LUCKY MAGAZINE & the Egotripper column

so sexy and kaboom!

Sun, 1 Jun 2008 09:49:27 +0800

Her name was So Sexy and his name was Ka-Boom! and they were the Adam and Eve of filth.

She would cry, ‘I’M GONNA COME!’ and He would run off and blow on a tree, yelling over his shoulder, ‘MY LOAD'S TOO GOOD FOR YOU BITCH!’

They didn’t need no snake, they were already demented.

So Sexy would wink at Ka-boom! across the jarrah dining table and swallow a whole glass of wine. Ka-boom! would take his fist and mash the potato. It was love all covered in earth and what could the good lord in heaven do, but sit back with his mouth open and wank?

So Sexy held up two fingers, spread them, and licked the gap. Ka-boom! took his shotgun from the mantelpiece and put a blast through the centre of the dining table, then spat in the hole. So Sexy got up on the splintered table, took the twin barrels in her fist and ran her tongue all over the trigger.

Ka-boom! taped So Sexy to a chair. Then lifted her up, chair and all, and set her down in a warm bath. That confused both of them. So he took her out, scratched his head, then threw in the electric hair dryer, which blew every fuse in the house.

It turned out that So Sexy was often more capable in the ideas department. Since she was less concerned with causing structural damage. Nor did So Sexy have much interest in devices.

Anyway, the sun came up. So they put the sun in a sack and drowned it. Their kind of sex didn’t like the light of day. So in the perpetual dark they fucked time and space right back to where it came from; which was from nowhere. And the fact that they were adding nothing to nothing and getting nothing in return just made perfect sense.

NOTHING + NOTHING = NOTHING

Tick. Ka-boom! had a decent sized cock but he wanted to do more damage. So he built a great device. He called it a sub-sonic jet and he broke the sound barrier with it. So Sexy said, ‘You’re not coming near me with that!’
But Ka-boom!’s teeth were dripping saliva.
So, So Sexy pretended like she really did want to be fucked with a sub-sonic jet. Then when she had it, threw it over her shoulder. It hit a city somewhere and there was screaming and falling towers.
‘ARRGGGH!’ Ka-boom! cried like a pirate. Then went and put an eye-patch on and wouldn’t talk to So Sexy even when she rubbed her full tits in his face.

They sat opposite each other in the bedroom of Eden, in the dark. They lived in silence and darkness for a while.

But So Sexy presumed, by general reckoning, that Ka-boom! would have to go off eventually. She looked impatiently at the ceiling and chewed her nails, a sub-sonic jet sounded quite fun to her right now.

Ka-boom! was out there in the night pulling down trees, damming rivers, sinking his boot into anything soft. It was worrying although normal enough. But when he started playing golf even the good lord had to raise an eyebrow.

‘WHAT KIND OF PERVERSION IS THIS!’ cried So Sexy, who was so horny she could’ve cooked a pavlova.

The sad fact was Ka-boom! was now getting off on frustration, particularly So Sexy’s, even more than he ever got off on satisfaction.
‘ARRGGGH!’ he’d roar into the dark as he sliced one off into the rough.

Who can say where the trouble comes from. But something they’d overlooked, on account of habit, was the constant lack of light. Somehow the sun had to get out of the sack; the sun not being actually dead but just chilled out. Some divine intervention would have come in handy here. But the good lord, being the lazy cunt he is, just looked away and whistled.

So Sexy and Ka-boom! were strangers in a strange dark land. And things were getting more dangerous all the time. Ka-boom!, besides his golf clubs, now had nuclear warheads and tomahawk attack choppers and tight ranks of toy soldiers. Plus he was always drunk on rum. The guy was totally fucking whack.

He turned minorities into caddies. He rolled small nations flat, in order to use them for putting greens.

So Sexy went and put on a heap of clothes for the sole purpose of filling her pockets with rocks and drowning herself in the sea. She looked like a bear crossing the cold blue sands and waded into the water with her heavy gear getting heavier. There was no sobbing; there was only the silence of an underworld of liquid. She drifted down. And as fate would have it, took a seat on the sea floor beside a sack.

Now, how she managed to be suicidal and yet still curious is a mystery but she looked over at the sack and saw a loose thread waving in the current. Without much change in facial expression she reached out and gave the thread a pull. Since the sack was all but rotten, and the sun all ready to dawn, that was all it took.

The shafts of light broke out and it was like someone had switched on one big mother fucking pool light.

And the sun rose out of the ocean and shed light all over the scene. There it was: a mean old pirate waving a fancy stick at a little white ball, and a healthy mature woman looking wet and desperate. They saw it, they knew it was madness.

So Sexy walked in her leggy way down to the green and bent down, she paused to hold her ankles then picked up the ball. With the ball she went over to the hole, and dropped it in. She looked across to the bristly, now heavier, Ka-boom!, pouted, then crushed the ball with the weighted flagpole.
And there was love again.
And it was good,
although filthy.

CRY BLOXSOME

touch that fish and you die

Sun, 1 Jun 2008 09:40:02 +0800

‘The goldfish is dead! How did this happen!’ the General Manager wanted to know.
I knew but I don’t think I could ever convey the real reasons why that golden body was broken, to him, or to the directors. I’ve had to crawl to understand because you pay dues for wisdom. But I will try to sketch the story down, for those who already know, instead of working like I’m meant to.

The general manager bought the goldfish specifically with the intention of making my life difficult. You see the GM loved the girl who loved me, Jesse, she works over there, at the desk by the window. He loved her, she loved me, and I loved nobody. Although… I was quite fond of the goldfish until she killed it.

The GM wanted a nice little ridiculous, tedious duty added to my normal list of big ridiculous, tedious duties — in order to prove that there was in fact a pecking order, and that he was chief pecker.

I was in charge of the goldfish, feed it, clean its tank, talk to it about stuff. The intention was to make me look like an unimportant arsehole from time to time, carrying buckets of water across the office and all that.

