Theodore

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We were a postwar family – both my parents were born just before WW2. And taking a page from the veterans of that massive war who came back damaged and in desperate search of social isolation, my parents relocated to a prefab suburb of trailer-quality bungalows on massive lots. “A place where you could throw a ball,” I heard a neighbor’s father say.

Our barracks was just like our neighbors’ barracks, and we’d all wait by our picture windows for our dads’ tanks to roll into the driveway at five-thirty each day. What else was there to do when you weren’t throwing a ball?

Our main enemies were the lawn weeds and insect infestations of the suburban cartoonscape. We heroically doused these parasitic insurgents with the latest army-issue biopoisons, when we weren’t chopping them up with the noisiest machines we could buy on credit at the hardware megastore.

The human animals in our house were all expected to maintain stiff upper lips because this is what helped the English-speaking good guys to win all their nasty wars against foreign evil. Sometimes this protruding lip turned into a snarl, and there were times when my mother reminded me of Johnny Lydon of the Sex Pistols.

Once our French-Canadian grandparents died, hugs and kisses in our Anglicized household were limited to X’s and O’s as a cutesy sign-off on personal letters. It was as if our parents were rationing affection to prepare us for real life, where “real life” meant World War Two and the hunt for Germano-Japanese scalp.

a remnant of ceremonial burial in post-war suburbia

…

Into this suburban military compound of emotional marasmus fell little sister Charlene. The baby of the family, she started out in life getting non-stop hugs and kisses from affection-starved older brothers and sisters like myself. But as she got older and less cute, all the sibling affection dried up in favor of sarcasm and psychological torture.

We honed the art of cold, distant personal relations while watching TV with our parents and interacting with the people in the identical bungalows around us who were watching the same shows.  Hugging became something nostalgic that nowadays, only actors do.

Instead of accepting our natural human vulnerability and neediness, we learned to be poker-faced schemers so that we’d win our own personal wars. Prepared by New York TV writers for the adult lives we would eventually drive to, we were then ready to face any Nazis or Soviets we might come across at the mall.

Charlene grew increasingly desperate for affection as she neared nine-years old, so my mother temporarily suspended the house-ban on pets and allowed her to get a small gerbil, “as long as you clean his cage and I don’t have to look at him.”

About two weeks after she brought Theodore home from the pet shop, Charlene woke up screaming because she had accidentally crushed him in her sleep.

When my mother came out of Charlene’s room that morning, I asked her what happened, and she looked at me with a firm gaze and said, “Theodore’s dead.” It was like getting bad news from the front from a concerned corporal.

That same day after school, my mother held a military funeral for Theodore in the back yard, and her and Charlene  –  the only attendees –  fashioned a cross out of sticks, and buried him about three inches deep in the chem-tech lawn.

She got a new gerbil a week later, and killed him exactly the same way. I later found out her M.O.: Late at night, the noise from the nocturnal rodent would wake her up. Vulnerable and semi-conscious, Charlene would then take the helpless creature out of his cage, and start to hug him very gently until she fell asleep …on top of him …silently crushing him to death.

By the fourth gerbil, there were no more tears shed, and the ceremonial burial was replaced by the sound of a toilet flushing and my mother saying, “so long, comrade.”

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Nature and Feline Systems

The Political Economy of Qaturday

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INTRO  INTRO  INTRO  INTRO  INTRO

With giant clumsy paws, we collectively shape our world…

There are many directions that kitten technology can take. But here, I will only look at two possible tech styles: one which characterizes the current feline world order, and another that offers a return to health for the colonial victims (virtually all of us) of this same globally-enforced Leviathan of fake.

Hyperconsumptive colonizing societies (hiss! hiss!) maintain a style of technology in which nature is constantly pillaged (after being theoretically separated from the feline race by texts), and this is done in order to increase abstract metrics like population figures and resource consumption per cat. I call this instrumentalist and propaganda-addicted paradigm nature-minimizing.

A second and, I think, wiser direction for tech, would be to minimize the significance of those numerical abstractions in order to maximize things that could be considered natural. So the second style of tech could be called nature-maximizing. (prrrrr… prrrrr…)

I am using the words minimize and maximize to simplify an incredibly complex relationship between the feline race and the environment around it, and I am doing this in order to keep this essay relatively brief. I deploy the word nature to describe a style of relationship between cats and other living things that can be sustained for as long as possible. Maximizing nature – for the purposes of this essay -  also involves maximizing the time the feline race spends interacting with it, both individually and as a species.

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ONE  ONE  ONE  ONE  ONE

…

Tech Style One reduces the presence of both nature and of natural cat life. Our own cat behavior is made rigid in this tech style and our biological existence is altered to serve an abstract numerical agenda. Our purr is gone, replaced by a lawnmower engine.

Military-style deference to authority replaces more natural feline relations, both in the many nature-destroying wars for numerical abstractions, as well as on the homefront plugging away in industrial shops and sterile office mazes or gliding along the suburban grid in a hermetically-sealed machine. Natural ways of moving through and interacting with space are replaced by the robotic and socially-isolated gestures of the commuter. Natural cat empathy and communicative sharing of ideas and experience is drowned out in a din of strategic lies with a power-seeking agenda.

