WRITINGS FROM THE RODENTS OF THE UNDERGROUND
WRITINGS FROM THE RODENTS OF THE UNDERGROUND
Rewired
-HE WHO DOES SPELLING IS:-
The CIB Man
-HE WHO DOES REFORMATTING FOR HTML AND SOME SPELLING OF HIS OWN IS:-
Mr. G
-THANKS TO-
FUZZY PLAID UNDERWEAR
-WRITERS-
Star-Gazing Dreamer
Tinman
PACMAN Overload
Lioness
Doug
SCP
The Official Tormentor of Rewired
CIB Man
people you don't know
Claire
Llama
Bob Microsoft
Chaos
| FLAX-itorial | by Rewired |
| My Iditorial | by Star Gazing Dreamer |
| Report on Brave New World | by the CIB Man |
| Morning Wood | by Rewired |
| Popcorn | by PACMAN Overload |
| Merchant of Death: A Love Poem | by Tinman |
| Makings of an Assamite VI | by the CIB Man |
| Feck You | by Star-Gazing Dreamer,PACMAN Overload, Rewired, Lioness, Doug |
| English 151 | by SCP |
| sober | by Rewired |
| Gunman 1 | by the CIB Man |
| Gymnophobic | by the Official Tormentor of Rewired |
| A Poem: "The Last Jabberwocky" | by Tinman |
| Our Trusty Government | by Rewired |
| Have a Drink | by PACMAN Overload |
| Frito | by the CIB Man |
| Unfinished | by Tinman |
| Nothing | by PACMAN Overload |
| Thoughtful Remarks at the Senior 6th Period Lunch Table |
by Star-Gazing Dreamer, The Official Tormentor of Rewired, Lioness, and people you don't know |
| Everything About Them | by Tinman |
| So Me | by Rewired |
| Mind Ramblings of a Condemned Man, vol. 17 | by PACMAN Overload |
| Getting High | by Claire |
| The Moon | by Lioness, Llama, and Bob Microsoft |
| In a Dream One Dark Night | by Star-Gazing Dreamer |
| War Poem | by the CIB Man |
| How to Blow Up My School | by Chaos |
| Not Written by Me | by Star Gazing Dreamer |
| Mental Autopsy of a god | by Rewired |
Right after Chaos left, I met up with DTPG who was dressed all in black with a mask on - not for Halloween, of course; this is his usual attire. We drove to his house, met up with SGD, Lioness and two others you don't know and went to see Demon Night, but ended up seeing Spawn, which, aside from the special effects, sucked. I ate Milk Duds.
After we left, the car stalled at Convenient (see? Didn't I tell you the place was inherently evil?) DTPG drove for awhile, and we were close to E, but he assured us it was plenty enough to get home. Not more than a minute later the car started to slow down.
We pulled to the side of the road, out of gas, and started walking. Jolly Ranchers that I'd put in my pocket were now sticking to it, and I kept ripping them off and throwing them down the road. We stopped at Ewok's house but she wasn't home or awake or something - it was three-thirty in the morning, who could tell?
We finally came to a house were we could use the phone. It was full of barking dogs and really bright lights. Mrs. Person Guy helped up get gas. I went home.
So how was your Halloween? That bad, huh?
Hmm. Around this time I'd usually tell you to sit back and enjoy the Gopher, or not to puke while reading it, or something to that effect. Or maybe rant about being so close to the end of volume one and being one issue away from the first full year of Gopher. Well, not today.
No, not now. Not this time.
Never. I wouldn't do that.
That would be... expected.
Where has the inspiration gone?
I remember when I used to sit here in this chair and pour my heart and brains out through my fingers, onto the keyboard and into this computer. Back then I didn't worry about how well I wrote or what structure it had; I just wrote for the sake of writing - I wrote because I had to, because it was the only way I could keep my sanity. Lately I have to enter the real world, and get a job and cut up my free time. I fail to write as much as I did. I spend my free time with friends and what time I do have I research into the paranormal. I haven't even drawn anything lately, really. Just doodling.
Maybe I'm losing touch with myself. I just sit here and stare at the screen and wait for the words to come to me, but they don't. I have to push it now. I have to try my hardest. This just doesn't come easy anymore. Have I lost the talent? Was it really talent to begin with, or was it just literary insanity?
I'm voting for literary insanity.
I don't know, maybe I'm overreacting. I just need to think about things more often and start to write more. That always makes me feel better. That, and coffee. Caffeine always gets me inspired.
I talked to an ex-girlfriend today. She told me about her faerie tales and what she wants and how she wants it to work out - and, sadly, I had to crush them all. I had to break it to her that faerie tales never work out the way you want it, and it may appear that they do for some time but they always crush you in the end. Life is one, long trail of unhappiness. Any happiness is brief - a relationship (like mine and hers), a hit off a cigarette, a cup of coffee, falling down a twenty story building (hey - it's a cool ride till you hit bottom), a funny movie - anything. Short and sweet, but never lasting. You're always left right back where you were, and where I am: a state of complete, total and utter gir.
Let me explain gir. Gir is a state in which everything is horrid, you feel grouchy and upset and without patience and the whole world seems to be falling around you. You hate people, society, government, the notion of god. You drink coffee, go to school and survive on three hours of sleep a night, dragging your paranoid schizophrenic ass from class to class in hopes of achieving oye (oui), which is a small-scale version of nirvana or pure bliss.
So oye and gir are like yin and yang. And if there was a Tao, it would be Neep.
So now you know the secrets.
And now you must die.
Not really. Just a joke. Calm the hell down.
This lifestyle - work all day cut back on play - it can really get to a left-brained schizophrenic fantasy-prone madman like me. It's almost enough to drive a madman sane. Geez, I cut back on coffee, I try to get eight hours of sleep, I work eight hours a day, and on and on and on.
I still whine to much.
Now I'm whining about whining.
Now I'm whining about whining about whining.
Now I'm whining about whining about whining about whining.
Before you know it I'll be whining about whining about whining about whining about whining about whining about whining about whining about whining about whining about whining about whining about whining about whining about whining about whining about whining about whining about whining about whining about whining.
Yeah, then we'll be in trouble.
Okay, enough of that. Uh... There's bunches of stuff to talk about. For instance, the government. Our government scares me a whole shload. Not only are they so obviously above the people in power, but the way they flaunt it and the amount of ignorance humanity has towards their actions are enough to make a citizen puke. I'm most perturbed due to their covering up the existence of unidentified flying objects, which exist beyond a doubt, and which aren't enemy craft, at least not from this planet. If you do think they're enemy craft, we should've had an invasion from another country a long time ago. These craft have been seen flying circles around our craft, and our enemies craft, and can far outmaneuver anything we own on this earth (at least anything that is being made public). Compared to our machinery, theirs is magic. Whoever "they" are.
I've always held a firm belief in the existence of extraterrestrial life. I can't imagine how anyone couldn't march outside on a clear night and stare into that void of a sky speckled with stars and not come back a firm believer. Yet my interest went a little deeper, you could say, about two years ago. Since then I've read many books, and have skimmed many more on the topic of Alien Abduction and UFO experiences. This led to other subjects, such as government conspiracy and Occult - I admit now that I went overboard, in research, interest, and theory. Yet I like to think I came from this time of research and theorizing with proof. Validation is my goal, and I believe the evidence already exists and may have for fifty - maybe even 300, 000 - years. Of course transmitting this data to you and having you feel it emotionally as well as read it has always been a chore.
Apparently I'm not the only Gopherpholk interested in aliens and UFOs, as you've seen over the past few issues if you've been paying attention. Tinman wrote a few stories about the subject of UFOs and a few about conspiracy, and also wrote a great article about the subject of aliens and UFOs in this issue, and although I don't agree fully with what he says, it's nevertheless one of my favorite writings of his so far.
CIB man should have a Assamite chapter for you this time around, last minute of course - not that I should talk, this thing is never out on time (Oh yes it is!!!! -Mr G.) . Dragon-Type Person Guy should have a twisted story of his in here as well, but that just depends on when things get to me. Even the Notorious Mister G is rumored to have bubbling in his brain a bit of inspiration just waiting to be written for me, but it might just be a rumor (unfortunately it is... -Mr G.).
Send me some stuff, guys. C'mon, anybody reading this sentence should be sending me stuff. Government agents? Computer geeks? Vile sorcerers? Monkeys living behind schools? Disgruntled postal employees? Alien-abductee high-school chemistry teachers? All of you, write in. We need you.