The GM is a pretty limited man. He should have known that that shit only works on people who give a fuck. I mean, my thinking is—what’s the point of being chief pecker if there’s nothing good to peck at?

So the GM cunningly devised the goldfish. This was after he told us at the bi-monthly office meeting that the office staff would be split into teams, each assigned a team leader (normal workplace practice) then added that he felt it would be fun if each team had it’s own little unofficial code name. The other staff jumped at this and started pulling names from their Hollywood strangled imaginations, like “Charlies Angels” and “The X-men”.

In bad need of some fucking irony I held up my hand (intended to mock the primary school mentality so loved in the modern workplace) and I suggested mascots, like fluffy toys etc. Then voila! One of the women who regularly tells us all about what she saw on TV the night before, suddenly screeched ‘What about an office pet!’
‘Pet rocks are cute,’ I nodded to her encouragingly.
‘Noooo,’ she whined, ‘something alive. A mouse or a goldfish.’
Now the GM was not so intoxicated by his own farts that he could not see what a sarcastic young man I was. And he wanted to step on my face for revealing, on my clever other level, that his authority amounted to nothing if he was only chief to a dozen monkeys. Therefore he took the suggestion all the more seriously. ‘I think that could be good Suzie,’ the GM said to the screech-o-matic. ‘The rodent is probably not appropriate, but a goldfish might be nice.’
‘Very cheerful,’ I nodded, once again trying to burn the house down.
‘OK, good. Can you handle that then James,’ he said to me, ‘I’ll organise some money and you can pick up a cheerful goldfish.’
Cunt. But I liked his style. Fight irony with irony. He didn’t like this thing I had going with Jesse. I glanced at Jesse, she was all smirk. We love conflict. “We” meaning everyone. Screech-o-matic was dejected now because she didn’t get to pick the goldfish. But she would be fine, once she’d had a good whinge to her boyfriend in front of Rove, between fork loads of low-budget pre-frozen slop.

Fucking unreal walls of water and fish and popping filter bubbles. The reflection of my intrigued face moved from tank front to tank front. There was this one fish that was all colourful while the others in with him were generally quite uninteresting, he was kind of swimming around all by himself, self-sufficient, a little lonely, but maintaining dignity. That was my man.

He looked like a fucking alien in the office, in his thirty centimetres of cubed water. Fanning his tangerine tail, suspended in a whole other element. The GM had simply nodded accent, not being interested in the fish, interested only in my undoing.
I set him up in front of the window, in front of Jesse’s desk. It was the best I could do for him, given the circumstances.

My efficiency rating surely began to fall in the following weeks. My stare wandered regularly to the fish. There he was, man, an alien, dislocated from the things he needed, like bugs, rocks and algae. Nothing could live in this place, it was a testament to the smallness of his brain that he didn’t jump out of his tank.

I stopped flirting with Jesse, only time I went over near her desk was to feed the fish. She would always look up from her screen and watch me feed him or wiggle my finger in the water to entertain him. She would watch me the whole time, and sometimes I’d go back to my desk and she’d still be staring right at me.

‘How’s your fish,’ she said to me at the energy vending machine. She knew exactly how the fish was, of course, he was swimming right there in front of her all day. So I didn’t know what she was driving at. Hesitatingly I said: ‘Good.’ And walked away. After I’d fed my fish and sat down again Jesse came over and said, without any hello or anything, ‘When you come over to feed your fish could you talk to me as well, please.’ And walked off.

I went out one lunchtime and bought some rocks and aquatic plants for the fish tank. That same day after work, when I was restyling the fish’s habitat, I happened to look out the window and saw Jesse and the GM getting into the GM’s imported car. The pangs of jealousy weren’t that bad, I sat down and watched the fish float through the better world I was making for him.

Next day the GM said good morning to me in a bright and loud way, but somehow cautious, cagey I think is the word. Jesse looked no brighter, she was not talking to me anymore, she watched the fish sometimes. Staring at it with her finger-tips above her keyboard. Some contracted publicity people came through that day, they had been contracted to freshen the corporation’s internal image, our morale. They took the goldfish angle, they said it would look good in photos, us at work and the goldfish at swim.

The boss got props off the directors, the goldfish demonstrated to them that the GM had initiative and a knack for creating workplace harmony, and cost effectively too. The GM was high on the tiger after that — finally making some progress with Jesse, getting praise from above, and making a nice display to everyone of my lowliness as I changed the tank water and mopped algae from the glass. It didn’t really occur to him that I’d never engaged in a more satisfactory task in my whole working life.

Screech-o-matic brought a plastic castle to work and put it in the tank without even asking me. There I was trying to create some harmony in the fish’s life and she’s dropping in this fucking 2-dollar-shop debris. I had to make up some bullshit about the fish getting stuck inside, and took it out.

Jesse caught me in the carpark, ‘You don’t care about me do you?’
‘I care,’ I said.
‘You don’t care if I see other people?’
‘You sound like my girlfriend,’ I said.
‘So I’m not your girlfriend anymore?’
‘Weren’t we just seeing what happens? I though it was just going to be a casual easy thing.’
‘We’ve been sleeping together for six months.’
‘Has it been that long,’ I said.
She didn’t seem able to say anything after that, she just stared as tears welled up in her eyes. I had to walk away.

I bought the fish a bigger tank and some extra plants and it was a joy to see him pass like a ribbon through his own private world.
The goldfish was a big hit, the internal relations material came out and people from all over the building were coming to visit. The easy ways of the goldfish came to officially symbolise the health of workers within the corporation, happy and worry free, happy just to be there.

The fish symbolised something completely different for me.

While Jesse was looking plainer, losing colour, not bothering with make up; it was becoming obvious that the GM was going in the exact opposite direction. A nice new suit and a more fashionable hairstyle, a smiley hello for everyone. After work Jesse dropped into the passenger’s seat of the GM’s car and shut herself in. I wanted more company for the goldfish, I wanted a whole school of goldfish so they could swim and be happy together.