As this technology is perfected, naturalness is reduced to near zero as both the environment and the daily routines of cats are stretched to their survival limits. Everything starts to fall apart, and social capital declines rapidly as meowing gives way to  hissing and flying fur.

A lot of wealthy societies and castes exhibit admiration for this kind of tech, or at least commercial media makes it seem like the wealthy admire this style of tech. And that narrative pushes all cats onto the conveyor belt of consumption. What reinforces the link between the rich and this tech style is the unequal division of labor and misery which punishes those who are not born into the elite.

This tech style is where we are now at this point in global history. The nature-pillagers have triumphed through most of history by pillaging other feline societies in much the same way that they strip-mined the environment, forever in search of shinier and shinier flea collars, spreading their hyperconsumptive pillaging model all over the tattered globe. This is the colonial capitalism model. Liberal Democracy is also found here, with a few socialistic bells and whistles to make it seem less heartless than raw economic tyranny.

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TWO  TWO  TWO  TWO  TWO

…

With Tech Style Two, as little effort as possible is expended. But, as we all know, cats need to hunt between catnaps, so they spend a lot of time lounging in the shade, but must expend their own effort to eat or mate.

This doesn’t mean that there is less personal effort than in Tech Style One. Nature-maximizing is far more egalitarian than minimizing, so everyone has to expend some physical, some mental, and some social energy. In an egalitarianist system, every cat is required to use their own body and mind in order to economize the collective effort. The effort that is minimized with this style is the total resource consumption of cat-kind, which translates into less effort by the natural environment as a whole.

The nature-pillaging colonial model provides a labor-free and hyper-status existence for a decadent and flea-collar obsessed elite, but they are always – by necessity – a minority. In the nature-maximizing model, every cat sweats a bit so that no one overconsumes the products of someone else’s labor. Slavery and exploitation are forms of nature-minimizing (destroying feline existences) and have no place in Tech Style Two. Dogs can be made to enjoy being exploited, but this kind of behavior is definitely not cool for cats.

It is in providing the labor himself – each and every cat – that everyone suddenly has a stake in reducing consumption to that which is necessary to have a good life. Not a glamorous life full of g-force thrills, endless bowls of vintage catnip, gilded cat-litter boxes and aimless world travel; this kind of cat existence can only be maintained by economizing nature through slavery-of-the-many and resource pillaging. Instead of this unnatural segregation of life opportunity (division of labor), nature-maximizing can offer everyone a good life with equality and healthy amounts of social capital.

Not only would this reduce the strain on the natural environment, but it would also return catkind to pre-political lives that involve cooperation and equality. With this nature-maximizing style of tech, it would be most forms of competition that would go extinct, rather than the feline race itself.

There are still many cat cultures that exhibit an admiration for this nature-preserving style of tech, and many individual cats living within nature-minimizing societies recognize the superiority of nature-maximizing.  But these nations/individuals are almost never the wealthiest or most powerful. Pillaging makes powerful, and thus, has spread like cancer. Nature-minimizing Great Kitty Powers had an easy time pillaging societies that were still maintaining the infinitely more sustainable nature-maximizer style of tech. Until now.

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MEOW  MEOW  MEOW  MEOW  MEOW

The friends, family, and employees of this blog entry support a transition from Tech Style One (our current disastrous path) towards Tech Style Two. We posit that protecting our life support systems is far more important than actively pursuing numerical abstractions. It’s time to let our claws out once again, and re-learn to chase our own mice, and only the amount of mice we need to get our daily calorie requirements.

Little Fella

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The MacIsaac’s camper trailer is dark brown and white with chrome accents – the perfect color scheme for hiding dirt and mold. But I don’t think Kipper’s barking at mold. He barks at shadows all the time, but it’s overcast today and the shadow under the trailer isn’t really moving, so there must be something out there. Or maybe I’m just dazed from all the low-grade pot we’ve been smoking.

After about 10 minutes, when his buzz starts to recede, Billy goes outside to empty a few cat litter boxes – the MacIsaacs have 17 cats and six active cat litters in total – and I go outside with him just to check out why Kipper’s barking.

I crouch down. The smell of wet dirt under the trailer helps explain the soggy piece of toilet paper lying in the shadow. I can’t believe Kipper has been barking at an inanimate object for what seems like an hour.

But wait. That isn’t a piece of dirty toilet paper. It’s… oh my god. It’s a beige kitten that’s been abandoned by its mom! Why would a post-partum cat abandon its own little kitten? Don’t they need to feed their kittens just to ease the pain from the milk pressure? Isn’t this instinctive? Time freezes for a few seconds because I can’t process what I’m seeing in front of me.

I have to bend over to get a closer look, my heart-rate doubling as my mind focuses and my emotions go red hot. The kitten, like me, has round bulging eyes. But his little eyes won’t open for a few weeks – if they ever open at all. And though his eyes are closed shut and the kitten is silent, I can feel his fear – his deep and unrelenting fear.

I rush him into the house and wash the dirt and placenta off his shivering little body in the kitchen sink. He looks sort of homely and morbid: like an abandoned biology project. But he’s moving and warm – alive.