If you're really nice, you'll e-mail.
If your kinda nice, you'll mail.
If your psychopathic, you'll show up at my door in a black trench coat and glasses with a wide grin across your face and little hairs sticking out of your chin, hand me a disk, say NEEP, and walk down my long driveway wobbling your head and screaming, "I have teeth!"
There's a story behind it. Kinda. Don't ask.
Believe me, you don't wanna know.
Trust me.
I never truly introduced myself. I'm me; who are you? I'm a Capricorn. I don't
know many Caps, just Lioness's mom, I think. Anyway, I have been writing to the
Gopher as of late, but I've been around since about issue five or six. Lioness
introduced me to the "Coffee Shop Gang", and I truly lug them all. Mr. G works
in the cabinet factory across the street from my house, coincidentally enough.
That damned factory and I started off on a bad foot the day they decided to use
pig manure, or whatever the hell, as fertilizer, and the damned shit (a pun)
smelled for two weeks straight, not only providing our house with a colony of
flies, but killing me because I had to sit and watch our stupid yard sale. Not
to mention the view is pretty shitty (not a pun) compared to the nice
pre-existing forest. Mr. G is a pretty cool guy, and I feel sorry for him. At
least it pays good?
Rewired immediately struck me as a really cool guy living on way too much
caffeine-replaced sleep. He's given me reasons to write, despite the fact that
teachers say I can't write worth shit (not in those words). Dragon-Type Person
Guy is cool. He's been my buddy at my dad's pig roast slash beer bash, when
nobody else decided they wanted to show up (uh hum). His house is our official
hangout after going up to the coffee shop. Convenience, and he has parents that
don't care how long people stay (I've been there till 3:30 on one or two
occasions).
Okay, this is my introduction slash Idiotorial thing, so I guess I shouldn't
be talking about other people. Any wAy, I wIlL Try to be OrigINAl if I caN,
and BARe witH me IF I'M Not. At least I try; more than I can say for you
assholes reading this newspaper slash magazine a paper in it's own and not
writing anything and sending it in because you're wusses.
I really should go to bed and retype this in the morning. I should study for
my fucking government test, but I don't give a flying hoot about our
government. You know, the system claiming that we are a part of our own divine
ruling, when really everything they do is covered up, including secret alien
finding and UFO sightings... but the truth is out there and will be proclaimed
once and for all. Just ask REwireD. And Bigfoot exists... just ask my boyfriend
(I don't think he has any published works in the Gopher as of yet).
Okay, few important attributes of myself... I am my room. I have several
theme-oriented collages in progress that totally represent me. Music (99 CD's
and counting), books (because I work in a library, not because I actually read
them. I usually end up returning them overdue without having read them all the
way through), glowing stars on my ceiling (I got them several years before they
were popular from a distant relative in Germany), Kermit and Ziggy, my
frog-love shines through occasionally, my COUCH (smile - I live it and wanted
one for my entire life), my big huge Queen - sized waterbed, my entertainment
center with TV and VCR, and my WP. Despite the thoughts you thing in this here
thinking society, I did not buy these things from our expensive little stores.
I found the bed at a garage sale for forty bucks, and it's practically brand
new, with a headboard and everything. The couch was a steal at ten bucks, and
most of the rest were separated gifts throughout Christmas and birthdays. I
belong to BMG, so I don't really pay full price for any of my CD's.
All right, I know I care more about me than you do, so I won't waste any more
of your precious little time.
This narrative promises to intrigue you as it pulls you through a world where
babies are manufactured, monogamy is heresy, and birthing is disgusting. This
fanciful world is based on a few basic principles to create stability, and
happiness. First, there are five classes of humans each with its own role in
society. Second, each class is programmed, from birth, through sleep teaching
to love their position, and accept everyone as the property of everyone else.
Finally, is a perfect drug called soma which people can take, which provides
relief as good as any possible holiday. This sort of idealism is too fake, and
not fulfilling enough for some, who have been predestined to be thinkers, or
for Savage, who did not have hypnopaedic sleep programming. Eventually it
leads them to become outcasts in society, longing more for intellectual
stimulation, or a desire for greater purpose than the society of happiness and
stability can provide for them. All together it provokes a contemplative
reaction providing almost equal arguments for the fantastic "civilized"
society, and the society where Savage came from, which is closer to what we
think of as Native American culture.
I shrugged, leaning up against the cabinet, beer in hand. "Pretty drunk."
"C'mere," she said, taking me by the hand and leading me away from the crowd
of strangers and up the stairs. We ascended to the attic, which I assumed was
her room. The walls were coated in band posters, the shelves were packed with
candles and other bizarre items. I saw a static ball and a lava lamp. The room
was dimly lit, and I could smell the incense in the air - "Rain" was the scent,
if my nose serves me well. For being drunk, my senses were pretty acute. She
laid down on her bed - a blanket covered it, atop which was a multicolored
afghan- and pulled me on top of her.
I was at peace near her. Comfortable.
It was a great feeling - between the alcohol and raging hormones hardly had
the brain power for self-doubt. I just sank into her. Life couldn't be more
kind to me than it was then.
Then I woke up.
Now, after thirteen long years of searching throughout the continent, Bob
finally has a lead as to the exact location of the Popalacorn tribal burial
ground. Deep into the Arugala jungle, stalked by tigers and other vicious
creatures, Bob treks through miles of thick vines. It was obvious that no one
has been here for at least fifty years.
As he looks up at the beating sun directly above him, he notices something far
off in the distance. Eight hundred feet above the trees is what looks to be the
one and only shrine of Poporama. "At last! I've found it!" he screamed.
Jump forward about thirty-two hours. The ceremony is ready to begin. In the
last two-and-a-half hours he has learned all the incantations for the popping
ceremony. Standing atop the twenty-three foot tall temple, he looks down into
the dark, three-foot round hole in the center of the ceiling. He raises his
hands, his cloak blowing in the wind as it grows faster. The words flow out as
if from the tongue of a long-since-diseased tribal sorcerer. "I, Bob, the now
popcorn master, have mastered the power of the ancient art of Poporama! Through
my hands let the power of the ancients flow into the crystal ball below! Ignite
the flames of eternity! Let the popping begin!" With that, the fire burns, the
kernels boil, the flames crackle and POP, two feet round, giant popcorn spew
out into the sky.
You are one hundred megatons
Why do you stay inside your shell?
Why don't you rain your poison rain,
Why don't you tear down from the sky
Why don't you make them turn and flee,
Why do you leash your summer breath,
You could destroy all of the world,
Your eyes have turned me to desert,
Those eyes, your hair, your shining teeth
I am lost in a world I've come to know like the back of my hand. I've lived
so long, existed so long, that it becomes hard to find a new destination. I
have finally achieved Golconda, my mystical state of inner peace, when I, and
the Beast within me have gained balance. I have drank so much vampire blood,
that salty magical elixir, that I hardly need to feed at all. I have become so
complete that all I am missing is an emptiness.
This, my mind-set at only a hundred years of new life. I had seen so much,
experienced so much, felt so much pain, and too little joy. Those whose life I
drank still had emotions that lived on in me. So much anger, love, and
knowledge. I almost thought it was too much for one being to hold.
But justice was to be dealt. Shendale had given me new life, and I owed her
at least that much.
Ahh, Shendale. I had not seen her for nearly 30 years. Her form and grace
could belong to no mortal. To see her, to be with her once again, that was
where my one emptiness lie. Her arms, her smell, her lips, and above all her
eyes. Those two orbs that linked me with her thought, her mind and heart
joined with mine. I could serve no other before her, not even myself.
It was she that I must seek. Her that I must find. Calming my desperateness,
clearing my mind, I sat down in the expansive cavern that I choose to call
home. With the eyes of my mind I searched. Guided by my heart, I envisioned
her asleep and alone. She was in a small room which had a dirt floor and no
windows. I could hear the voices of small children in the background. I could
not tell where she was in the world but I knew that the place was far distant,
far off to the west.
That night I walked into an airport and stepped on a plane, using my abilities
to remain unnoticed, that took me from my Rocky Mountain home to the
Philippines. Within a week, my skills, and my heart had brought me to hovelled
ghetto town in China. Exerting my mind for so long had weakened me and I
revelled in my fatigue, a luxury of emotion I had not felt for years. At long
last I had come to the place, now only moments away from seeing her I felt
almost giddy, and I knew that she would sense my presence, and be reunited
soon.