The GM got a management award. An industry magazine did a story on him and took a photo of him beaming in his snazzy suit, with his hand on the fish tank. We all pretended not to watch and tapped at our computers robotically while he told them that life in our office had become more colourful and generally a warmer place to work.

Winter was coming. Dead leaves seemed to eject from the branches. I stood at the window and watched them spiral down. Jesse spoke to me, I was surprised, I’d forgotten she was there, she’d become so still and colourless, she said: ‘Strange to see you looking out of your tank, you seem to like looking into his tank better.’ Her eyes looked sore, and more prominent because her hair was tied back.
‘You don’t look that well,’ I said to her in what I thought was a well-meaning way. She picked up her keyboard with both hands and threw it forward into her screen, ‘Do I look ugly!’ she yelled at me, ‘am I ugly!’ She stood up, kicking her chair back on its rollers, and walked out crying, towards the toilets. I went to my desk and saw the screech-o-matic staring at me. The screech finally had an event in her life that resembled what she’d seen on TV, you could feel her slurping it in through her eyeballs, into the plastic-castle of her mind. Real life was so good for Suzie when it resembled TV.

The GM came to my desk and I stared the cunt in the face. He wanted to say something about the incident, to stamp his authority on me whilst simultaneously demonstrating his much lauded management skills. He was fucking meat if he opened his mouth, he was going to get some serious abuse, not to mention that I was going to send rumours all the way to the directors about a GM sticking it to a female underling.

He looked at me, sensed that something here was too hot for his tepid nature, hesitated with a slight parting of his lips and then walked off. The only living thing in this whole office, if not the whole building, that wasn’t wigging out on one form of insanity or another was the goldfish, and he had a brain smaller than a pinhead. Not to mention that he was my pride and joy, nobody else in the office received that kind of care and attention.

I saw Jesse turn her back on the GM in the carpark, and walk away. To the train station, I thought. The GM stood and watched her go, then got into his car and drove off in the other direction. I turned away from the window and leaned over the fish tank. The goldfish knew me so well now that when I leaned over the water he rose to the surface, popped his face out, and made little hungry gulps at the air. It felt wrong that he should be alone, limited to a tank, an office, a building, a city, and a world that never cared.

Jesse hadn’t actually gone to the train station, she was back in the building, I was having a lie down on the couch in the GM’s office. I never felt the need to hurry back to my house anymore, home being where the heart is, and that goldfish was my heart. So through the GM’s door I saw Jesse come back in and stand in front of the fish tank, the fish would have come innocently to the surface, and Jesse reached in, grabbed the fish in her right fist and threw it hard into the floor.

I yelped out, not being able to form words in panic, and sprang off the couch, Jesse flinched badly, in shock at discovering I was there; that I had seen her crime. She still stood over the fish, though staring at me with her mouth open. I shoved her away from the tank — she was frozen — and put the body of the goldfish back into the water. But his body was broken, he was not alive anymore.

I yelled everything I had at Jesse, I let her have every bit of abuse I’d stored up, I had a body and a mind full of it, a whole stock, a body load that had been building day after day in this miserable, inhuman, regimented, lie-ridden, insane debasement of humanity, this perversion of life itself, everything that they so disgustingly called an efficient workplace, that they called an ordinary life.

She received my abuse emotionally at first but as I went on she turned her face away and hardened. A security guy came in the door, checking what the noise was, and I threw anything I could find at him, staplers, files, plastic toys, fish food, keyboards, coffee cups. I was yelling at him: ‘SECURITY! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU SECURING FAGGOT CUNT!’

Misery was rife, and the tiny moments of colour were dead. I was angry, but I still know that everything I said was true. Jesse killed the goldfish for the same reason that I cared for it and when the security guard had backed out the door I escaped out the fire exit.

The next day, that being today, there were questions to be answered. The security guard came in and pointed the finger. I took little interest in the accusations directed at me, I was too busy sending obscene emails to important clients. The fish was still in the tank, floating there dead, screech-o-matic stood up and told us she was going to flush it down the toilet but there was no way she was getting her hands on it, dead or alive. I yelled at her across the room, ‘TOUCH THAT FISH AND YOU DIE!’ She sat back down.

The security guard had pointed out Jesse as well, so the GM was over at her desk, leaning down, pumping her for information. She was happy enough to tell him that I’d gone out of control because someone had killed my goldfish, but she was mute on the point of who had killed the goldfish. She always had been spineless. The GM was having a hellava morning, going desk to desk, picking up one bit of information over here, another bit over there, trying not to disrupt workflow, or efficiency ratings, despite the force of absurdity. By lunchtime he was looking like Mick Jagger, buckled wrists on his hips. Then he just stopped and yelled: ‘The goldfish is dead! How did this happen!’

So I got up, walked over to the table in front of the window, in front of Jesse, picked up the tank with the dead fish still in it, and threw it through the plate glass window. I saw the beauty, of the triangular shards, opening like a flower to the real day.

This would be a matter for the directors, so I’ll just finish writing here, and wait to see what they do with me. Because there is no escape after all. Only challenges to the world that holds your heart a prisoner, and the punishments for setting it free.

CRY BLOXSOME

the apocalypse effect

Thu, 22 May 2008 17:13:20 +0800

I grew up in Western Australia, with bogans. We wore lumberjack shirts, Billabong T-shirts, Desert Boots, corduroy shorts (yes sir) and footy socks, which had horizontal bands of opposing colours and when pulled up to their full height came up to your knees. Which meant you looked like Fat Cat, or at least a children’s entertainer.

So you hooked up with your bogan mates, got into a sedan, picked up the dude with the acid, then picked up a stupid amount of either VB or EB (any beer with a two letter name), then drove an hour out of the city, up the coast, to anywhere they had sand dunes and only a small regional police presence.