Not knowing what to give him to eat or drink, I wet a piece of paper towel with milk and let him lick it a bit, which he does. He starts to move in a way that demonstrates that he is, perhaps, willing to live, but only if someone helps him. If someone will just pick him up and do what they’re supposed to do naturally, this kitten just might survive – he just might want to survive.

…

An hour later, Billy’s mother gets home from her job at Zellers and I explain what happened. Having raised a few dozen kittens in her time, Mrs. MacIsaac puts my mind at ease as I leave their house to go home to my own – my teenage emotions forever changed.

Eventually, one of the other mother cats at the MacIsaac’s – one who had just had kittens of her own a week earlier – adopts Little Fella and he starts to feed regularly and often. Within a week, he’s as healthy looking as his older cousins whose eyes have already opened as they stumble outside their homemade kitten pen.

Little Fella is always a step behind these siblings, and his biological mother – who is the grandmother of the kittens he is nursing with – seems to have completely given up on mothering. She just paces around in circles meowing for a few weeks, and then calms down. Perhaps she was just too old or too frail after all the other kittens she’s had in her lifetime. Or maybe she had problems of her own when she was a kitten. I have no idea.

When Little Fella got older, he didn’t really act like other cats. His best friend was Samo, the neighbor’s Chihuahua, and Little Fella would always jump up on people and lick them on the face as if he was a dog himself. He rarely meowed, and seemed to love human beings and want to be loyal to them. He liked to chase cars with Samo and even wagged his tail when he saw his favorite people.

Perhaps there’s a lesson here for all cats: mistreat your kittens, and they might reject their own community. I mean, wouldn’t you do the same if your own community had left you to die?

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Bestmount Bears

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Orc: “I am totally walking in there right now with this beer!”

Orc is losing her cool in the icy lineup of cologne-drenched punk posers in front of Club Glace on Stanley Street. Having to wait on the sidewalk before she can get into the club to dance and drink gin always pushes her into existential crisis mode.

Rusty interrupts her call to arms.

Rusty: “Hey, you were the one who couldn’t leave residence until your curls were firm enough. I told you we’d have to wait in line if we got here after eleven.”

Orc’s curls are important. Many hours of her life have been spent pursuing full, rich white curls like Annie Bearito has on television. That the curls on television are the product of lighting effects and special hair treatments that only last the time to shoot a scene … this is not important to Orca. What matters is getting the exact same results in real life as she has witnessed on TV.

Orc: “Oh Rusty, I totally don’t give a shit about anything anymore. Let’s smoke another pinner. I hate fucking waiting outside like this. I totally feel like cattle waiting to be culled.”

Rusty: “What’s the point of smoking pinners if you are going to smoke a dozen of them, Orc, sweetie. Let’s just get out a blowtorch and do some knives, why don’t we.” Michel Foucault eye-roll as he whips out a pre-rolled pinner.

A shortish female bear with green fur overhears the conversation and cuts in.

Nathalie: “Hey, are you two from Bestmount?”

Bestmount is an elite, inner-city suburb of Yukon Bay. It’s built on the side of the mountain on top of some of the last remaining blue space in the city. It’s high end in just about every way.

But instead of feeling like he’s been complimented, Rusty takes this as an insult, and goes straight home on the monorail without saying another word, leaving Orca and her friend Flora to share the just-lit pinner. There is just something about being mistaken for the upper classes that makes Rusty worry about melting ice and who is eventually going to take responsibility for it.

It sure isn’t going to be him. He’s just a furry white trash polar with nice proportions – not some hubristic rich bear with visions of world domination.

President Ann Monrovia

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Ann’s handlers are worried. The cover of this month’s Time magazine features a gorgeously cropped Annie Leibovitz photograph of starving Nebraska farmers who – as the story inside explains – have been cannibalizing one another and then swallowing insecticide to kill themselves.

But one of the more optimistic (and less empathic) public relations consultants – a brilliant fund-raiser named Brandon Vapidinski – commissions an eye-watering speech for this presidential crisis.  Before President Ann delivers it, the Oval Office’s marketing people hold focus groups to make sure the speech will change public opinion in a way that helps her approval ratings.

“Whenever I’m feeling bad about myself,” Ann faux-candidly tells the charmed TV audience, “I like to go out and buy a whole new outfit, from top to bottom. Sometimes, high price doesn’t matter when you’re feeling low.”

These words will be covered by all major media outlets. And for weeks afterward, teachers in the private schools in the few states that still have childhood education will ask students to explain what these words mean “in your own words”. 

The new outfit that Ann deploys has been strategically crafted by a cabal of international designers. It’s obvious that they’ve done their homework. Ann’s stunning shoes are brilliantly carved leather tributes to manifest destiny, and the rest of her outfit has been tailored to fit the contours of Ann’s PR needs, rather than just her perfectly-doctored figure. Even her watch yells out for approval and respect as she pushes back her ample bangs with her left forearm.

“I think that the more depressed you are, the more you should spend on fashion,” she later tells David Letterman, while sitting beside Henry Winkler on his show. At one point, while she’s sharing a scripted personal story, the Fonz places one of his hands on Ann’s thigh and says “Aayyy…” to rowdy applause.