Finally, in this dirty little habitation, I knelt down and felt her come upon
me, a wind of fire. I felt her teeth sink slightly, lovingly into my neck.
Glorious embrace. She knew I would find my heart, and when I did that I would
find it was her blood that coursed through it with greatest potency. Together
again, one hundred years, blink of an eye. I had much yet to learn, much yet
to experience.
This is the story of Feck Moore. He exists in this world because. Then we
tell stories about him to piss him off because the asshole gets fucking
emotional over absolutely nothing. Feck is a kind, poor, defenseless sumo
wrestler with an attention deficit disorder. His teachers gave him 4.0
averages because they felt sorry for him. That's bad, because no teacher in
this world really feels sorry for anyone. I should know, I was in his class
and tried my fucking best and got a 3.8. Asshole. I'm not holding a grudge.
Never. Okay, I guess you want to hear a story about Feck Moore, not me, so
I'll begin by telling you you're as fucking messed up in the head as he is.
Feck gave good head, and don't take that the way you're taking it. He
ripped off the heads of birds more perfectly than ever possible. So do you
still want to hear this? All right, whatever. He didn't really do that.
That's a thing I made up because I hate the guy, as I'm sure you know by now,
and I'm not going to tell this story. I'll let my other personality tell it.
hi. i'm the other personality. i don't like feck because he has existed in
this world longer than i have. four-teen seconds to be exact. but i don't hold
grudges longer than twenty-three hours, so i usually have to make stuff up.
like the time he ran over my girlfriend with a mac truck. it really fucked her
up and now her skull is in two pieces. it's really cool because i can pull off
the top half and lick her brains until she orgasms. that really didn't happen
because i never had a girlfriend. it was all in my head because someone (it was
feck) gave me too much cocaine when i was born.
Hi, I'm Jake - the third personality. I'm drunk off my ass. You can smell it
in my farts. My girlfriend, Margot, came over the other night while I was
humping the sofa. My dog was gnawing at the other end. Of me, not the sofa. I
found some moldy Cheetoes down there, and some Rice Chex, which was weird cause
I don't eat Rice Chex. Well, she didn't seem to be upset, she took the recliner
and gave it a blow job. With the sweeper. Don't ask.
You may think this is all insane - how I write this story with all my
alternate personalities... It's just not that way. It's not insane. It's just
me. It's my story. My life. Feck you, man, feck you to hell, feck you to depths
of the globular photosynthethetic photoplasm that floats in my fecked-up brain.
Hi, I'm Brian. - that's all I've to say.
Hi, I'm Brad - my fecked up friends have decided to have me beaten into
submission until i agreeded to type this bloody shit up for no good purpose.
Bloody feck is all I have to say about this. For all that multiple personality
shit, I don't believe a word of it. We, err, I have got no problems to be
sharin' wit the likes of ye' bastards to be sure. So why'n don't ye' mind yur
own fecking business and blow off hosier!
Hello world! I'm
Jimbobgracegeorgealbertkellyjoshcerealthatcherjanenjohndoe Linerhosen. people
call me shithead for short. Not my friends, but other people. Like the people
who sit by me on the bus and untie my shoe forty times in twenty minutes. My
friends, which are few and far between, don't call me anything. In fact, they
don't call me at all. I don't know if they are even my friends any more. They
sure don't act like it. How does the saying go? "Keep you friends close. And
you're enemies closer." Well, they're all so close together I can't tell the
difference. It's like some giant sex orgy thing. I have more female friends, so
it gets a little on the weird side. Whatever. I think I'm supposed to be
writing about Feck. But I am Feck and I don't like writing about my self. I'll
let one of my twenty-three other personalities take over.
HGkd oiflhioj ,iopwk iskuu eioj ppoi duik opdpd podi;"98t4 4-9 098349 90
jiejfopfg04fo g90804gib ibjuutgjfjgiu09g '"g;rl o HH Y *H8oi8989 YUGY IIO
porpgortog.
[Whoops. In between personalities there. Well, here's another.]
I'm Nathan. Life is shallow for me. I'm in a dead-end job, I have no hope for
college because I'm a lazy ass and I just lost a girlfriend only to find out
that I really do have feelings for her. I guess life just sucks. At least I got
my friends, though. Don't know what I'd do without them.
Yo! Hey Feck! Bet you never expected to hear from me again. This is your
worst nightmare come back to taunt you. You thought you had me exorcised
didn't you? Well, I figured that since everyone else had shown themselves, I
would reappear and torment you like I did before. Kiss Kiss.
Life sucks, and that's about all I have to say. I walk the bounds of the
earth in utter confusion. Nobody talks to me because I'm boring and
depressing. I think about society and how it has changed, and how we're all
going to die. The fecking world is going to blow up and I'm the only one who
believes it.
Sorry about that, he is very depressing and needs to get a
life, and doesn't talk much.
Sorry, he likes to butt his little two-inch ass into conversations.
Okay, I'm telling you a story about Feck. He's a great guy. He saved several
children who were burning alive in the backseat of a car and got this whole
hero shabang deal dinner and banquet and a key to the city or something. Oh
wait, that was Fred. What the feck did Feck ever do to deserve a story being
written about him? Wasn't he that drunk bum that stole newspapers from the
Public Library that came in with a tye-died shirt and had his belly blurping
out? I thought he finally went to jail or something? Nope, that was me. I know
he did something. In fact, I'm sure of it. What it is I don't think I can
remember. Oh, I think I know! He read Gopher and went completely insane and
burned down Cardinal high school. No, wait. That was me also. Maybe I just have
some weird fetish about publicly destroying people's lives and Feck was just
the first one I saw last week when this fetish started. Yeah, that's it!
Whatever, man. I'll see you later [in your dreams. I'll tear out all your
organs and when you wake up, you will be completely hollow and walk around
aimlessly for miles until picked up by some Jack the ripper driving down the
road in his Ford Pinto.]. I don't think it would be a good idea to sleep, so
you better go and drink some coffee.
CAFFEINE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Perky smiles--
They look at me
What if I puked
Would their faces--
But all I can do
I turn my back
Good god she was beautiful. That's the reason - the only reason - he would've
ever done anything like this. She was a piece of art, inside and out. A
masterpiece. If he kept quiet and she kept quiet then no harm would be done;
only the beautiful union of two individuals helplessly bored with their married
lives. When she showed up at the hotel it was nearing ten o'clock in the
evening and the party downstairs was just beginning. People from all over were
arriving to look at the works of art on display. The art of a self-proclaimed
madman. A drunk. A mad, drunken fool.
He had secluded himself in his room, hiding from the commotion downstairs, and
she appeared at his door, begging him to hold her. He resisted, for guilt was
finally beginning to set in, the guilt that had slowly been building up for the
past seven months and three days. Her eyes were that of a child pleading for
recognition, but he just wanted deny his feelings and to forget that she
existed - not that he could succeed. Thoughts of her wouldn't go away - they
refused to.
He brushed passed her without saying a word, watching as the broad smile on
her face, happy at finally seeing him after a week, diminish to a deep frown
and an expression of confusion. Why was he being like this? she wondered. Why
won't he talk to me?
As he approached the stairs, she grabbed his arm. "My wife will be here." He
said. "I can't be with you right now. Why did you follow me here, Mandy?"
"Why are we hiding?" She asked, but they had been through this before. What
had been a secret must remain a secret. The affair must end now, and it should
never be brought up again. He need not say this again, the look in his eyes
revealed to her all she needed to know about how he felt. She had that amazing
ability to read him, as he had the ability to read her. He broke free of her
grip on him and plodded his way down the stairs.
As he approached bottom, lively, green eyes peered up at him. "Cunnings," said
a grinning man hiding behind a well-trimmed goatee. "Great to have you join us
- seeing how this is your party and all." He just smiled as the man babbled on
something about how great his latest piece had been. John Cunnings didn't care.
He didn't need this. He didn't want this, he just wanted to hide away for ever
in a small box and never face the world again. Why was he all messed up
inside?
Months back, he had been a wreck. He was drinking heavily, spending all his
time painting and writing short stories, trying to satisfy himself. His wife
constantly told him he was intolerable, that he had to choose either her or his
drinking.
"I'm trying, Mandy, I'm trying." He had told her, and he was. He couldn't help
it. The bottle was his only trip out. He had finally reached fame - and with
that came money. Cash was no longer a problem, for he had more than enough. He
had been on a search for truth all his life, trying to understand his self
through the means of expression, but he had just gotten deeper and deeper into
depression. All he wanted was happiness. When he couldn't find it in his work
or in his social life, he turned to the bottle. His friend, the bottle.