If you all took the acid in the car, on the way up, you were fucked by the time you got to the town. The level of anxiety went through the padded roof at the sight of civilisation beyond the paddocks. Usually you just kept driving straight through town then turned off down a white beach track, then you just kept driving until you got bogged.

Once bogged, everybody would drink like fucking troopers in the hope of feeling sane again. No fucking chance. Pretty soon you fall out of your deckchairs and start trying to slither around in the sand because you’ve turned into a snake. Then you realise you’ve got legs, figure that means you’re a kangaroo, and try to hop off into the scrub (for safety).

Now, I shit you not, there we were, bogged on this sandy track at night slithering and hopping around the car, when up drives a military jeep. It was nothing less than the SAS, the Special Air Services, Australia’s favourite people killers, full respect to them though, Be All You Can Be, although, pity when all you can be is armed and violent.

Hanyway, these commandos hopped out of the jeep, so we all just played it cool, I was a rabbit at this stage so I was just staring into their headlights.

I didn’t know what they wanted, but everything became clear when they hooked a winch to our car and dragged it off the track, in record time too, and with out killing anyone, a real testament to human organization, and the importance of “chain of command”.

Us, on the other hand, we had no chain of command, we didn’t even have a chain. We had heads full of acid and a gut full of poor quality working man’s beer. Then we had machetes, yes, sharp broad bladed two-foot-long stainless steel weapons, I don’t know why. But whenever we went on acid adventures we always used the same checklist:
LSD
beer
two cans of baked beans (one to eat, one to blow up in the fire)
a swag (sleeping bag rolled inside, no pillow)
a folding deckchair
The Doors tape
sunscreen
rollie tobacco, papers & lighter
machete

The commandos scared us, so it was no more animals, we’d gone through the animals stage, now we were primitive huntsmen, the only difference between us and primitive huntsmen is that primitive huntsman were probably careful about where they were swinging their weapons. We didn’t give a fuck! One time there was this dense scrub next to where we camped, one dude just got up and started hacking into it in the firelight (sometimes the anxiety was so bad you just felt safer if you were attacking something). He actually made good progress and pretty soon you couldn’t see him anymore, you could just hear him inside the foliage, hacking away, going deeper and deeper.

Other dudes followed him in, and pretty soon there was just this team of extremely acid fucked young males swinging blades manically into the darkness, and no one said anything, everything was quiet, you could just hear the fire crackling and this continual chopping that was getting further away. Then all of a sudden this fucking machete comes flying, spinning, out of the tunnel and hits the sand next to the fire. Then you hear the chopping stop, then out of the dark there’s this insane laughter. The dude deepest in the tunnel had gone for a huge back-swing and lost grip on his handle, the machete had gone flying through the tunnel giving the other dudes in the tunnel crew-cuts.

But once they had gotten over the fact that a homicide had been avoided by just centimetres it was hilarious, they came out and jumped around in the fire and pushed people over in their deckchairs. The Doors tape was up so loud in the car it was distorting and now this trip was on, now it was Lord of the Flies time. You didn’t want to look into people’s faces, there was some scary shit going on in those faces, there in the firelight.

For safety, everybody disappeared, one by one every body slipped away into the scrub and then away up into the dunes, or down to the Indian Ocean where you could hide by holding your breath under water. At the camp the guys who had already crossed the civilisation threshold were throwing all the wood on the fire, so that the flames were as high as a man, and then they were running through it. I’ve been there, so I can describe what goes on, first the acid makes you afraid, deeply afraid, then it gets so bad the only escape is to go insane, so you do, and the next thing you know the fear has flipped you into a state where you’re almost entirely fearless. The more dangerous it gets the more excited you get so the more dangerous you get… and so on, until you reach critical excitement where nothing can kill you. The Apocalypse Effect.

So pretty soon all the firewood was gone and there’s practically no one left at camp, the fire goes out… then there really is no one left at camp, everyone, in varying states of insanity, armed with machetes, is out there under the moon in the vast silence alone. That’s when it gets all holy fucking shit dot com.

You see things. Branches turn into snakes, men are suddenly standing up ahead in the darkness, you look up at a trees and the branches are full of sleeping birds, there’s a ring around the moon. And you’ve got both hands on the handle of your machete fully prepared to kill if attacked.

The in-sanest thing of all is actually coming across one of the others. It’s not like you see him up ahead and yell: ‘How’s it going, lovely night for a stroll’. No, what happens is you’re crawling up a sand dune with a machete between your teeth in order to take cover behind the tree-line when you see a black shape dash across the dune-top. This means it’s time to bolt like fuck, which you do. Only to discover that in the darkness you’re now face to face with some no-shirt fifty-yard-stare tour-of-duty mother fucker with his footy socks pulled right up to his knees for snake protection. His white knuckles catching moon glow on the handle of his machete. The face is familiar, but this is not the dude you sat next to in home ecc.
And all he says, with an emotionless voice is: ‘I thought you were made of sand.’

One time, I picked up this forked branch because it looked like huge moose antlers and held it over my head and walked around like that because it made me feel safe, true historical record, and then when I saw one of my friends walking across no-mans-land I ran at him from like a kilometre away, with antlers and everything. He actually screamed, but he didn’t run, he just stood there screaming with a machete ready to split my head in half like a melon. Recognising that I was a human with a branch on my head didn’t really seem to change the situation for him, which was fine with me so I just kept charging straight past him across the plains. You wouldn’t believe how good it felt, for once, to be a moose.

So there you go, nothing we did on those trips had much to do with consumer capitalism, which is why most of it was illegal. When you see a man-moose under the moon charging down another man dressed like fat-cat who’s preparing to split the man-moose in half with a broad blade, you suddenly don’t see much sense in a new ipod, or a hire purchase lounge suite, or getting home to watch Rove, it’s the difference between slavery and freedom, I presume. But I can definitely see why people don’t choose freedom, because you pay for it with fear.