Ann abruptly wakes up, her friend Pam sitting beside her holding a plastic bowl and a jar of Miracle Whip. “You must have eaten too many pizza pockets and passed out, Ann. You kept saying ‘fifth amendment’ and giggling while you were out.”

“I dreamed I was the president of the USA and got to buy marshmallows again.” In her dream, marshmallows had been extinct for two decades, along with barbecue sauce and cheeze ritz.

Ann’s Eleventh Grade essay assignment is sitting next to her bed in a plastic Starsky and Hutch satchel.

Why I want to be president

By Ann Aipac Monrovia

Submitted to:

Mrs. Polegato

Eleventh Grade Enriched English,

Deering High, Portland, April 4, 1979

I have always wanted to help people be the best they can! For that reason, I always thought I’d make a fine president, or even a decent two-termer like Richard Nixon or Alexander Graham Bell.

“What? A woman president? Wouldn’t that give everyone cooties?” you’re probably wondering.

The answer is no, it would not. My being a woman is just a way to show the guys that whatever he can do, we can do better! And I can do this without burning a bra or smoking a joint!

Upper middle class women are just as capable of being James Bond as the guys are! A female prez could just as competently use American foreign policy to help less educated people in poor countries learn valuable life lessons with the help of Q and our military. You don’t have to have snails and puppy-dog tails for brains to do something clever like that. You just need to want to help other people.

In conclusion, I think a girl president would be nicer to people but still able to carry on the torch of American Destiny. And then we wymyn will finally be free from the kitchen and bathroom, and all the other rooms of the houses we will no longer keep.

You’re Orange!

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In the Duran Duran video, the president of the Western Human Federation tells his people:  “Stop thinking and start dreaming!- And now this dream!” And then the there’s a commercial.

In the vague lyrics of “This must be sunrise for Humania!”, Simon Lebon’s whelping-dog voice implies that humanity has been living under the tyranny of another species for too long and is fed up.

In real life, charismatic speeches like this one are a huge success for the ice-melting corporations that commission them. They help ensure that nothing is done to deal with the side effects of all the environmental destruction their profit-seeking model leaves in its wake.

As Rusty watches the video and thinks about the subtext, he finds it harder and harder to concentrate on his schoolwork. All he can think about is the ice melting below his feet and the words totally and intense.

**This must be sunrise for Humania!**

Orca has just gotten out of a Post-Human Studies class and feels like she’s going to explode if she doesn’t share the lecture with someone.

Big ice-sheet Orca chews low-cal gum and rolls her eyes like Michel Foucault:  “Enlightenment luminaries thought liberal democracy was going to be all Lebanese food and togas. But it turned into zombies and oil slicks instead.” She holds in her toke.

Rusty is impressed with her eye-roll, exhales and then slowly asks: “Orc, since tonight’s Thursday, you wanna go downtown to the Glass? The drinks are like, half-price.”

Orca:  “The club is G – L – A – C – E, right?  It’s pronounced like glass but it means ice in French, Rusty?”  Her frown suggests that Rusty’s like totallies are cramping her after-school pinner narrative.

..

..

“You remind me of Jane Hathaway when you talk cold and manly like that, Orc. Do you wanna go dancing or not?”

Dancing and following trends is Rusty’s way of legitimizing his existence here since he’s doing so badly at Snobordia University. He rarely attends classes and seems oblivious to the fact that he’s not building the strategic social capital he will need to thrive in the  corporate world later on. He continues to break a piece of hash into tiny balls on Orca’s residence-issue desk.

Then Orc goes:  “I’m still kind of fucked up from last weekend. I’m totally never staying up all night on acid with you guys again! I almost missed my Psychology class Monday afternoon, and it was at like two in the afternoon! I think my circadian rhythms are totaled.”

It’s the first use of totally never so we laugh.

Rusty starts to hum Up All Night when Ram Brougham limps by. Rusty leans towards Orca and quietly asks, “Did you talk to Ram since his foot thing?”

Orca: “Whatever. He’ll get over it. He might have to develop a personality now that he can’t skate his way through life.”  She exhales:  “Oh, this jock talk is totally wrecking my buzz. Why don’t you buy a few grams of hash, and we’ll meet in my room around 9-ish and head out to Glace around 10? Is that too early?”

**This must be sunrise for Humania!**

Cruel Summer

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While waiting to get off the ferry in Port-aux-Basques, Farfour is noticed by a keen ferry security-guard named Frank Paine: “Hey, didn’t I see you in the New York Post?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” Farfour says meekly. “I didn’t realize you got international tabloids here in the Maritimes.”

“I read it online. And didn’t anyone tell you – you’re not in the Maritimes anymore, mouse. This is THE ROCK!” says the guard, his cellphone squeezed against one of his outer chins. As he finishes saying rock, he drops the cell and puts the startled little mouse into a headlock, while two of his coworkers prepare a tranquilizer needle.

Farfour wakes up a few hours (days?) later in Parc Lafontaine in Montreal. Gay men bask in the Latin sun, while children and their trendy parents scream, play sports and interact with post-modern playground equipment. Farfour notices a man is sitting beside him taking pictures of the lake.

