Each morning at dawn, before starting up and revving my competitive bile, I try to respectfully bow at the waist and genuflect at the knees to thank the infallible Internet for supplying vital sustenance that can hardly be surpassed in any solitary confinement. Nothing better has ever been. Non-believers,infidels, heretics, and kooks are left to stand alone and stick it elsewhere where it’s still dark. That’s partly the beauty of being free to surf on great cathartic waves. As go spindly knees, often go twinkling toes.
Pandora gets me better than my current ex-wife, previous ex-wife, original ex-wife, ancestors, children, associates, enemies, sycophants, hangers-on. When John Coltrane sidles up next to the dear departed dad of Femi Kuti in order to get righteously down as if fresh off the boat from Brooklyn, along with all the children of Bob Marley, and Big Mama Thornton, Son House, Junior Walker, and Little Richard, I am able to see the light and bounce up off of those knees. The family circle remains unbroken. Also, from Web MD I learned why my asshole bleeds so erratically, when is the best time of the month to use an all natural condom, how to maintain a steady pace while breathing, and where I am least likely to meet a preternatural demise. All that’s missing is a good ending. That gets right down to the real nitty-gritty in a nutshell. Can posers on Fakebook answer deep, penetrating questions like that, or twits on Nitwitter? As if.
The yang twin, who recognizes me primarily as a default mechanism opposing his eminent worldwide domain, asked me while chewing breakfast that same morning, unless it was another equally disguised morning before middle school, which consisted of gruel, “What’s zydeco?”
The yin twin wanted to know if that was a formulation of two nouns, a noun and adjective, or were verbs involved in a snarky, underhanded manner, as practiced in middle school. The yang twin rolled his eyes, one of which was blackened in a purplish kind of way, also derived from middle school.
I replied,”Beats me.”
Then the yang twin asked, “What other colors does Cajun come in?”
I added, offhandedly, “Off-white, white, cream, eggshell, vanilla.”
One of the many vital facts recently unearthed by cultural anthropologists digging in where else but the burning desert, you know the one, and reported in real time to glowing reports on a little known tertiary page of the Internet, reveals that the religious practice of wiping with one hand and one hand only was passed divinely down from Babylonia by omniscient gurus all trained to sit on the same symbolic potty. Behold, it was a fucking miracle of complex thought then, now, and for the foreseeable future. At least until more attractive super-heroes with some real fucking oomph came along in better comic books adding primary colors, and leaped onto the bigger brighter screen with special effects utilizing alchemy. Many of those heroes had big tits and awesome asses. That’s when all fucking Hell broke loose only to become torn asunder, ass-backward in straps and corsets, and buck-toothed.
Soon, diaper rash was eliminated as a metaphysical scourge and there was advanced arithmetic to consider.
According to the best of calculations, not mine, gleaned daily from smug practitioners on nightly standby in blurry Bangalore, many imbued with artificial intelligence, the Internet has achieved more than you will ever know. What you don’t know will never hurt you. Nothing to fear. Pooh-pooh that. Elon Musk and Stephen Hawking have admitted alarming errors in previous lives. Artificial intelligence will continue to rise like a volcanic erection to surpass in real raw value and dynamism all politics, religions, criminal enterprise, currency trading, family tragedy, common connivance, social opprobrium, digital manipulation, and massive denial. Deep breathing will help as well in that area, per known norms.
For that reason, and similar reasons, I will continue to get my vital mind and body materials direct from the electronic source and maintain a discreet distance from unseemly scads of intermediary accountants, editors, bureaucrats, attorneys, professors, charlatans, enablers, and boogeymen, many demonstrably robotic in affect. I feel quite righteously complacent here at home with my self-diagnoses for most treatable syndromes. My current copy of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 4th Edition, Text Revision, (DSM-IV-TR) is thoroughly thumbed through for many of the same similar reasons. Breathing helps in that area, too.
As a modern alternative, try your breathing with raw tongue hanging loose, dressed with lettuce and mildly sauced. That right there in a nutshell is the Internet talking to ya, punk.
The tawny owl, who qualifies as an expert on the Internet via osmosis at its electrical source, which is largely underwater, informs me it is impossible for humans to understand their impact while utilizing no more than the small portion of unused brain power not squelched and sub-divided into suburban tracts featuring mowed lawns that destroy habitat for more evolved creatures.
But, I already knew that. Early on, I read it on the Internet. Extra smartly, I answered, “Well, yeah, like…double fucking duh.”
If you can’t believe faithfully in simple facts based upon iconic pie charts, you’re probably doomed to catch a fatal and well-deserved disease that will keep you on your inflamed knees in a hellhole unlike Wisconsin. The wrong hand will fall off. Flies will buzz while maintaining a safe distance from your stinking carcass.
It may be especially alarming to enforced mental health practices when the one remaining good hand washes the other with nothing better than sand. The shit stains on that wrong fallen hand will likely never wipe all the way off.
Good luck with all of the unproven alternatives, and Godspeed.