CRY BLOXSOME

Raping the third eye

Tue, 29 Apr 2008 20:17:31 +0800

I tell you what, if there was still money in the circus I'd change my name to Zozo and practice falling down.

I have taken the 'dick' of knowledge and been trying to force it into the small opening of my third eye - that being the eye in the middle of my forehead which sees reality as it truly is. It all started when I took a pill on the rail of a crowded party boat and stared at the city for five hours.
A revelation ensued.
I don't know how much I should trust these special insights because, frankly, my two most common drug induced revelations have been that I should either,

1. get back together with this girl I used to love.
Or
2. build an underground house and cover the roof with sticks.

But this time I stood there and looked out at the city, watched ships unloading cargo, looked at men under massive machinery, and asked myself: 'Why do people work their lives away in order to buy total shit?'

Now, maybe you're thinking to yourself: 'So what, if I spend five days working and two days consuming. That doesn't necessarily mean I'm a fucking duped, fucking no-brain, fucking slave virus.'

Well, maybe you're not but I know I spend my slave days in a shining hub of consumer capitalism, disguised as a bookstore associate. I have seen the gold we sell, and say what you want about my tertiary education, but there seems to be something wrong with the texts I have put in carry bags. Here are just a few example titles:

• "I Could Do Anything, If Only I Knew What It Was"
• "What Type Am I: Discover Who You Really Are"
• "I'm OK-You're OK"
• "The Self-hypnosis Kit"

Getting back to why people work their lives away in order to buy total shit. The answer as it turns out -I know you're gonna love this- the answer, I believe, is in an ancient text that goes:

IN THE LAND OF THE BLIND,
THE ONE EYED MAN IS KING.

My interpretation of that epithet goes, the individual who has got at least something figured out, has got the inside track on the majority who have got nothing figured out.

Here's what I mean, as I see it, buying anything at all has a drug-like effect that distracts you from the fact that life is a short happy-sad disorienting spin towards death.
Unlike all the other animals orbiting the sun on this rock, we carry around the knowledge that we are going to die, and we don't want that knowledge. We have to forget, we want to be blind, and we will pay anything to be blinded. Capitalists know it, so they sell us shit. Capitalists are the one eyed kings.

Their one insight, their one eye, is that they know that we don't love what we buy. Not nearly as much as we love buying it.

So there I was on the rail of a crowded party boat. A girl tapped me on the shoulder to say 'Hi'. I jumped. And she went, 'Sorry, sorry,' and walked away.

As for the worth of my revelation that "we are blinded because we want to be", it hasn't graduated me to the level of one eyed king. The one eyed kings wouldn't even give me the pleasure of farting in my mouth. So I've got my doubts about the legitimacy of my insight. Maybe, technically, I have not actually raped my third eye, maybe I've only just, like, assaulted it with a dildo.

CRY BLOXSOME

Existentialism for people who went to school way out in the suburbs where the white slaves live

Tue, 29 Apr 2008 20:02:02 +0800

Imagine you’re at the bookstore and there’s a yuppie in line in front of you.

The yuppie gets to the register and the register slave goes: ‘Do you need a bag?’ And the Yuppie goes: ‘Um, no…actually…yes, I probably should, no no, hang on, maybe not. No. Actually, Jesus, yes.’
Then the yuppie, to cover over the embarrassingly obvious fact that s/he is an indecisive piece-of-shit, goes: ‘Sorry, having an existential dilemma.’

I get upset at this particular brand of clean shoed, wok stirring, marketing graduate, wit because I’m guessing they wouldn’t actually know the truly Godless black spin mind fuck fission of existentialism even if it turned into a thousand frequent flyer points and got them a seat on a plane headed straight up the cavernous arse of death itself.

Or maybe they would, but anyway that’s not my point. Here’s my point:
Modern thought can easily break your mind, and probably your heart, that’s a fact. And then afterwards, if you’re good, it might expand both.

So they don’t teach existentialism out in the suburbs because, it seems to me, clear thinking, clear-hearted people make crap slaves. A crap slave (that’s someone who can think and love) is more sceptical, less productive, and much much harder to fuck in the arse.

So Sartre was a Frenchman. And at the end of WWII he came up with a philosophy called existentialism. After WWII a lot of people had noticed that humanity was pretty much just about as insane as it always had been. But now there was also science which had, with the use of empirical methods, increased the efficiency of our insanity by about a million percent.

So Sartre and others tried to combat flamboyant stupidity by developing ways of thinking that you might call ‘saner’ on the grounds that they were developed in the hope of being less likely to result in mass horror and misery.

Existentialism, as far as I understand it, says that, where human existence is concerned, form comes before function. Which should give you freedom. If you are all form and no function then you should be able to choose for yourself what to do with your form. He was saying something like: a pair of scissors has been specifically designed to cut paper, and therefore a good pair of scissors cuts paper. But a human has not been designed for any specific purpose. So it’s impossible to say what a ‘good’ human should be doing.

A human has choices, Sartre used as his proof the example of suicide. If you haven’t committed suicide then you have chosen to live. That’s his proof that we are always, in essence, free.

And it’s all well and good to say “be what you want to be”, but you’ve gotta wade into a whole sea of confusion before you can decide what there is that is worth being. Personally, I’m anchored down by one iron existential dilemma. I’ll tell you what it is, not because I think you care, but because it’s a good example. After I sink right down to it, there is only one problem for me to solve. One question for me to answer: Do I care about humanity, or don’t I?

What I am asking myself is: does a good human care about other humans or not. The decision is up to me, and I don’t know how to make it. Come around to my house and watch me drown sometime.
Fucking: ‘I care…I don’t care…I care…on and on until I just pray for death.

If only I could just stop choosing life.

Anyway, that’s existentialism, I think.

CRY BLOXSOME

Ill-at-ease astronaut

Sat, 26 Apr 2008 21:24:12 +0800

As a former Soviet astronaut, now working as a chicken sexer in a shed somewhere outside Lancelin, I am beginning to have doubts about whether love really is all you need.