“Hey, how did I get to this nice park, and who are you?” Farfour asks the speedo-clad slim-but-athletic man. Farfour is intrigued by the fashionable man’s studied masculinity and elaborate vocabulary.

“Oh, I’m Julien. I’m the helicopter pilot who flew you here from that moldy ferry terminal in Newfoundland. That’s not all I am, of course. I’m also an Aquarius with a Taurus ascendant.

Oh, I saw how sad and innocent you looked, and I couldn’t bear to hand you over – to let those goons fly you off to some illegal prison full of abused children – like they did to Omar Khadr. One well-publicized crime against an innocent Muslim teenager is enough. We get it. Flying you to Guantanamo to be abused and tortured wouldn’t be helpful to anyone.”

Julien takes the cap off his coconut butter tanning lotion and rubs some on his nose.

“That smells delicious. I feel like I haven’t eaten in days,” says Farfour as Julien offers him the beige plastic bottle.

Club Hegemony

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The music burns through the fog of alcohol that’s knitting doileys with the Phentex of Rusty’s mind. Dancing is his connection to his shrinking animal nature. A night of solo disco-dancing at his favorite nightspot – Club Hegemony – always reminds him back before The Melt, and before adult responsibilities started breathing down his furry neck.

Bears from every subspecies come to Veggie Hamlet this time of the year making the Club Hegemony one of the most international dance locales on the warming planet. At least, this is what its owner – former zoo inhabitant (now drug-free) Santa Fay Hoondai – tells CPBR radio between ads.

A small koala is eying Rusty as he gets up for another gin and tonic. He stumbles slightly against the bar as he turns around to check out all the multicolored fur that is here at the Hegemony tonight, when he notices the furry eyeball.

“Hi. Do you want to dance, Rusty?”

How does this tiny Asian bear know Rusty’s name? Have his earlier Polar Bear Fiction stories made Rusty – previously an unknown squeegybear/commuter-hunter – semi-famous in this strange but beautiful bear’s corner of Koalaland? Is this gawking techno dancer a fan or an indiscreet stalker?

…

“How… do you know…” Rusty starts to say.

“Oh, I’m a friend of Tracker. I’m here with the Yoga Therapy group as well, from Kuala Lampur, Malaysia. I can see the Petronas towers from my tree.”

Rusty sizes up his new friend from paws to ears, but there’s one detail that really isn’t clear. Is this a boy or a girl bear? And, more importantly, does this even matter at this point on the gin and tonic axis?

He leans his head to one side to imply that he’s eager to listen to whatever this black-and-white gender interrogation-mark might say. His drunken strategy is to try to smoke out the gender with a lot of empathy and mock flirting. In all his nights of disco debauchery, Rusty has learned to size up cruising behavior.

“My name’s Rusty. And what’s yours?”

Just then, his favorite Re-Flex song comes on, and the enigmatic koala disappears into the syncopating crowd, never to return to Rusty’s barstool that evening.

But Rusty picks up a book where he was sitting. It’s a paperback by Howard Gardner about dance as a component of IQ called, “House of Brainiac.”

We hate you, fun

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The protesters are waving placards and eating donuts out of yellow and beige boxes. “Smokey, the sodomite, burn in hell !!!” and “Jesus hates you beary much !” have been printed in four-color process (with a gloss) onto large plastic signs, and these signs have been distributed to the few locals who didn’t show up with their own toxic texts.

Rusty thinks about u-turning his furry ass and cruising right back into the sauna. He still has a few hours left on his tariff and a massive springtime perma-boner. Besides, those drooling guys outside the O Quarante look angry and really dumb. “Why walk into a bitch-trap?” he asks himself as he puts on his orange Harvey’s tuque and smoked sunglasses.

“Hey, there’s one now!” yells out Amanda Freelander, a local grizzly activist and former zoo resident (now drug-free). Rusty is noticed, and begins to walk a bit more quickly.

Just as the homophobic mob starts to lunge towards Rusty, the ice beneath their feet cracks, and the entire group of Grizzly and Orthodox Polars are thrown into the icy water – the ink on their intentionally hateful signs smearing into rorschachs.

“I’ll never be able to relax at this sauna again,” Rusty sighs to himself as he walks home along the ice dam with a slight swagger.

..

..

Out of the icy stillness and fear, a raspy voice calls out: “Hey, Rusty! It’s me!”

Rusty turns around to see the same grizzly who melted his ice caps a few hours earlier in the jacuzzi. Crazy protesters… and now a sex partner breaking his cover. The sauna experience is now officially ruined.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch your name…” Rusty says as he forces his mouth into a friendly grin.

“Oh my god, you’re right! My name’s Tracker. I’ll be in Veggie for another week with my Yoga Therapy group. I live way down New York City.”

The expiry date on tonight’s Grizzly experience has painfully passed for Rusty. And listening to Tracker recite the most mundane details of his existence just makes the shift from best before to worst after more dramatic.  He thinks to himself, “Big brown bears are just machines for fucking. You’re not supposed to become friends with them. That might negatively affect both partner’s hard-on production.”