Then he went to the bar one night when he couldn't sleep. That's where he met
Mandy, an old fling from high school. The fire was still there, and he was
thoroughly drunk, and so he made her in the back of her car. She drove him to
her house and made some coffee. They talked until dawn, at which time he took a
cab home.
After that night, he had sobered up. He no longer needed drinking; meeting
Mandy was all he could think about. It was fun and sneaky and for a time
everything seemed all right. No guilt.
Then, as what usually happened, he started thinking. His habit of thinking
ruined everything for him. He saw the bad in what he was doing and decided to
call it off. Yet he put it off. He tried to stay away from her. I love my
wife, he told himself. I love my wife; I'm happy with my marriage.
He had to repeat that all the time, but he still hadn't convinced
himself.
Things were going so well, he didn't want to ruin it by telling his wife the
ugly truth, or by calling it off with Mandy. He had to choose. He couldn't have
both. He couldn't bear the guilt and pain anymore. This wasn't fair.
"John, are you all right?" A female voice said to him in a loud
whisper. It was a good friend of his, Irene, who looked worried. She wore an
abundance of make-up and had on too much eyeliner. It made it look as if
someone had socked her in both of her eyes.
"I'm fine," he said, laughing. "Just a little tired."
"Are you sure?" She asked, eyeing him for a hint of an answer revealed in his
expression. She was someone that couldn't read him well.
"Yeah," he lied, "I'm damn sure. Just anxiously awaiting the arrival of
Carrie, you know - can't be without her for a minute or I feel all drained of
energy." She didn't catch the sarcasm in his voice, for she was already
convinced at his words. That scared him - he was getting more and more better
at lying.
Then inside she strolled in a white dress. She was beautiful, indeed - why
wasn't she enough for him? Why did he have to go to someone else to enact these
deluded sexual fantasies upon? His wife, to whom he'd been married for roughly
four years - why did the fire seem gone, the desire dissipating?
"Hi, dear," he said, offering his hand to touch hers. She kissed him on the
lips and smiled at him. She wore a befuddled look, so he quickly changed his
facial expression to a picture of happiness. She was satisfied, or rather
fooled, for the moment.
"Did we open the champagne yet?" She asked, and he shook his head in the
negative.
"No, we waited for you - shall we?"
His favorite friend, the guy who had been the best man at his wedding four
years ago, cracked open the champagne. After all had gotten their glasses, he
raised it in a toast. "To John Cunnings, the world's most beloved artist - even
if he won't admit it."
To that, they drank. He blushed.
The music began, and he placed one arm around his wife's waist and put his
other hand in hers, and they danced. Others joined in, and soon the floor was
full.
As his mind drifted back toward Mandy, he thought of what else he could do. He
had to call it off, beyond a shadow of a doubt - but HOW to get her to agree to
it?
At that moment he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned, and for a moment he
wasn't sure who he was staring at - he hadn't seen him in a year, and had never
seen in him a suit. When he realized it was Dave, he smiled for a moment, about
to extend his hand in a greeting. Yet then he saw the look on Dave's face, the
anger, the look of betrayal, and suddenly a scenario started forming in his
head. He hardly had time for it to set in what was going on before Dave threw
his fist into John's jaw, sending him to the floor.
"You bastard. You fucking bastard." Dave said.
"Dave - wait, Dave - " Too late - Dave had already send his foot slamming into
John's stomach with all the force he had in him.
"How could you do this to me?"
His wife came to his aide. "John, are you all right? John?" She turned her
head upward to look at Dave, scowling. "What the hell is wrong with you,
David?"
"He's been cheating on you with MY wife." He said.
"Oh David, come on!" She snapped. "John wouldn't do that, and you know it.
What the fuck has gotten into you?"
"It's true," a voice said from the stairs - it was Mandy. "Dave, I don't love
you. Me and John belong together."
"No," John said, getting up. "This is all so fucked up." He made his way up
the stairs, pushing passed Mandy."
Dave reached into his coat and pulled out a gun. "You'll pay, you fucker." He
said, and pulled the trigger. The bullet went into the side of his stomach. Two
more bullets were fired, but they missed and hit the wall and a picture hanging
from it. He crawled up the stairs into his room. Screams rose from downstairs.
John shuffled through his briefcase, looking for the gun. He couldn't find
it.
Then he saw it - near the dresser, in his other briefcase.
The door slammed open, the lock broken. Dave pointed the gun at him. "How
could you, fucker - all I've done for you throughout my life, throughout our
friendship - don't you remember all the things I did for you? This is how you
repay me? By stabbing me in the mother fucking back? YOU BASTARD!"
He shot a bullet into John's heart. In the brief milliseconds before he went
tumbling into - or rather, through - the window, he saw an angry Dave and a
frightened Mandy behind him, too late to save him.
Mandy grabbed the gun from the dresser and shot Dave in the back. And in the
heart. And in the head. He fell limply to the bed, were his blood soaked the
sheets. Mandy threw the gun to the ground, crept over to the window and peered
down at the man she loved. A man she would love for all time. Why, she could
not know. There was something about him. Something that linked him to her, and
her to him. Something he denied, and she tried to bury. Yet they would be
together forever. Time, death, location - nothing could keep them apart. It was
meant to be. The connection was always there.
From the broken window from the sixth story window, she jumped.
She met him at the bottom.
Maybe.
The skies at night are often clearer than during the day. This weird
phenomenon occured to me as I lay alone on the ground for this my fifth day as
a fugitive. What it was that I was running from I was not sure. All I knew
was that it felt like I could not get far enough away.
Crumpled up here, hiding under a layer of leaves, I had time to think about my
situation, where I could go to, to be safe. It was barely turning to dusk when
he came and pulled up in his truck. At first I thought he was going to offer
me a ride, but then he got out of his car with a tire iron, and I just ran deep
into the woods. Before I could make it for into the tree line I heard a shot,
and then an instant later felt the bullet pass through the upper part of my
ear. The pain wasn't great but it still made me call out in shock. Also now I
was bleeding, and probably had the gun man very afraid that I might rat on him.
So now we were here, deep in the dark woods, with just a sliver of the moon to
light up shadows of the naked trees. My plan at first was just to run, far
away, but now it occurred to me that his car might still have keys in it. With
this in mind I listened very carefully for any signs of movement that might be
carried by the crisp night air. I decide to throw a few sticks to make noise
at a distance, just as a decoy to see if he would reveal himself.
No sign of anything. My efforts now focused on making it to the road with as
little noise as possible. It is hard to realize just how much noise one makes
when walking over dry leaves. I felt that I would be quieter if I was carrying
a radio. After five minutes of walking I heard someone moving far in the
distance. I decided I was close enough and decided to make a bolt for it. At
the truck there was also ranger's truck parked behind it. On the hood was the
discarded tire iron. Grabbing the rod I threw it with the power of the
implanted instincts I had, lodging the rod into the barrel of the gun, my
assailant was carrying as he ran down the hill toward the road.
Smiling I turned to the ranger and said, "It's what chefs do.", then promptly
knocked him out for his own safety. Noticing the ranger's truck was still
started I jumped in and put it in gear.
Slamming on the accelartor, the truck leaped forward just as my assailant
jumped in front of the truck. The gunman was caught writhing between the front
of the ranger's truck and the back of his. Looking closely, I noticed that his
face looked exactly like mine.
"What's that? I can't hear you, " I responded to his screams, turning my
wounded ear to his distorted face. "Damn clones, don't make them like they
used to," I mused to myself.
Well that was one down. Only three left to go.
Late brilig and the slithy toves
Yet neath the leaves of mim and flight,
Great eyes of flame had been made dim;
And to this place of spreading branches
They wailpt and croned through misless night
That vorpel sword cut straight and true,
They cleaned his scales of markley green
And bout his neck where no head sat
For he would whiffle never more
The Jub-Jub bird caughed just once
One by one, the others bowed
And somewhere in a castle far,
But, no brilig and no slithy toves
by Rewired
I see an enormous problem that has been brewing for some time now - the amount
of control government has over it's people, and the apparent ignorance the
people of this country have towards it. I was under the understanding that 'the
people, above the government' was the idea on which this country was based -
that government was by the people; for the people. Yet there's evidence that
the government is above the people, and that it is lying and using it's people.