I am not a mathematician (even though I am a former Soviet astronaut) but my calculations show that the idea of love exists in contradiction to the principles of survival. A complete faith in true love puts the possibility of one’s own future in doubt.

Which is not so bad in itself, since I have no special desire to see the future. Tomorrow will bring all the problems of today shrouded in the fog of the day before and the dream of the day after. All things considered humanity has not moved a millimetre from the moment it has been stuck in for all eternity.

Which at one point in my life lead me to the belief that this one long moment called eternity is Hell. Not that I believe in Hell now anymore than I believe in the linear progression of time.

I have no beliefs. A human with beliefs is rigid. In a world of ever changing names the rigid are snapped like dry spaghetti. That’s what happened to me, how I went from astronaut to chicken sexer. I had beliefs. I believed in space travel, which is another way of saying I believed in exploration, which is another way of saying I believed in the universal adventure, which is another way of saying I believed there was something out there to be found.

I was briefed, I was suited, I waved to the crowd and marched down the platform. I had been chosen to leave the Earth on this the inaugural MIR mission because the woman I loved was dead. She had been accidentally shot to death at birthday celebrations in honour of General Kockov. Soldiers were firing Kalashnikovs into the air and the lead from one of those shots went all the up to the fringes of the atmosphere then fell all the way down to my true love’s skull.

Her meaningless death only intensified my search for a meaning I was unaware I believed in. The search lead me to French Philosophy and on that inaugural MIR mission I took a book called The Myth of Sisyphus by Camus (pronounced Kay-moo).

In the perpetual night-time of our month long orbit I read Camus and came to see as he saw that the Universe is not absurd. According to him there is only one absurd thing in the entire universe and that is the human desire to find meaning in a meaningless universe.

A human is a being that invents the idea that there is a meaning and then goes insane over it’s inability to find it!

So there I was at the pinnacle of human achievement, floating upside-down in a tracksuit with nothing outside the window of my tin-can but the world itself. An amazing but perfectly meaningless world where ever-increasing numbers of absurd creatures run around constantly tormenting each other in order to survive for no reason at all.

And yet it occurred to me that when my true love was alive I could take all that in my stride. So the thought occurred to me, way out there in the cosmos, that love really is all you need. One hundred and fifteen kilometres above the Earth, drifting in zero gravity, I feverishly ranted the logic of this idea to my crew mates.

Ba-bao.

I don’t talk about love anymore. I maintain realism, so let me say to you what I was saying to a baby chicken (male, by the way) the other day: “One day you’re going to grow up, get hung from a conveyor belt, stunned by electricity, and then have your head sliced off by a circular saw.” It is closer to reality than the rule of love, I think. But anyway, after that I said to the little chicken, I said: “This is going to be the last kind touch you are ever going to feel.” Then I patted him on the head so that both his eyes closed, and dropped him down the metal chute.

CRY BLOXSOME

Stir-fry brass horse

Sat, 26 Apr 2008 21:10:39 +0800

INGREDIENTS

• Six pack of beer • 1 small brass horse statue • Your house-mate’s sister (call her Kristy) • 1 handful of hepatitis-B warning postcards • 1 saddle blanket (or tea-towel) • old coffee grounds from the percolator • detergent • 1 pack of chips (Ham & Mustard Flavour) • 1 egg • fresh basil

METHOD

Put the wok on the hot-plate to warm. Quickly drink the whole six-pack,
being careful to avoid anyone who is telling you this is a bad idea.

Put the brass horse in the wok. Or if it’s too big for the wok
just lay it across the top.

Take your housemate’s sister, call her Kristy, and stand her beside
you in front of the wok. Get her to say things like ‘You’re
fucking crazy’ or ‘Is the brass horse tender yet.’

Throw in the hepatitis warning postcards, and increase the heat until
they’re smoking.

Chuck in the packet of chips. Don’t open the packet, just chuck
it in.

When that begins melting, throw in the saddle blanket, the old coffee
grounds and the detergent.

Move back away from the wok and throw the egg. Don’t worry about
aiming: if Allah wills it, the egg will find the wok.

Add a pinch of fresh basil and let it simmer.

When people walk past and say: ‘What the fuck is that!’ Reply:
‘Stir-fry brass horse.’

Allow to cool. Then walk away and leave it for your housemates to clean
up in the morning.

SERVES

No purpose at all.

CRY BLOXSOME

Why can’t I get just one fuck

Wed, 23 Apr 2008 22:38:29 +0800

Firstly, don’t say you don’t want to marry money. Now shut the fuck up. I know you do. It’s the difference between working for the rest of your life and working-on-your-tan the rest of your life.

1. The first step to marrying money (this is especially important) is make sure the person you plan to mine actually has money. Practically anyone can just stroll into a shop and buy boat shoes. Even people who earn under twenty thousand and pay their taxes.

2. Remember, just because someone is rude, and looks at you like you just burped whiskey in their face, doesn’t necessarily mean they have money. They might be an artist. Or just be an ordinary person who feels sick.

3. Height is the key! The wealthier a man is the longer he expects his wife’s legs to be. The result is tall children. In the year 3004 the rich are going to be so fucking massive that when the revolution begins it will be a simple matter of disintegrating everyone over six foot.

4. But back to the present, there is also a tendency among the wealthy (and their imitators) towards wearing the collar ‘up’. The ‘up’ position connotates wealth and leisure. As wealth and leisure go hand-in-glove. Historically, lily white pampered English cunts would flip their collars up whilst indulging in leisure activities to keep the weather of their soft necks. The fact that you had a soft neck meant that you were wealthy because working class cunts, on the other hand, had necks as tough as crack-whores vaginas. Your collar up meant you were up to fuck-all, which meant your daddy owned every cunt.

5. So if you’re talking to some stud at a party who has got his collar up, don’t even smile at his jokes. But if he is tall as well – laugh often, and arrange a walk outside to see what kind of car he drives.