Still, it’s kind of hot that the brown bear is from such a rough place – New York City. Hard to believe now that it used to the most refined berg of human bergs. Then – after the melt – it was a flooded ghost city of ice covered spires. But a few decades after the humans disappeared, small numbers of strong-willed and socially outcast furry trash Polars started settling in the abandoned shells of the old, dangerous, and badly-designed human cities. These brave and masochistic pioneers were isolated, always at risk of death, and lived very poor, but they often felt rich because they could climb to the top of the Empire State Building – even though there was really nothing to do there except get vertigo and fantasize about being King Kong. The important thing was that there was a lot of text on New York City available, so the scattered bears who called it home felt important for some reason.  You’ve heard of my neighborhood in texts they would always brag.

“You must find the ice and tall snowbanks here kinda overwhelming.” Rusty says as he tries to put himself in Tracker’s asphalt-stained country-bear claws.

“Well, I like the virtual-reality centers and all the cable channels you’ve got here. But I really miss pretending I’m King Kong.” (It was like saying: Look at me. I’m from somewhere that you’ve actually heard of. I exist.)

The smalltalk gradually reveals that Tracker hasn’t left his hotel-room much since arriving.

Rusty wonders how to discreetly lose this clingy sauna trick before getting close enough to his home for his wife or kids to get a whiff of  him. Daddy is supposed to be out canvassing names for a fundraising walk-a-thon, not at some steamy screw-a-thon.

A woman’s voice claws through the windshield of the polar air: “Rust, honey, who’s your new friend with the shiny fur?”

Busted.

Orc (the wife) has stepped out to the store to pick up some yogurt drink and tofu ice cream for Rusty, and now here she is face-to-furry-face with the gym grizzly who watched bubbles of joy rise up between her husband’s muscular thighs just a few stories ago.

Rusty turns to Orc and rapidly improvises: “Honey, this is Tracker. He’s my divorce lawyer.”

They say marriages don’t last very long in the North. And it always rains because that’s ironic.

Make Male Homosexuality Mandatory

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Human history and the instrumentalist social evolution of human societies  has reached a critical juncture; a fork in the road. It can easily be said that we live in interesting times; times of change, of panic, and of opportunity.

Times like ours are the perfect eras to introduce radical ways of reorganizing society to make it work better. In our times, this may mean making it work better with its natural surroundings.

As we are currently so close to collapse, it’s important that all novel ideas (heresies) be carefully considered and some of them immediately implemented by a few wise governments and other institutions in order to test their effectiveness in helping the human species survive within the confines of nature.

For my part, I propose that males be obliged – by law – to become homosexual. There are four main reasons why I believe this would improve human societies and make them more compatible with nature:

1. Heterosexual mating rituals have evolved into wars that kill millions, and no longer ensure a “stronger” genetic pool.

In the past, there have been gay armies and mandatory homosexuality laws. But in our current world order, male homosexuality is associated with pacifism and non-violence. Bitchiness prevails, but the use of DU and cluster bombs is a distinctly heterosexual male ritual.

2. Homosexual men do not contribute to overpopulation, or the repression of women.

Not all heterosexual men procreate or repress women, but a critical mass of them do, and this negatively affects the social norms and living conditions of everyone else. It has to be stopped.

3. Heterosexual men do not mix well in coed situations. They make mixed gender activities problematic, thus contributing to a division among humans by gender.

They often enjoy these coed activities, but their presence ends up turning the female participants into sexualized prima donnas who are rendered unable to act in a spontaneous and relaxed way.

4. By opening men up to empathy in other men, it will foster greater friendship relations among males in general, a gender that has extremely low quality friendships because of its “natural” inclination towards violence towards other males.

Gay male sexuality is the social lubricant that helps us all fit together. By removing heterosexually-motivated social aggression, society can use its resources to improve people’s security instead of wasting resources on weapons and hyperconsumption in a straight-male-driven competitive society.

Please join me in praying for mandatory homosexuality in males.

Those Amazing Arbocaros

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For three and a half centuries, the Arbocaros were the most powerful religious group on earth. Their Golden Period ended when a series of tragic tree illnesses wiped out most of their agriculture and housing stock.

…

Origins

Prior to their crystallization as a caste and high-end cult in Southern Europe, the Arbocaros existed as a collection of tree-sacrificing cults in North Africa, but they were without a coherent organization or their own unique social stratum.

The Great Text

Like any society striving for greatness and domination, Arbocarism needed a book and an ideology. And in the year 456 BCE, Elam Cartiz of what would later become Portugal wrote a long and beautifully crafted text about how the squaring of trees would finally set mankind  free. He argued for a rational approach to sculpting nature into perfect geometric shapes.

In the heady years following the publication of The Great Text, the thriving Arborcaro minority of Oporto worked tirelessly, squaring all the trees and shrubs in their own exclusive section of the city. Recalcitrant neighbors with round trees were encouraged to either square them like everyone else, or risk being driven out of the area by gangs of Arbocaro vigilantes wearing gardening bags over their heads.