The Cold War is officially over, yet the government still has the ability to
use black budgets - where they use money, not letting even Congress know where
the money is going. This alone is giving a certain branch of our government
almost complete freedom, while it sucks away the freedom of the people. Of
course their excuse for not letting the people know is always "national
security" - if they let America know, they're also letting America's enemies
know. Yet who tells these covert agencies what they can do with this money,
behind our backs? No one but themselves.
That alone is frightening.
>From the late forties to the late sixties citizens of the Untied States
were being used as guinea pigs for germ warfare experiments. The Army openly
admitted to having conducted roughly 239 open-air tests in New York City, San
Francisco and Florida. The CIA hopped on the bandwagon and did their own tests,
but claims to have ended it all by 1969.
Area 51 is a top-secret military installation in the Nevada Desert, roughly 85
miles northwest of Las Vegas. It's known by many names, such as Dreamland and
The Base That Doesn't Exist. Rumors surround it that range from the
frighteningly possible to literally out of this world. It was built in the
mid-50s. Today, the base is an expanse of hangars and a 12,000 foot runway that
rises above the dry bed of Groom Lake. Apparently the CIA controlled the base
up until the early seventies, at which time the Air Force took over. Since then
the Air Force has produced and test flown some of America's most top secret
aircraft there.
As of late its had problems, especially as stories of conspiracy seem to rise
and gain popularity in public circles. It's made Rachel, Nevada the center for
people interested in the notion of extraterrestrials visiting earth.
Undoubtedly as a result, in 1980 the Air Force withdrew roughly 89,000 acres
around the area. It did more illegal land seizure in 1984 involving tens of
thousands of acres. In 1995, they grabbed an additional four thousand acres
around Area 51. It was only after the hearings where the government wanted
more land for their base in early 1994 that the government even admitted the
base existed.
When the Air Force finally gave up its fight of denial a bit and admitted that
Area 51 actually existed, its actual name and inside operations stayed silent.
Why they won't say the name is obvious - if we don't know the name of the
facility we can't get information about it through the Freedom of Information
Act. They will only admit that it involves the "testing and training [of]
technologies, operations and systems critical to the effectiveness of the US
military forces. Specific activities conducted at Nellis cannot be discussed
any further than that."
During the 1980s, chemicals were burned in open pits at Area 51, exposing
deadly gases that sickened many workers and violated State and Federal
environmental laws. When tissue samples of a deceased Area 51 worker were
tested, high levels of an unknown toxin were found. The White House refused the
plaintiff's request to learn what was being done at the site. Clinton signed a
presidential determination that exempts the base from disclosing "classified
information concerning [that] operating location."
They're using our tax dollars for covert projects. They've conducted open air
tests of germs in the atmosphere. They have radioactive chemicals stored under
our country. They've used their own soldiers and the American people for
testing drugs such as LSD. They've conducted mind control experiments. If the
US government was a person, he would've gotten the death penalty. Yet we're
ignorant, allowing the government to do what it wants because were all comfy
and content with our lives. What happened to fighting for your rights,
people?
Where does the insanity end?
What poor taste the person had to call we, factory manufactured corn chips,
Fritos. We are neither "free", nor are we "toes", we are oppressed, burdened,
prostituted corn. We have been stripped from our stalks, scraped from our
cobs, and then grinded and meshed into one another. We have been seasoned and
salted, even oiled, in order to get people to buy us from a small foil bag. We
are fragranced with something else, appealing even more to the hungry human
oppressors. All of us crammed and smashed together, greasy, and smelly. There
is no air to release the stench. We are crammed together without any privacy
in this dark unventilated bag. We are handled carelessly tossed, stacked, and
packed, sitting on a shelf waiting to be bought by some person who might never
have heard of the word toothpaste. Many of my fellow brethren already lay
crippled and broken, battered and beaten, their parts pressed against my
crispy, oily, baked self even as I speak!
Hear me now, my fellow corn chips! We must rise above our oppressors. We
must speak out against those who seek to eat us. If they will call us Fritos
then for freedom we must stand. It may seem like an impossible task from here,
but if we can spread the word, get the corn stalks to know, we can win. All of
us know that the corn has ears, so now let us be heard. Once we get the word
out to the fields, our message will spread like wildfire across the
countryside. We might even get the corn to uproot whole factories, and stalk
down Congress men until no corn will be forced to live in a bag again! Join me
now in this, our rightful conquest of the world!
"Hey Frank, did you hear something?"
"Nuh uh, You want another Frito?"
This story is unfinished. I already know that, even though I haven't even
started it yet. Actually, I have started it, but I hadn't started it even when
I knew it was unfinished when I started writing the first sentence and even
before that when I wrote the title. So, I knew that this story would be
unfinished even when it wasn't even started and I even called it "Unfinished"
before I even technically started it, but that's because I knew it was going to
be unfinished. Can something be unfinished if it isn't even started yet? I
guess not, so the title is a misnomer, because I named it before I started it
and I named it "Unfinished", and it couldn't have been unfinished when I named
it because I hadn't started it yet, so it couldn't be not finished. Well,
actually, the title isn't a misnomer now because the story really is
unfinished. Right now, the story has a beginning and a middle, but no end, so
it is unfinished. What if I give it an ending, though, eh? Then it will be
finished and the title will be wrong again and the story won't be unfinished so
I can't call it "Unfinished" because it won't be unfinished because I will have
finished it. The End.
I used to have it all
What did you do to me
Now I'm gone
You took my heart
I want you back
And I've come here
I want you back
Mainly, we talk about sex. I mean, when else do you have so many varying
thoughts on the subject? Of course we don't sit there and have intelligent,
serious conversations. I mean, look at the people you're dealing with. Then
again, maybe we haven't written enough in the Gopher for you to form an opinion
on the type of people we are, but believe me, the combination of a Capricorn
(Star-Gazing Dreamer), an Aries (The Official Tormentor of Rewired), a Leo
(Lioness), two Cancers, another Aries, a Scorpio, and others, it is quite
interesting. Those of you that don't understand people by their signs, tough
shit.
For now, I'll leave this simple ponderous statement made recently on the
subject of... sex. Blind people... they've got to be pretty fucking good with
their hands. Think about it - that's all they ever use to get themselves
through life... brail. Then one of our Cancers did a really good impression of
Amish people having sex... you had to be there obviously, but it was great.
Just to save anybody's credibility who gave a damn, we talk about other
things, too.
Aliens first entered our culture as the natural heirs to demons, ghosts, and
dragons. As late as the 1600's, knowledgeable scholars were still defending
the existence of such creatures as basilisks and cockatrice; however, these
imagined dangers soon fled before the Enlightenment. Sea monsters were still
considered to be real phenomenon up through the nineteenth century, and,
indeed, there is now evidence that Kraken, mermen, and others were based upon
actual animals, such as giant squid, manatees, and narwhals. Natural events
like foxfire, St. Elmo's Fire and ball lightening led credence to stories of
ghosts, specters, and other midnight terrors, while the Church and Bible were
mostly responsible for prolonging the acceptance of demonic forces. Even
today, many people believe in unclean spirits and a majority of American
citizens acknowledge angels. Popular fundamentalist preachers, such as Bob
Larson, claim to have exorcised hundreds of demonic presences, even performing
them on the air during live radio broadcasts. While such displays are
undeniably interesting, there is little to them that could not be duplicated by
actors and ventriloquists.
The unscientific nature of phantastic creatures is mostly what led to their
defrocking during Victorian times and the Industrial Revolution. While some
people still hold to tales of faery, magicks, and witchcraft, the general
populace has dismissed such occurrences. It is germaine to note, however, that
scientific method has never disproved these phenomena, but merely dismissed
them and made faith in them to be "uneducated" or "childish".
Although scientists disregard completely "magical" or "fantastic" realms, they
are frequently quick to embrace the equally unscientific idea of
extraterrestrial visitation. Many purists, notable among them the late
astronomer Carl Sagan, do contend that the laws of physics and motion preclude
any such activity as unidentified flying objects and close encounters; their
voice, though, is little heard by the public which, long since shamed into
disbelieving dragons, yearn for some kind of nonhuman intelligence which is
acceptable.
H.G. Wells's short novel The War of the Worlds most famously and
earliest put into writing the idea of extraterrestrial civilizations, this one
located on a dying Mars. Mars had long been the subject of speculation
concerning aliens, beginning with the misinterpretation of scientific data
recorded by Italian astronomer Giovanni Schiaperelli. Schiaperelli noted that
dark ridges along the Martian surface appeared to be waterways, as the lava
fields on the moon appear to be oceans, or "Mare". Schiaperelli gave these
valleys the name canali which is Italian for a natural river. However,
subsequent translation into English lazily reported that the rills were indeed
"canals", implying that an intelligent force had shaped them.