6. This is where it gets more difficult. You’re standing outside a party, in the night, with a tall young man with his collar up. If you look really deeply into his pupils at this point you would be able to read, written across the inside rear wall of his eyeballs in red neon: I WANT TO FINGER YOUR VIRGIN PUSSY. In a modern typeface, maybe Futura-bold, or Impact Condensed, definitely something sans serif.

7. Right, if the car has got spoilers and mags and pin striping and shit – run straight back inside, quickly. Rich white kids don’t need their car to look like a mutant shark on wheels. Show me a luxury-imported car with anything like a spoiler, and I will show you a rich man’s sense of humour.

8. If it’s a Mercedes, all well and good, you know he can at least pay for the abortion. But if he has got something mental, like a 1942 WWII U.S. combat jeep, in combat mode i.e. windshield pushed down flat on the bonnet, with the keys still in the ignition because like ‘who gives a fuck,’ then not only should you let him do what ever he likes to you, let him do it from behind and make whimpering noises to cover over the fact that you keep hearing the sound: ching-ching!

9.Ok ok, that was fun. But now, I think, comes the difficult part. If two rich people marry then their families get twice as rich, and it’s smiles all round. If rich marries poor, the divorce could hurt the rich family real bad. So if they find out you’re poor too early it could spell: Ba-Bao.

10. So pretend you’re not poor!
I’d start with a subscription to Italian Vogue but I don’t think a full-time job in retail will even pay for a handbag. As for coming up with stories from ladies college…you might be better off pretending your daddy was a ship’s captain and you spent your girlhood being tutored by a governess with a magic umbrella.

11. But don’t lose hope, don’t, don’t lose it. It’s up to you lone suburban girl, you’ve got to pull up your skirt and crush social division between your thighs. You can do it… or at least I think you can… maybe you can’t. If not, then join me in my fight against injustice. I call it: The Revolution. To join up just dial 1800-SEX-WITH-CRY.

CRY BLOXSOME

the man who invented nothing

Mon, 7 Apr 2008 11:41:19 +0800

I am certain that I will be murdered, or imprisoned for life, quite soon, but first I have this story to tell about myself and about Nothing™.

Nothing™ is exactly that, and I discovered it.

The way to explain it is from right here in my box-seat looking down at these crowded stadium walls. This view is what a section of high-energy matter (heated steel, for example) looks like under an electron microscope. Vibrating particles all tightly packed together. It is chaos yet inexplicably self arranged into order. These particles (these people) constantly push away from each other yet at the next moment pull themselves back together, the result is a precariously stable cohesion.

To get to the point though, because I know I don’t have long, in the process of my general enquires into this behaviour I discovered that the process of cohesion creates a mental state in which the attention of a subject (any individual) is irresistibly drawn to absence. We madly desire to fill up empty spaces – with colour, sound, movement, or anything.

So I patented that discovery as my personal intellectual property and approached a leading agency in the field of advertising. I sold the agency the idea that a billboard, or a television commercial, or a radio slot, or even a label, which is void of colour or sound or movement will draw the attention of the public more effectively than, lets say, sex. The public will not know why, and in truth neither do I. I only understand it as a principle, I do not know why insomuch as its deepest meaning escapes me.

For example, if there were a square space in this mass of people below me and that space was removed of all objects and painted white my gaze would continually return to it, regardless of my awareness of the principle. And if I examined my emotions closely I would discover that I was desperately hoping for someone to wander into it.
True to my discovery, Nothing™ became an unprecedented phenomenon. A line of products were established and these products were attached to a brand which consisted of Nothing™.

(You might be wondering by now why the word Nothing™ is capitalised and trade marked every time. Well the brand which utilises Nothing™ has such a monolithic presence throughout the globe now that it owns a software monopoly, and as a consequence there is only one word-processing program and it converts the noun to a proper noun and attaches the trademark symbol automatically. All text communication is electronic so consequently that noun no longer exists, nor does its meaning. Nothing™ no longer denotes absence, Nothing™ is now something.)

In every country where people could afford to buy the brand’s line of products advertising consisting of Nothing™ began to appear. On freeways and highways everywhere people were staring at big empty billboards. In clothing stores people were holding the nametags dangling from articles and turning them over and over. Nothing™ would be played on the radio and people would listen intently to silence.

In a short time the brand which utilised Nothing™ became intensely powerful.

Things got very bad fast. The brand grew so quickly that it had the money to remove obstacles that might have slowed further growth. Without any one person really controlling it the brand worked tirelessly to become an international monopoly. Corrupt governments were bought first. Even early on I was taken to poorer countries on official tours to see supermarkets where there were isles and isles of shelves loaded with Nothing™.

In other countries the buying of governments took longer. There were many state officials and corporate executives committed to the idea of freedom. But reluctantly I have come to the conclusion, only in the presence of overwhelming evidence, that one out of four people is unable to conceive of a world outside of themselves. One out of four people demonstrate all the qualities of idiocy. The idiots were bought, and once the idiots had money they found other idiots who would provide the services necessary to buckle the wills of non-idiots.

The achievements of civilisation really did fall like dominoes. And everything turned white.

The brand owned the world and consequently the brand became rigid. So even when its highest executives looked out on a world of Nothing™, and the principle took effect and they wished for some sort of interference, there was Nothing™ they could do.

Now even back when the brand took its first hold there were signs that deep social and cultural change was taking place. But the public, which is accustomed to living habitually, which navigates according to how things used to be, because it never perceives the actual, wilfully misunderstood the signs of change. They really were prepared to drive off a cliff rather than admit the lay of the land had changed.

There was one simple sign: graffiti was becoming a menace. It sounds simple but even simple paintings or scrawls with no overt meaning had become dangerously political. All debates about the aesthetics of graffiti aside, the issue was entirely about the invasion of white space. It suggested unrest, and according to the principle I had discovered, this was the sign of an unrest that would spread inexplicably. People were naturally going to try and put something where there was Nothing™.

