Went to my favorite iced cream parlor. Ordered my favorite iced cream sandwich, the Gorge Costanza. An A.I.-powered interface kiosk in a shimmery rainbow wig told me they only had three flavors now, new management, and no iced cream sandwiches because the term is offensive to both pagans, and of course also, in some yet to be revealed way, to the Israelites in their championing humanity and their finicky legal organizations. I experienced a self-righteous feeling of Gen-Z-tainted churlish dismay, a jerky, unfocused and scattershot, self-righteous spasm of a feeling, and meekly asked what flavors they now offered.
A tall, beefy, humanoid employee-organism dressed in sheer pink sausage skin, through which all 666 of its tattoos and metal fetish-appurtenances couldn't be unseen, by way of reply muttered in its querulous, monotone, weak-willed way, a tone seeping all the languid, irritated, pointlessly rising-pitch inflections one now expects from everyone between the ages of 7-35,
"We can now only provide "Woke-Sauce Cream," "Woke Sauce-Cream wit Sprynkles" and "Buzz Darkyear's Sleepless Snowbunny Banana Cream-pie, with Scrotal Surprise."
"What about chocolate, lol! surely you still have chocolate?" i challenged the laborer.
"Yes but it only comes swirled with vanilla."
"Why then did you just lie to me about having only 3 flavors? You have at least 5."
"Chocolate is no longer designated as a flavor, but rather, a state of mind. A sexual world-view, if you like. Besides, you live in a super-post-truth dream-world. Everything exists along a scale of suppressed desires. Trust The Science."
"Sure, sure" i said, "Give me the God-damned miscegenation sundae please. I'm definitely not an independent thinker."
"Do you want Sprinklz?"
...Then i wait the customary 30-plus minutes for the treat to be produced, customary because the attendant is and forever will be, as indicated earlier, of one of the more recent, obliviously lethargic, fastidiously unhelpful generations, who believe in their tiny, shriveled, negated hearts that to be polite or friendly or mildly effective at their jobs are each telltale signs of weakness and white privilege. It gives me the iced cream as it bores lazily left through me with its glazed, anemic gaze, then returns to caressing some kind of scrying mirror or communications gadget installed in its forearm, and connected by medical-grade tubing to its fluffy belly. The tubing courses with an evil black goo. The goo contains glitter.
I pay One Billion digi-creds to the furtive yet still painfully slow-moving, dead-eyed baphomet creature and turn to leave. "Come back here. I forgot to give you your free brick. The iced cream comes with a brick." It had just spontaneously appeared in its giant, puffy, genetically modified hand.
(aghast:) "Where the fuck did that brick come from?!"
"They just pop in from out of nowhere. Nobody knows. But they're real. It works fine."
The haughty but distracted and dropsical mesomorph handed me the revolutionary concretion, to go along with my randy confection. Later that somnambulatory afternoon i was attacked by a pack of huge mongrel university students, also clearly genetically modified. One of them was literally just a giant trigger made of tattooed flesh, riding a motorized scooter. University students all only come in one size now: too fucking large. All that hulking lack of promise in the service of an uncreative narcissism is frightening. They were all chanting something about long rifles as they hurt and beat me with (admittedly fashionable) backpacks bulging with absolutely nothing useful, and jabbed me with hypodermic needles full of mysterious, gene-tamperin inoculation top-offs. One of the gang had a stubby little rifle---no bigger than a pistol with a very large clip, really, of the kind readily available out here in these streets teeming with the endless products of prosperous arms manufacturers who also make bullets for the armies, etc, and which would probably be quite effective for a mass shooting if we are dealing in truths and physics here---yes a cute little rifle that shot magical bricks which could only harm fuckin-wypipo and black-owned businesses. I was badly half-wounded, thanks to the unwashed 1960's-era Californian miscegenation of my parents. Great, fearsome students of various creamy and beige colors lashed, pounded and throttled me; the mob included one chunky, token white girl in garish athletic gear; each of them had a comfort chimera trained to attack penises and redirect the Male Gaze.
This entire deserved come-uppance of mine occurred on campus, and, as i would discover, only because i had been indulging in my stupid habit of whistling be-bop-inspired improvisations with my mouth, lips, and pretty, pink little tongue, like a 4-year old geisha's.
The throng of mongrel matriculates heard me whistling all those annoying, outmoded eighth-notes, and they immediately set upon me, chirp-braying,
"The only people who whistle are old fuckin-wypipo!"