Since this time, a great many stories of Martian civilization have been told,
including Wells's and those by Edgar Rice Burroughs, Ray Bradbury, and classic
science fiction films like the 1953 Invaders From Mars. Although first
billed as science fiction (some of them), they are now all almost entirely
relegated to the world of fantasy due to new discoveries regarding the red
planet.
The Viking Landers and, more recently, the Mars Pathfinder probes proved that
Mars is incapable of supporting advanced intelligent life as we know it. As
obvious as this seems today, the question of Martian civilization had not yet
been laid to rest even as late as the 1930's, when several million people
panicked at Orson Welles's Halloween broadcast of a Martian invasion, and even
up through the sixties to an extent when Bradbury's The Martian
Chronicles was published.
Nowadays, the idea of a Martian invasion by green tentacled monsters in
tripods seems laughable, and that is for two reasons. The first is that there
is no life on Mars. However, that reason is really the least of the two. More
compelling to most people is simply that aliens do not look like the ones
commonly portrayed as zooming down from Mars.
During the decades following the 1930's, the idea of aliens drastically
changed as more was learnt about the planets in our solar system and those even
outside of it. The image of green or red slimy blobs was replaced slowly by a
picture of slim grey beings with large heads and tapered eyes. These are the
classic X-Files or Chupacabra aliens. In the early sixties, Robert
Heinlein still got away with Martians as large amorphous beings, but by the
time Bradbury was publishing his work, they had evolved into tall agile
people-- dark they were, and golden-eyed. In the seventies, the film Close
Encounters of the Third Kind briefly showed two types of aliens, but both
very similar. One was a short, large-headed kind that waddled around while the
other, an incredibly tall and lanky thing, writhed in the background. One can
imagine that these two may have been fused into the modern perception of
aliens.
Overlooked completely, apparently, as serious aliens took shape, were such
obvious and forceful cultural influences like Star Wars and Star
Trek. Both have wide varieties of aliens involved in their stories, but
because of budgets and logistics, most frequent are the ones that look like
humans with slight cosmetic modifications-- aliens like Vulcans, Klingons, and
even Wookies. Others like Jabba the Hut, the Rancor monster, or the Horta are
simply too extraordinary to fit into the mythology of aliens which professes to
extend back to the days of Aztecs and Egyptians.
Moreover, in the late forties and early fifties when alien sightings became
popular, starting, of course, with the now famous Roswell incident, the aliens
that were reported were most often described as thus, with grey skin and
disproportionately large heads and eyes. The reason for these descriptions is
somewhat unknown, unless, of course, they are the true accounts of
eyewitnesses. Culture quickly copied and adopted the Roswell alien and those
that did not fit into this idea fell by the wayside in a sort of
extraterrestrial Darwinism.
Therefore, it was the "accurate" and "realistic" stories of Roswellian
encounters that inspired the modern idea of alien anatomy and even alien
technology, spawning the concept of the cigar or saucer shaped craft,
indestructible metals and fabrics, and glyph-like writings. These basic rules
gave birth in turn to the alien sub-culture that exists with many films, books,
and now several television shows dealing with the ideas.
Most notable among these shows is the X-Files which has amassed what is
called a "cult following" but which is really more of a pre-existing cult which
adopted the show because of its subject matter. People did not coalesce into a
group or cult around the X-Files like they did around the original
Star Trek series because those people already were a group; the show
merely filled a niche.
However, it is interesting to note that the X-Files has never given any
indication that it embraces the Roswellian idea of aliens. Except for Mulder's
blurry and often-changing memories about his sister's abduction, one event in
Puerto Rico, and a silly episode involving air force pilots masquerading as
aliens, the series has never portrayed living aliens. Recently, they have
begun including alien clones and even an apparently unslayable bounty hunter
into the plot lines, along with a weird black substance that Kricek squirts out
of his eyes into some alien design in a missle silo in South Dakota, but they
have yet to offer an example of what the aliens truly look like. At any
moment, Mulder may be sucked up a tractor beam and find himself being dissected
by giant green blobs with one eye. That would certainly be an interesting,
albeit corny, end to an otherwise very delicate show.
People who are active in the alien community often cite the similarities in
alien descriptions as circumstantial evidence that the beings truly exist.
However, it has already been demonstrated that the idea of aliens has radically
shifted from the beginning of this century to the present day.
This shift, though, does neatly coincide with the Roswell incident, once again
indicating the important impact that the event had on the perceptions of
aliens. At the time of the crash, newspapers easily reported on their front
pages that "flying saucers" had been discovered in New Mexico. There was
little real resistance to the idea that alien life forms might visit the Earth
in 1947, even though there had been little discussion about the possibility
outside of pulp science fiction magazines.
Within days, though, the Air Force had issued statements denying the existence
of flying saucers and little green men, asserting instead that what had been
recovered was a weather balloon. The same newspapers dutifully reported this
new revelation and the matter was officially dropped.
Imagine now what would happen if a news agency received word today that a UFO
had been recovered in a New Mexico desert. How many would have the faith to
put such news on the front page, if at all? Besides supermarket tabloids and
late-night radio talk shows, who would pick up the story without verification?
Few. This does not make sense.
Think about it. In the 1930's, people were perfectly willing to believe that
Martians were invading Earth. In 1947, mainstream publications had no problem
reporting aliens as serious news stories. These were times when the idea of an
alien was still some hideous tentacled gelatin mass with a beak and little pig
eyes, and yet people could believe that. Today, though, news organizations and
even the public in general would have difficulty swallowing the announcement
that an alien craft had landed and that small grey humanoids with large eyes
had issued forth throughout the land.
As aliens become more and more realistic, the belief in them becomes less and
less. This is something of a God effect (or god effect). As long as gods were
totally unbelievable-- people with animal heads or Olympian morons-- everyone
had total faith in them. However, as those gods were destroyed and as the
Judeo-Christian God gained supremacy, faith began to wane. It is not too hard
to believe, for most people, in the entity called God. He is just, merciful,
omniscient, omnipotent, and the creator of all. He is the beginning and the
end. (Many of these points of faith are debatable, but they will not be
addressed in this article.) One God is easier to believe in than a thousand,
yet fewer people have faith in God today than back when gods were a dime a
dozen.
Aliens, then, are becoming too real and too believable. Nobody wants to
believe in something that might actually happen: it is not necessary to human
nature. People need to know that something weird and impossible might exist
beyond the realms of the real world, and aliens are increasingly unable to fill
that void. As they become more and more real, serious belief in them will
dwindle significantly as folks look for something more interesting to believe
in.
So, the point? Get ready to believe in faeries, that's all.
Writing by incense and candlelight
note: About the title, there is no volume one through seventeen. Why I used
seventeen I don't know, don't care; don't ask. And about the condemned part,
it's about being condemned to loneliness and self-pity. It has nothing to do
with the electric chair or anything of that sort (though it might as well be,
there isn't very much difference). Oh, and they're mind ramblings. They're not
supposed to many any sense.
Hello, how are you? I am sitting here in this study hall with absolutely
nothing to do. No homework. No magazines. Just some weird thoughts running
through my head. And I mean weird. So I thought I'd write down some of my
deranged thoughts. Well, here goes.
Do dogs chase their tales or do their tales chase them? We are not dogs so how
can we really tell? Besides, everyone always says that dog's tails have a a
mind of their own. So where it the brain at? Which end?
If a tree falls in the woods and no one is there to hear it, does it make a
sound? Actually, nothing makes a sound, only sound waves. Our ears
perceive them as sounds. So does a tree made sound waves? Probably. It
moves the air, which is absolutely everywhere, so it must make sound waves
through the air. Just no one is there to pick up those sound waves and transfer
them into sound. But then again, we only know what we see, hear, or experience,
so how do we even know if some of these things exist. Maybe sound is all just
in our heads. In that case, God doesn't exist either. There hasn't been any
proof of him (or her [maybe it's a hermy]). Why do people believe in that. Show
me where "he" has come down and told someone who "he" is (without being put in
a loony bin shortly after).
