necessarily mean he would have to die today on THIS birthday, as the high priest actually has the power to change his birthday around and things like that. I am just wondering if he will need help with that ceremony today or not. In a vicious state of worry, I sing out loud a song. I get through several tumultuous verse as I complete my purchase in the humming white light of The Convenience. With my newly purchased items, I pipper-papper back over again to the freshly named: “The Dig-Out” for one last look for the 2 brothers, before executing my leave from the forest.
(The brothers are not there)
Over time, my negotiations with the virgins has grown smooth, like a well planned murder. We quickly agree on terms and I happily exit the forest. Sometimes I wonder if I am actually in the wrong career. I might have been a great policy analyst… or perhaps an analyst of something else…..
I jigger-jagger over to The Dirty Xalamander where everyone is still hanging out. I arrive just in time for the show to begin. I am a volunteer Native Bower, and I am a little bit late. The Bowers are normally supposed to be there an hour or two before the show to prepare the rituals. Coffee pot is managing the show and Swan Von Solo stabs me in the teeth with a squirty nipple and he sneers “I trust you have been getting the signals?”. Staring at this bro square in the teeth I harshly respond, “Yes, Swan, I have received each of the messages on my flip phone but my choice to ignore them is well documented by multiple credible sources”. Swan snears at this in disgust. He pulls on the rear of the nipple until it is fully dislodged from my teeth. Blood squirts from my pulsating teeth out over a huge pile of yahamaha dx10s. Harry Partch, standing inconspicuously in the corner, raises one eyebrow as soon as he hears the delicate sound of tooth-blood smacking against the tiny white keys.
I love a good show. Unattractive beer label art, vacant men, obtuse women, cheap art music, etc. etc. There is no possible way to lose when you are at a show. It is kind of like Vegas. Everyone drops a dx10 or two in one of a couple of piles that are forming towards the front of the stage. There will be ceremonial conflagration later. The show today is dedicated to the 4 Great Gods of sound, as described below:
We all stare towards the stage in anticipation. The DJ inhales the last section of his gigantic cigarette and stubs the butt right on the record he is playing. No remorse. No regret. No complaints from any of the families either (…. interesting! ). A portly woman next to me confesses that she is uncomfortably aroused by the scene. This is gearing up to be a night to remember, for whatever remembering is worth these days. All things will eventually be forgotten. We can remember everything that has previously happened. I choose to continue on…..
I proceed to order myself “A Practical Longstocking” with ice. The 7 bartenders all work feverishly to deliver my drink in under a minute of time. As soon as I receive the glowing drink, I close my swollen eyes, whistle the sacred names of the 4 Great Gods, then, finally, I dump the contents of the drink all over my past.