Your Body’s Many Cries for Beer

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”.

….a long walk around the sun, bro

Health Bag fights bitterly with Chevy Vanilla  about how to correctly update and manage  love settings.   I very slowly lean closer to Swan Von Solo’s ear, and I whisper softly “I am the witness to this theater every time it happens.  Many, many times I have seen this show.  I think that this is a woman’s fight, and we should try not to get involved”.   Swan noodles with his sword in agreement.     Health Bag’s argument is that “It doesn’t make sense for us to take 2 spouses, we should just share a really good one.”   Chevy stands firm and insists that they should each have their own own spouse and that sharing one spouse doesn’t mean that it will a spouse of higher quality.   I decide again that I should not to get involved and that this was definitely a “woman’s argument”.   I filled my ears with a mixture of crushed goat bones and leftover taco grease.   I need a breath.  A walk around the block is the answer, a walk around the block would suit me just fine, a walk around the block is the only way out.
The walk around the block, which would occur on the first day after any horrible death, would last for nearly a month.   These walks had the character of a young man who had tragically lost his marbles: desperate and frantic.   Viciously drinking away the pain of some previous lives in search of youthful vivacious activity to suck bone dry,  as if it was that truth of the matter that the young man in this case were in fact a ghost.  Perhaps sometimes the suits and dresses of the dead are actually worn by the living.   Perhaps our fate has well been decided.   Perhaps there is an old book somewhere that describes exactly what is supposed to happen and no one reads books anymore unless they are blog posts.  Breathing slowly, this nightmare peels open my skin of hope.   I take a wicked huge sip off my Sticky Leg-stocking.   I hold the beverage in my tender young mouthe and count up to the number 25 while think about The Xalamander.   I am calmly breathing through my nose.   When I get to the #25,  I swallow only a portion of the sip.   Then I, with flawless reverence, spurt the remainder of my sip high into the air in reverence for The Oxone.   The droplets fall everywhere all around me… all over everyone.   Swan was mad because he hates organized religion.
As soon as Swan finished pumping back his own round, he quickly left the bar for a good walk around the block.   The obscure 80’s dance music that followed him like a dead puppy’s ghost still hung back a bit, still unnaturally pumping behind him as he quickly trottled out the door.   I dittered out after him, leaving everyone else for dead behind us at the bar.   Around the corner we find 2 bros stacked on the deck, their backs turned to the earth.  It was General Motars and Marrianne Sweep, quietly with their backs to a picnic table, pulling into the stars in a clear night.  As we watched, the sky lights slowly turned towards them, leaving subtle trails in their dilated souls.   “How much string cheese do you think it would take to build a train track up to that shit in the sky?”  Asked Motors.  Marriane responded “I’m much better with solid consistent shapes, like legos.  Liquids are more difficult.”  Silence filled the Century.   No one spoke or wrote anything down for almost 1,000 years.  Swan Von Solo flicked the safety on his glock on and off in a steady contemplative rhythms.   I sarcastically rolled my eyeballs back into my skull in honor of the 4 Audio Gods.   Swan rubbed his eyes with grave exhausation, like an old man that has outlived his family.  He moved his fingernails across his chin, gracefully caressing the mountainous razer burns he had given to himself earlier in the day.   Swan’s shaving was getting sloppier and sloppier every week.  He knew he was running out of time.  [#223wks]  The whole entire world would be out of food very soon.  (“Fact of Gono”, GONO:30-24-24-19) This had nothing to do with me, however.
Looking across the picnic table where our friends were lying silently, we saw a bouncy patch of melons deployed to production.  The melons were exploding everywhere.  Unbelievable melons for such a dark part of the year!  This hipster crap was so unbelievable.  “It’s like MELONOMANIA around here.”  Swan glee-lessly coughed out.  Swan’s ex-wife was still out in Repap.   She wasn’t even getting out on the pole until…later…probably.  Swan missed his ex-wife a lot and he knew that she would give anything to see just one of those melons bouncing or exploding when she finally came home.
 I make my way to the rumba a little bit later than usual so that I can get a steak sandwich from the owner of paradise.   After a good ol’ stompin hit,  I bump right into Health bag.  She is thinking if visiting Camp Crystal Lake, for a gender re-assignment and fake-cation.   However i feel that The Pit of Torture would be a much better fake-cation.   I want to go to The Pit, but Health Bag doesn’t not want to use up all her credits.   She has a big boss battle coming up and she will need all the luck that she can get.   (I am very worried that Health Bag will not survive the kiss of the boss.  She is not great at hopping around on moving platforms and the level she is going to do has many dangerous moving platforms above long beds of poisoned spikes.)  I try to have fun and explain to Health Bag my desire to go to The Pit of Torture.   It is literally a gigantic hole in the earth where people are tortured horribly for years until their bodies simply give up on life.   She seems to not like the idea,  and my question drifts off, remaining unanswered….