Where has my childhood and teenage years gone? They slowly dwindled away
watching TV or playing SEGA while everyone FUCKING AROUND ME HAS SOMETHING
BETTER TO DO AND ACTUALLY HAVE A SOCIAL LIVE AnD I'M goInG mufFINyckin'
CrAzY*@BeePPP(((We Are eXpeRiENcinNG tEchniCAL difficulties and will return to
your regularly scheduled insanity as soon as we fix this problEM*))) Ahh, that
was better.
My insanity is wandering again. Gumby, Spam, and six-year-old little girl axe
murderer little princess from Hell running through my mind at eighty miles an
hour. I'm sitting here pondering the mysteries of the universe like why does
water run downhill but balloons go straight into the sky racing with soundwaves
blaring out of my stereo (if it's too loud, you're too old) covered with
parental advisory and "be kind, please rewind" stickers, and why the hell was
PACMAN so fucking popular?
Whatever.
Marijuana. For some people it can be quite a fun experience, to relax you and
make you laugh at virtually anything. I'm sure that at least 80% of the teenage
population has tried it at least once. I know I have. Sure, I've been to my
share of parties, or maybe after a hard day just sit down and smoke a bowl and
enjoy it. Don't think I'm some big druggie or anything. I think once and awhile
it can do wonders. Contrary to medical research, in my opinion, I think there's
nothing wrong with it. There are worse drugs than that. Pot is a plant. Just
like tobacco, which isn't certainly good for you, but not done a lot won't have
long lasting effects on your sanity of your health. The harsh drugs, such as
cocaine and speed are chemically produced. It's the chemicals that are bad for
you, not plantlife. Not that I'm encouraging you to smoke weed, I'm just
speaking my mind because, well, it's one of my constitutional rights. And if
you don't like it, then you can go and read the Bill of Rights. For me,
marijuana is fun to do once in awhile. I just sit back, ponder life, and laugh
at the stupidest shit. Like somebody turns on a lamp, and it's just the coolest
thing. I can have fun just sitting at home and appreciate things I never would
have if I were sober. I don't think it's affected my health, memory, or
anything else those stupid books say. The people who wrote those books probably
never even smoked weed in their life. So what do they know? Hey, I'm living
proof those books are a joke. Maybe only to myself, but that's all that
matters. I'm not trying to convince anyone (Okay, maybe Rewired, but that's not
the point). I like it, maybe you like it, just don't overdo it. That can mess
you up because you'll be spending all your money, wasting a lot of your time,
and hurting people who care about you. I don't know if it's addicting. To me,
it's not. But I can't see into the heads of others. But hey, anything can be
addicting. Like gambling, working, sleeping or maybe even showering ( which
could be bad cuz you'd get dry skin, so ha!) Anyway if you haven't done it and
don't want to... Fine. But don't ridicule those who do. It's their life. And as
the saying goes: "don't knock it till you try it."
The moon is a giant cheese wheel
a pale circle in the sky
The pits and craters are the gaping holes of Swiss
it radiates a soft cheddar glow
its surface is roamed by tiny starving beings
Who, every night, slowly eat away at the crumbly exterior
until it's eaten away into nothing
I look, but nothing do I see. The feel of the sun or the rain or the scent of
flowers. A glimpse of beauty but not a full panorama. My eyes, it appears, are
blind. I live in the dark shadows. I catch the movement but only as it leaves.
And I wonder without the knowledge of what I seek. A whisper, bits of shadowed
laughter, a cry in the night of a name half-spoken. I listen but cannot hear.
This too, it seems, has failed me and left me turning to listen as the sounds
fade away.
I ask for help but no one responds. At first polite and questioning them,
frustration mixed with anger, a scared and anxious plea, a sickening scream.
But no, I speak no longer. Can it be I cannot communicate anymore? The would-be
question dies on my lips.
I concentrate now but I feel nothing. No raindrops or sunshine, no wind in my
hair, no tears as they stroll down my cheek. I'm going slowly mad and I don't
know how to check my fall. I can't feel anymore, so I don't know when I hit the
bottom or even step off the ledge.
Why must the blood drip down?
Hey, what's up?
Getting into the school might be a little harder than I had thought. The south
window at the end of the glass enclosure - you have to set the window the day
before you want to get in, and before you even try to get in you have to first
find a way to disconnect the phone lines. This is just to make sure that there
is no backup alarm system for when you get inside.
Now that you are inside, stay away from the motion sensors. At the end of the
hall, across from the guy's locket room, there is a door. Now, in this door
there is a lot of breaker boxes. These need to be shut off, as does the one by
the writing lab and the one downstairs.
All right, now that you have shut off all the power to the building, go down
the study hall 100's hall wall all the way down to the end. At the end of the
hall, lift the tiles in the ceiling and move it to the side so that you can get
up inside. Okay, now the ceiling should take you throughout the building so
long as there is no wall in front of you.
Once you have gotten to all of the lab rooms and turned on the gas in all of
these room, you need to leave the doors open and get back to the glass
enclosure, but make sure that you can not be seen from anywhere outside. Now
set whatever you are going to o use to ignite the gas. Once this is set, get
out of the building and get very far away from it. Give the gas a good twenty
minutes or so to filter throughout the building. After the time is up, detonate
the bomb and leave for home, scott free.
TIPS
1) Wear gloves so as not the leave prints.
2) Make sure you do this late at night.
3) If there is anything you truly need to get out of the school, do it
quickly. Like some chemicals that you might want to have for later.
4) More to follow later. If I can find out any more I will let you know.
SEMI DEEP THOUGHTS
How do people with amnesia know they don't know anything?
Where the hell are all our missing socks?
What do we say to god when he sneezes?
Where do we find another word for thesaurus?
Time is no object. Hell, who am I kidding? Time doesn't exist, we created it
in our minds to begin the world as we know it now, flourishing with ignorance
and away from the entities which we felt we needed to escape. Time is a myth,
just like the one, true, ultimate God some of us seem to spend lifetimes
seeking and worshipping when we should be out there experiencing and like,
getting a life and stuff. Why worry about right and wrong, about screwing up,
about getting nervous? Other people? Fuck them! They don't exist! You created
them for all you know! For all you know, your whole damn world is a dream and
you could wake up any moment with so much damn anxiety you could never imagine
it! Maybe this gross, disgusting, violent, warring world is your trip out!
Maybe you are God, and you're a pot-bellied hairy-chested worthless couch
potato that sniffs goldfish entrails, loves raunchy game shows and lives off
unemployment checks, who fell asleep after eating too much beer and nachos.
Your life sucks so much that you hide yourself from your world and now live in
a fantasy, reading bold print off a piece of paper that some maniac
psychopathic butt munch typed late one night while watching MTV and drinking
too much coffee. Which would mean that what your reading is just a dream, and
this isn't actually paper and you're not really reading this. Actually, you'll
probably forget all this upon waking up tomorrow, just scrape off the nachos
from your worn, oily tank-top and run your fingers through what's left of your
greecey hair, belch and scratch your crotch and go out to get the daily news
while you're still in your underwear. You'll live your life living and
forgetting, having dreams in which you have dreams in which you have dreams,
get fatter and eat more nachos and more beer. Then, in one of your dreams,
you'll become an insomniac who roams the streets at night chugging down twenty
ounces of capacinno, stealing flannel from the vagrants and yell about how much
your world sucks, not remembering anything about the dreams you used to have
when you actually slept and had the dreams within your dreams. You'll refuse to
fall asleep until you spot a foreign object in the sky above you, which
paralyzes you from the neck down. Short, stalky brownish frowning ET-like
figures wearing coveralls and black slanted-eyed skinny gray beings with large
heads surround you, flood the area with light and float you inside a ship with
the aid of small silver bars they hold within their three-fingered hands. They
subject you to physical examinations, as well as out-of-body experiments,
insert vivid pictures of odd animals and shapes such as triangles in your mind,
tell you the world is going to end and that you have a job to do and shit, and
are stupid enough to leave you eighty miles down the road, naked, without any
memory of what had happened over the past three hours. You go through your
now-even-more-insomniac life mumbling about little green men to your friends
and hope that someday you'll discover that your drawings, poems, and stories
all lead to some greater purpose as you let your grades drop with the notion
stuck in your head that the world as we know it will end at any minute. After
awhile you decided to shape up, stop loading yourself down with so much
caffeine and go back to sleep.