The Great Slave Branch’s Hero Doll celebrates the important role of these historic vigilantes in purifying their communities

The Arbocaros were sure that their rigidity of ritual would help them escape the boring monotony of normal human society, and that it would set them apart from the mediocre people they lived in fear of becoming if they let their trees get shaggy and ungeometric. For followers, it was important that the Great Arbocaro God see His followers as better than other people – high end – top drawer. Otherwise, what would be the point of all that effort? Of all of those slaughters and animal sacrifices?

Impressing Monarchy: The Great Slave Arbocaros

The monarchy took notice. After years of traveling on private Arbocaro roads, the royal family grew to appreciate their gardening skills, and the royal court began to commission select Arbocaro families to take care of the rapidly expanding royal gardens. The Arbocaro elite eventually hired local slaves to do the actual physical trimming, but the original elite remained in charge of the management of the entire tree-trimming project. This elite insisted that “it was written” that they stay in charge, and to prove their dedication to their faith, they converted their slaves to another branch of Arbocarism – The Great Slave Branch.

It was while watching the Great Slave Arbocaros work that the king realized how devoted they were, what great arms they developed from all that trimming, and how sexually active they were from being in such good physical shape. Sexual activity produced more tree-trimming Great Slaves for the elite to harness in gardening, and in wars against other nations.

Mandatory Faith

In 187 BCE, young Portuguese king Fernando IV mandated that everyone in the city of Oporto become a practicing Great Slave Branch Arbocaro. And that’s why – to this day – most people in Portugal and Brazil are Great Slave Arbocaros rather than practicing an Abrahamic faith.

Healthy Competition

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It’s time to meet the Grizzly’s!!!

As the Grizzly family approaches their flimsy stage pedestals, Richard Dawkins kisses all the females on the lips – raising Cubland Security’s Cootie-Alert to orange – and then he casually explains his theory of germ reciprocation as a social capital-building activity to a credulous audience of retired bear army veterans.

Right now, it’s up to Orca and the Polars to block the Grizzly family who are leading by 5000 euros!!!

Dawkins speaks slowly and cautiously: “Name something a meme would say…”

Orca slams down on the pump.

“Buy Colgate!” she screams, sending her orange tictac flying across the stage and into the Lion King-themed handbag of a fashionable Grizzly seated in 12-B (yellow.)

“Survey said…” Richard Dawkins points at a giant plasma board waiting for a number to appear, when a giant zeppelin with the word Idol written on it comes flying through the board knocking out the electricity all over Veggie Hamlet.

“Gang, we’ll have to reshoot this scene tomorrow, so don’t forget how excited you feel right now. Everyone in makeup at 7 am,” the talented and experienced gameshow host quickly improvises.

Cindy has a Promised Ice Field flashback while staring into her glass of ice cold milk, and then the entire room starts to glow mellow gold when the backup generator (which is fueled with honey) kicks in so that they can all find their astringent brushes and hair picks and go home.

“Oh, there you are, Cindy!” Miss Tuffles exclaims with glee as she cuddles a cute l’il kitty-cat. Its wegs grow white feathers and marshmallows and it flies everyone into the sky where they meet Cinderella and Jesus having a fondu party.

Gay Inversion Rapture

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How do I know if I have it?

Having sex with straight  men is a type of social game of chance that many gay men find challenging and life-affirming. I’ve played this game myself, and “won” a few times. Winning usually involves manipulating men who are desperately horny into agreeing to do some kind of sexual act with you that involves orgasm completion and little more.

…

The politics of GIR

Trying to sleep with hetero-men is the Bush Doctrine of globalized gay sex: it involves some pre-emptive homo attack-sex  (cock and awe), and the drama of this shock is used to mask inner feelings of insecurity. Pursuing this as a gay social persona, one’s own unfulfilled domestic needs of  love, tenderness, and belonging are forgotten in order to concentrate on forcing some semblance of these abstracted ideals onto the outside world. And so the search for a straight man to save – a constructed foil who gives the gay narrative a bad guy (or bad sexuality) with which to become a hero by saving.

The well-meaning gay imperialist often believes that perhaps the entire world is gay but just really, really repressed and in need of being saved. And this saving replaces any kind of inner change that might produce personal fulfillment of the same needs that are projected and fulfilled via domination of the other in Bush Doctrine gay sex.

Nonetheless, victory is victory, and I could see myself standing on an aircraft carrier with “Inversion Fantasy Accomplished” emblazoned on a huge banner featuring a rainbow flag. There I am, prancing in front of the cameras like a real attention whore – an international social climber. “Look at me! I am amazing! I am the new messiah!”

Meanwhile, all the smart people are staring at my accomplishment with horror. “What kind of arrogance allows someone to be so vain and stupid at the same time?” they are asking themselves between doritos and gulps of diet Pepsi.

A cautionary tale

Of course, Inversion Fantasy Syndrome isn’t supposed to provide people like me with a goal. It was never supposed to turn into The Gay Dream. It’s more accurately a social condition, a fetish, a disorder, and a cult of snobbery.

Inversion Fantasy Syndrome describes a social phenomenon that occurs when smalltown gays and their more savvy urban cousins finally come out their closets in the large cities and begin to form their own small communities and family-type units.