Munch later on in the night, I make my way over to the other rumba so that that I can order another steak sandwich.   “Is it true that paradise has tons of rumba?  Tell me, tell me now… oh majestic one…”  The question is sung loudly by the akpon, and the quintero responds with a bubbly subtle statement:  “I’m honestly not sure…. “.   The segundo and conga answer in turn: “Totally! we have no idea bro!”.   The owner of paradise will probably be moving his shit out into the cheaper forest if this continues for too long.  D.P. Choaderowski, self proclaimed Jedi Rumbero, claims the rumba is over at the time of death.   He continues as he quotes an email that clearly states it is not over.    Interesting….   The brothers stand firm on their position regardless of D.P.’s antics.  Marrianne Sweep works for paradise and he has spoken directly with the management team on the issue.  According to General Motors, Choaderowski, like a child, is just trying to get everyone’s attention.
Much later, When it gets even darker out, me and Swan Von Solo wample over to the 3rd Rumba.   I look around at all the drunk Chumps drinking on the pitchers mound.   I quickly pick up the limbs and approach Kata.  Swan grabs up on the mic and kicks us off real fast.   We sing songs of
failure, exclusion, and great disillusionment. We belt out jaded lines in tender harmony.  We were visited by the greatest metal rumberos of all time: Grostiquez, Disgorganto, Ocrilita, and much more.   I felt a warm bullet pierce through my outer garmets and slip slowly into my chest cavity, passing cleanly through my heart, and exit explosively out my back.   As the blood spills out I begin to dry up.   Alchohol helps to thin the blood.  I felt my mind slipping away.   I was losing my geip on the Kata.  “la clave es muy lejos”  Disgorganto said as he fired more rounds into my guts.
“I can’t sing this song and play the clave and die horibly all at the same time.
I and sure can’t relax neither!.”  I screamed with gumption.   The gun was not in my hands,  the bullets did not stop in my heart,  they passed directly through.   “those bullets are made out of black metal.”  Disgorganto laughed in his goofy Nordic way.
Later… everyone had a little bit to play.   Some chumps dominated on brutal bro-vox.   D.P. took over on the Kata,  thank god.   Breathing became more difficult as blood filled my lungs.   I picked up a 7 string guitar….covered in guts…. out of tune.   I could not hear myself because my ears were all BL0000000000DY. Marrianne Sweep dressed to impress, But Disgorganto and the others didn’t really care,  which is extremely rare because Marrianne can dress hella good for a dude.  White chicks rapping over rumba.  Everyone left immediately.
I left.
We all decided to take a much needed walk around the block.
I turned around the corner, there was a white limo waiting for me a 39 of my most carelessly selected bros.   The limo driver held the door as we all piled into this absurd car.   Inside, there was a nightmarishly loud jazz band crammed against the back of the car.   There was a full size grand piano inside the limo.   The jazz musicians all bore long black hair, and they were wearing different metal band shirts (the piano player wore  cryptosy shirt,  the bass wore a opeth shirt, etc.)  I was returning home to the womb with new jazzy sound loud in the ears.
Driving all the way back to the bar,  the night gets darker and darker.
Totally relaxed.   The jazz only got louder, and the night only became darker.  A new key was suddenly introduced by the guy playing the bass.  Everyone carefully shifted in their seat.   I reflected on the rumbas from earlier in the evening.   Was life fun?   What am I doing with my time in this limo?  The new key turns out to be rather unacceptable.    I demand that they stop at let me out.
The limo pulls up before a terrible gate.   I step out of the limo just in time… they peel out of the lot leaving me standing alone in the dark.  The loud jazz fades off as the car gets farther away.   The terrible gate before me eeks a bit as I stare silently.  I have never felt this way in front of any gate before.
I nod to the Gate Master statue on the right as I begin to sing the first song for entry.    The gate begins to shuffle a bit.   I feel comfortable and start to flow strongly.   The gate responds accordingly and begins to swing open slightly.   I transition and enter the second song for passage through the gate, and the gate continues to open.   I expand the second song and prepare myself to switch in to the final song for approval.    All of the suddenly, the gate stops moving.   I panic and I realize that I have done something wrong.   Before I can correct myself, the gate suddenly explodes with laughter, mocking my failure.   I push on the gate to try force my way through.   The crack is almost large enough for my thin soul to get through.   The whip cracks… alarm sounds.     Was the clave wrong for the second song?  Did I wait too long to switch?  As I look around me at the other musicians i see that I might have messed up the clave.   The alarm continues.   I look around at the gate people.  (they barely count as people).   “Is there anyway to shut this dog-goned thing off?”  I growl as though I am vomiting.  Several others are looking out the windows of their cages at me.   I suddenly realize what is about to happen to me.  And before I can think of anything to do or say, I needle for the lethel injection slide slowly into my spine.   The poison already shooting through my body.   I am exhausted, and there is nothing I can do.    I stumble away,  frantically searching my pockets for receipts.   I feel the injection take over my thoughts.    The gate people, they can figure it out themselves….if they want.  I don’t care what happens anymore.   I have failed, and I am tired…..
I am tired of all of this
I return to the bar,  Swan Von Solo is doing a shot of baby powder while swinging from the chandelier by his legs.   He lets go of a great redneck swoop!!  I order myself a Proper Legstocking in a huge-ass Gulpy cup from the bar.    I am awake, I hear conversations around me.   I hear doors opening.  I imagine questions being asked.

“Come Home Soon, Brometheus”

Come Home Brometheus

Come Home Brometheus

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:

GodFour GodTwo

GodThree GodOne


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.