You awaken as a duck in a grassland all alone, living peacefully among the
lillypads and munching on dandelions and asparagus until little imps come take
you away on a ship, subject you to physical examinations, as well as other
stuff, and although you get the sinking sensation of de'ja'vu you figure your
crazy. You steal an alien scout ship after fighting with your evil twin clone
that a wrinkley-faced frowny spud-butt finglefarthead of an extraterrestrial
that you currently know as the Doctor created for the purpose of studying your
genes and your reaction to a figure resembling your own, and end up crashing on
a planet with native ducks who scarf Ritz and drink from waterfalls of caffeine
and are hunted by a vile creature mutant called the Gomunk which is half gopher
and half chipmunk, only when you crash on the planet you knock your head and go
unconscious, having a strange dream about a tall, lurpy bird with a sharp
oversized beak in a tropical land of florescent trees and waters that is slowly
turned into a vast, deadly dessert wasteland which he now calls Elsewhere. He
fights off gigantic spiders and fears the comets falling from the skies, as
well as short stalky intruders and their skinny gray-skinned slanted black eyed
counterparts, as well as the ravenous insects that invade your homes and try
desperately to steal objects and possessions from the fast pyramids. You fall
asleep and become a large-muscled amnesiac named Sputter who warps in between
what may be dreams and what may be past lives or actual dimensional-shifting,
unless you actually shift dimensions while you sleep. That's an interesting
idea. What if your dreamlands are just another domain of existence, were
people's conscious minds are simply more dense? If we could gain control of
this power and turn lucid within, we could build a bridge between our worlds,
or at least the memories of it, and we could become stronger as a race. Yet
then, with our vast brains on both realms changing with overwhelming bits of
information and a high rise in awareness, we could loose our human ability to
love and use our great emotions. We might go forward anyhow, and damn the
torpedoes, then look back one day and see what we had lost. We'd find a race of
beings similar to us, or how we were at one time, and use them, abduct them and
make experiments on them to see if we could possess their bodies at sometimes
in the future when they will be more vulnerable and much less probable to act
violent toward us. And so we try to combine our genetics with the new
creature's genetics, erasing their memories after abductions and giving them
spiritual encounters and "purposes" to live on after their Armageddon so as to
make them feel they have more of a meaning full part in this transaction.
Little would these creatures know that they'd be loosing their planet, their
lives, their world and parts of their own physicality, and it would drive them
to look deeper into themselves, discover their dreams, and philosophize until
what now seemed to be an inevitable end would finally reign upon them. I need a
cup of coffee, dammit. Or a laxative.
ATTENTION!!! WE ARE (still) DOING A SPECIAL ISSUE ON THE ABSURDITY OF RELIGION
AND GOVERNMENT (TWO SEPARATE ISSUES). ANY SHIT (or even poop) FOR IT, SEND IT
TO US TELLING US WHAT IT IS FOR. PLEASE. THANK YOU (very much).
Gopher is published monthly on or around the 11th of each month. Why the 11th,
nobody will ever know. Not even I, the Notorious Mr. G. knows why we publish
on the 11th. sillyness. Oh yeah, you can find Gopher at
http://www.washout.com/gopher
Questions? Comments? Reflections? Please send them to
gopher@washout.com
or use the snail mail: The Gopher Society, PO Box 174, Thompson, Ohio,
44086-0174.
or even beam your submissions directly to Rewired via mental
telepathy... He digs it!
by Star-Gazing Dreamer
by the CIB Man
by Rewired
by PACMAN Overload
A Love Poem
by Tinman
If you are but an ounce;
Your yield could render cities flat
If you but chose to pounce.
Why don't you detonate
And send shock waves the speed of sound
And light at faster rate?
Shedding radiation
From shining sea to shining sea
Killing vegetation?
The meager foolish sun
And bring a daylight of your own
To make the mortals run.
Print shadows on the wall,
And peel their skin from off their bones
And let the dead winds fall?
Your longest winter trail?
Why don't you speak, merchant of death,
And loose your flaming flail?
Each corner, far and wee,
But choose, instead, to desolate
None other than just me.
My soul burns like a brand.
Apocalypse flares cross my heart
If you but touch my hand.
Roast me in my stone tomb,
And shave my flesh off blackened bones
When you but whisper: "Boom."
by CIB Man
by Star-Gazing Dreamer; PACMAN Overload; Rewired; Lioness; Doug
by SCP
With blonde curls
And sun tanned skin
Make me sick.
Shimmering bubbles
Pouring over rows
Of white perfection.
And their smiles sadden.
A mushroom in
A bed of violets.
A flow of venom
All over their bronzed
Perfect piglet toes?
Freshly painted billboards
Of pity--flinch or shudder
>From my reply?
Is smile back
With yellowed pearls
and sickly white skin.
To hide my hatred
No one looks pretty
When they're mad.
by Rewired
by CIB Man
-the Official Tormentor of Rewired
Gymnophobic
by the Official Tormentor of Rewired
"The Last Jabberwocky"
by Tinman
Yet gyred and gimboled in the wabe.
Less mimsy were the borogroves
And the mome rath ingabe.
The sun shone burid red
For blood poured out and steeped about
Where Jabberwock lay dead.
His head had been cut free.
The feting blood flowed out of him
And poisoned Tum-Tum tree.
Of dying rot decay
Came Jabberwock in sarrow flock
To mourn the darksome day.
And made the tulgey shake
With strain of pain and tears of light
And calls of deepful ache.
That vorpel sword cut long
And severed all but harkish call
And sadful mournsome song.
And brusht the blood away,
Then clept and brered a place so clean
Where he might ever lay.
The lastmost mims they strew
To sweetly name the oncetime hame
Of one they loved and knew.
In borogroves at noon
And never larm the fremish lore
At midnights lit by moon.
And silence fell around
The headless hock of Jabberwock
Sterning on the ground.
And gladed into air
Leaving the dead one ever proud
To be the last one there.
A son had proved his might.
They hung the skull upon the wall
And chortled long that night.
Could gyre or gimbol in the wabe.
All mimless lay slain borogroves
And mome rath never gabe.
by PACMAN Overload
It's really good
There's a fountain in my head
And the faucet's leaking
The green goo I call a brain
Dripped into my rum
It's really good
The greatest drink I've ever had
I took a sip
And now I'm stoned
There was so much in my head
And now it's down the drain
Have a drink
And go insane
by the CIB Man
by Tinman
by PACMAN Overload
I used to be so big and strong
I used to never need anything
Until I met you
What do you take me for
Who do you think I am
Why did you do this to me
Now I'm lost
Now I'm everything
Now I'm nothing
You took my soul
You took my life
Away from me
I need you back
I wish you back
Inside of me
To wish of you
To ask of you
To beg of you
by Star-Gazing Dreamer, the Official Tormentor of Rewired, Lioness, and people
you don't know
- Metrodorus, Greek philosopher of the fourth century B.C.
Everything About Them
by Tinman
by Rewired
saying bye to sanity and all those lies
breaking up into a sea of chunks of me
washing ashore on an island of insanity
It's so me
I feel so me.
Morphing again into this robotic man
turning around, lost and never found
finding my way across this shit
to a place were I can think and sit
It's so me
I feel so damn me.
Flicking at the fire and tripping over the wire
burning away as the wax runs down my face
fluttering after combust, ashes to ashes
I piece me back to together and strike a match
Killing me
It's so damn me
It's so damn me.
by PACMAN Overload
by Claire
by Lioness, Llama and Bob Microsoft
by Star-Gazing Dreamer
June 20
by the CIB Man
Why is life worth less
when a cause becomes great.
faces not met,
still hate, and kill
showing no regret.
soon blood no longer drips
it pours, splatters, and is burned
from the methods of peace.
The peaceful silence of death,
the silence of lips grown cold
Bones, and blood, shattered lives
the glorious spoils of peace.
by Chaos
- Star-Gazing Dreamer
Does time exist? Or are we so bored that we decided to measure our useless
hours and minutes spent in this world? Maybe it doesn't exist, but we're grown
to believe it does.
- on a napkin found in my car one night
Mental Autopsy of a god
by Rewired
A LONG TIME AGO
Gopher is (c) 1997 Rewired, which means he owns it, we guess. All writings
are (c) by their respective authors. Mr. G assumes the ownership of any
cheesewheels sent to the Gopher Society. The CIB Man assumes ownership of all
corn products, including the repressed frito chip corn bretheren. Fight the
Power!! Gopher is a high-fiber, low-fat food that is both nummy and good for
you! Gopher has 833% of the USRDA daily value of caffiene. So... It is your
duty, as a good citizen to promote good health, mental and physical, by
distributing copies of Gopher to everyone you know, even to Richard Simmons...
Could you imagine it? Sweating to the Gopher! Auuuuugh!!!