I dodge the first blows and feeble tautologies but an armadillo-rabbit manages to seize my groin. I shriek, but certainly Not like a little Anglo or Ashkenazi girl who had been raised in privilege but who still had managed to develop delusional and toxic political beliefs, then i manage to cry out,
"That is categorically untrue! And my whistling is inspired by authentic Negro cultural artifacts! I watched the entire, questionable Buffalo-Tops massacre snuff film bc i was determined to unflinchingly confront my white privilege!"
But the Kultural Revolution was on and nothing could stop it.
The leader, a lumbering, sexless, aderall-powered creature of indescribable sleeplessness and attention to generality, bellows "We know and understand that black people have never in many decades been heard to whistle, whistle Anything at all. Have you ever heard a black person whistle?! Ipso Facto, you're old and white and are super-overdue for a beating, i mean a beatdown, for a wee bit of reversal. Plus you have just openly admitted to Kultural Appropriation. We have a way of dealing with that particular crime." (Cackling theatrically)
And it was true. I silently concede that not since the vile sell-outs, Uncle Remus and Bobby McFerrin, (who preceded these fierce revolutionaries by at least 20 years and are therefore obsolete) had I heard a single black person whistling, probably because as we all now have learned and understood, they have literally Nothing to be happy about except for their steadily increasing prospects of inter-racial unions, and their newfound, endless supply of magical bricks. I curl up into a ball and accept my vicious beating, hopeful that the results will show up on the next refresh of my SCS. (Social Credit Score)
Nearby, a Posterity of campus police officers discussed sports and placed bets on how long my re-education would take. I caught the eye of one of them and winked at her, as if to say, "Obviously I deserved this, clearly I was not standing in a safe space."
The officer winked back, as if to imply, "You ain't just whistling Dixie, child." Instantly the token white girl, who because of a recent update to her neural link was now psychic, broke from the pack of dour, gloomy, and contrarian activists and with a terrible swooshing of limbs headed for the police-woman to avenge the racist micro-aggression of thought-terminology.
It was there, beneath the tutelage of the rest of the play-university vanguard, my junk torn apart by parrot-ferrets, armadillo-rabbits, and sugar glider-rats, that i ....
(You see, it takes QUITE A WHILE for an unpublishable writer as serious as me to decide on an adverb or the most immaculate syntax)
that i...mentally! engineered this trenchant, revolutionary-minded poem, with embedded links: (Clears throat)
THIS CRAY-CRAY WORLD
Has sets of cabinets
And flights of stairs
And closets of fancy items
And whole wrecked trains
Of government ministers
in drag
and black-face
It has sturdy things
We point to all the time
in our search for reason, guided by
The Science
and the academicians
and the comfy tautologists in
coats of super-severe
Whyte..
But then,
seeming to cover everything,
there is a vague,
webby
Madness
And
Murderlust,
And an even more
organized bloodthirst
Than that…
There is always the greater
Violence
Of entrained crowds
Of poorly rested,
And even more poorly reared youths,
Youths themselves
reared by the infantilized,
By callow,
mind-controlled, thought-po-po'd parents...
"parents" whose highest ambition is to remain young forever,
while becoming rich,
and staying abreast of all current african-american slang
dumb, dumb parents,
in whom the mental lethargy
and moral turpy-tood are
deep, and thick..
filthy lethal parents,
these, the proximate biological points of origin for
these packs of rabid ideologues
then scooted ruthlessly into
this crazy bordello-world to be
raised by the matrix of internet, propaganda, and
hideous, occulted social engineering schemes
and hoaxes,
ideologues addicted to themselves,
with I-phones for hands,
waiting, waiting
in the wings,
with genetically modified
quick-twitch muscles
and index fingers
that swipe
and blast
with frenzied impotence
and the energy
of various forms of unlimited,
legal speed...
and here now,
at the green screen
of all ends,
i give to you
the Golden Chalice of Starbucks Coffee,
the Children's Edition, with a squirt of
Puberty Blocker,
and as well, here, once more,
is my..
we know and understand as we thrust unseemly
in your direction...
i say yet again,
because we are all such proud and
spicy, self-pimping little IG sex-workers, after all,
here we present for you
my cashapp handle:
$natteaze
and here too is my Venmo:
@natteaze
and my OF:
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| How Dare Ye tell me how to raise my Baphomet |
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| Today we learnded about Psychedelic Mushrooms and the Apple Juice tasted funny |
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