The brand had seen the principle prove itself, so the brand was also quick to see the significance of graffiti. In totalitarian countries the brand directly bribed governments, the military, and the police. The result for anyone who invaded Nothing™ was brutality, and often imprisonment without trial.

In democratic countries the result was similar but the course was somewhat different. The money that went into government departments mostly went to creating public education programs. These ‘education programs’ produced a common feeling among the public that the invasion of Nothing™ (graffiti) was either wasteful or anti-social or both. Most importantly those campaigns made it clear that the normal hardworking citizen was paying dearly for the ‘invasion problem’.

The result was brutal confrontations between invaders and their media created opposition: concerned members of the community. Also, an increase in negative public opinion led politicians to take up the popular position of opposition to what was now called ‘invasion’. They demanded it was an ‘outrage’, which led to the consequent introduction of official invasion laws and prison sentences for repeat offenders.

But still it didn’t stop, as I could have predicted long before the trouble began, and the brand became vicious. The invasion of Nothing™ was equated with evil. It was insinuated in the media and in general conversation that invasion of Nothing™ was something which fundamentally abnormal people did to pass the time between committing murders, gang rapes, and/or making child pornography. One in four members of the public believed this, the other three calculated that whether it was truth or lies, or partly both, there was plenty to be afraid of, and so chose not to disagree.

The brand put together highly trained security outfits called the N.O.P. (Nothing™ Order Police). They moved hard and fast on anyone who was under even slight suspicion, so there was no resistance to brand violence, murder and imprisonment. The brand’s spokespeople stood in front of pure white backdrops and told the media that evil had been: ‘wiped out’. Galleries of reporters and journalists chuckled obediently at the pun, but nervously.

As such I must unhappily report that a completely organically originating form of resistance has effectively been suppressed. And with it the only clearly discernable sign that almost everywhere, simultaneously, basic human impulses are being dammed. Not since the days when the term heresy was coined has something so natural been repressed so forcefully.

My regret at seeing organic human expression crushed, my fear at understanding how power works, and my bitter disappointment at knowing that in this massive crowd below one idiot in four controls the other reasonable and fair-minded three, led me to become out-spoken on these very issues.

So I am not surprised that I have just heard the footsteps of two men stop outside my door. I know what they are here for. Anyway, I am done. Soon my research will be completed by the silenced weapon placed against my skull. The true discovery of Nothing™. So as my final message, in the hope that this will not be destroyed, I want to record that I regret what I have done. I regret having made this absence profitable, I have separated the rules of our hearts from the rules of state, we should always rage against Nothing™, it has never been necessary to understand why.

CRY BLOXSOME

get fucked archimedes principle

Tue, 1 Apr 2008 21:22:11 +0800

Three American sailors in civilian gear were on the train arguing about how come their aircraft carrier didn’t just sink. They were in their late teens or early twenties and had been crossing the world without out understanding how the vessel they depended upon stayed afloat. Now they were on a train leaving Fremantle looking at the carrier out the train window and thinking how the fuck does that thing float.

It was the sailor with the placid eyes and half-centimetre gaps between all his teeth that was finally man enough to ask the question, ‘How does it float?’. Which the leader of the three, and surely the cleverest one, took up with, ‘Displacement, dude.’

Gap teeth (or Tooths as I will call him) asked what “displacement” was and the clever one (Mt Cleverest) went on to prove that he didn’t actually know. The third sailor, who was taking up two seats reserved for old people and/or spastics, scratched his head (I named him Huh?).

These three, as much as I liked them, were clear evidence that the U.S. wasn’t spending enough money on public education—which was already obvious I suppose, considering who they elected president.

Huh? asked, ‘Is it the air in the hull?’
Mt Cleverest answered, ‘No, it’s like a pop can. You put a pop can in the tub it floats. It’s the shape.’
Tooths was smiling while he had a think about it, he was thinking about the weight of the thing, ‘But if a pop can fills up it sinks,’ he said.
'It’s about displacement, it’s about the shape,’ said Mt Cleverest.

Then a couple with a pram came down the isle looking for a seat. Huh? got up and opened his hand to show them they could have his. The man with the pram said, ‘Cheers, mate.’
Huh? replied, ‘No problem.’

You could see, still, none of the three were satisfied with their explanation but they dropped the subject, thank fuck.

Ironically, what these three poor, young, barely educated, American sailors didn’t know, apart from a whole lot of other shit, was that they were sitting opposite the winner of the 1995 Warwick Senior High School physical science award.

Obviously with those kind of credentials I could have explained exactly how it works; which is like this:

Firstly, you ask yourself why the ship is there in the first place. The scientific answer is, because wealthy Americans can’t stand looking at all their poor people. They get some of their underprivileged out the way by employing them to build massive ships, once these are built they pay a whole heap of others to get on board, then they push them out to sea.

Right, so once the ship is out to sea several tensions form. The primary tension is between crew members. Some of the crew members wish the ship were a submarine headed for Atlantis (a mythical undersea city). This creates a downward force.

Opposing this downward force is the upward force of crew members wishing the ship was an aeroplane headed for Hawaii. This creates a very strong upward force.

Both these forces act on the ship simultaneously, but the upward force is stronger; this is because most of the crew

‘never got no lurnin’

and so have never heard of Atlantis. Conversely, everybody has heard of Hawaii and knows that you get a ley straight off the plane.

The result is buoyancy.

Sometimes enemy aircraft fly overhead and release propaganda, which reduces the upward force by suggesting that Hawaii is overcrowded and expensive. This reduction in upward force allows the downward force to dominate, and the desire for Atlantis sinks the ship. This kind of thing happened all the time in World War Two.

To Tooths, Mt Cleverest and Huh?, I say, there you fucken go! As long as you keep wishing you were on an aeroplane to Hawaii you should have no problems staying afloat.

CRY BLOXSOME