Many of these gay social capital noobs try to avenge their high school trauma by treating straight acquaintances and tourists with the same ridicule that they experienced as closeted adolescents. Freshly-out gays  frequently calm their existential fears with schadenfreude, finding reasons to sneer and judge straight white trash or whatever social group they had previously felt rejected by. “Take that, you straight trash breeders!” They invert the hostility and rejection they themselves felt, and they fantasize of a gay world that needs saving. Thus, it is called Inversion Fantasy Syndrome.

Post-rapture paradise absence

A major problem with attempting to bring this fantasy to life is that other lives are involved who aren’t in on the fantasy. Play-Pretend Inversion is never going to lead to a real world sexuality rapture where all the men – both gay and straight – begin to speak in gay tongues. The inversion is a personal fantasy, and not a sexual, physical way to be in this world. Even if it were possible and a true physical inversion occurred and gays were suddenly 90% of the population of every nation on earth, it would be the straights who would adopt the snobbish and cackling coping strategies that gays use today. The fantasy is supposed to remain in the metaphysical world, where it was created through masturbation memories, and if lived out in the real world, would lead to a lot of angry victims.

Gay Inversion Rapture – a dangerous ideology? Or is it the appropriate founding chauvinism of the first Gay nation-state?

Neither Do I

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Suvee and Van jump off the monorail to avoid getting getting their fur caught in the rubber strip of the automated doors. It’s lunchtime, and the little bears are off to get free sushi at the People’s Chinook half a kilometer away at a public school they’ve never attended.

“How was Modern World Problems class this morning, Van? Did you see another movie about spike thaws?”

“No, we didn’t. But you know how melodramatic Miss Glaciermelt is. She spent half the class telling us where the expression kangaroo bar comes from. As if that’s important.”

Suvee looks off towards the bad end of town. “I ran into a really weird roobar a couple of days ago. It was really creepy. He kept singing the same old song over and over to scare me.  Um… where does the expression come from? Is it from a dead language?”

“Yeah, it was an English word. Miss Glaciermelt says that the words kangaroo bar originally referred to an accessory that humans used to attach to the front of their motor vehicles. Apparently, these decorative metal things killed children. They were so dangerous that the European Union banned them for the entire continent, but some of the other continents liked the way they looked – dangerous and masculine.”

Suvee shakes her furry head. “They used to kill their own children with useless decorations? No wonder humans went extinct.”

As they speak, a giant mutant seal pops its head out of an ice hole the size of a breeder reactor.

Suvee continues, “I used to think that the humans got themselves in trouble because they didn’t understand nature. But now that I know that they understood it enough but just didn’t care, I don’t feel so sorry for them anymore, Van.”

“Neither do I, Suvee.”

Liewood Acres

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…

Soon, the bears became so successful with their post-human survival program that they decided to have a civil war. The bears who were told they were the most free also had the most dangerous and miserable slums which were full of willing and desperate bucks with low self esteem. These starving caveless bucks were known as kangaroo bars or – more commonly – roobars in Veggie Hamlet.

One night, little Suvee was walking alone in a strange bearhood littered with roobars selling ice trinkets and slushees.

“Excuse me, sir? Where’s the nearest monorail station?” he said trembling as he came across a hunched roobar leaning against a hydro pole.

“Wanny buy some crap? If not, leave me alone, puppy,” the kangaroo icily slurred.

At that very moment, the Eastern Bear Army (EBA) flew by in their flying crazy carpets. The leader was always riding a red one, while the others rode blue.

Suvee thought it was interesting that Easterners didn’t even have the freedom to choose the color of their crazy carpet, though – on the other hand -  he rarely wondered why roobars didn’t have a dry place to sleep at night. Perhaps Suvee’s altruism was targeted at foreigners because Western Bear media spent so much energy emphasizing the misery and incompetence of the East between infomercials for Western products and services.

The EBA was known for itst innovative psyc ops. For the Post-Reality school of EBA war theorists, there was little more to war than discourse. The leader of the school, and general of the EBA – Aztec Brougham – was inspired by a story he had read about the last years of human civilization. It described a psyc ops used by one of Freedomia’s many enemies/victims – The Oilerians. The last effort of the Oilerian army (before being completely obliterated with cluster bombs) was famous as being the bestest psyc ops moment in history.

In the heat of an aerial bombardment on the city of Albinno Bat, the crafty Oilerians set up a complete communications jam that played the second line of the Bruce Springsteen classic Born to Run over and over and over and over and over on everyone’s communications equipment.

The pissed off and cold kangaroo bar starts singing that very line to Suvee.

“Runaway American Dream. Runaway American Dream. Runaway American Dream…”

So Suvee ran away.

..

..

The planned suburban subdivision where Suvee’s family moved to a few years later is one of the nicest ones within a half-hour drive of Veggie Hamlet. Ice Flow Acres is 500 hectares of the best Modern architectural planning that the bear world has seen in these parts. One of the bungalows was even featured on the reality-TV show Bears with Ideas.

So why is Suvee so bored most of the time?

“Why don’t you walk down to the Ice Sheet Simulacrum and play Survival with the virtual kids there?” his mom asks between commercials. Without answering her (she’s back to her program anyways),  Suvee heads down the slippery hill to the Ice Flow theme park. The admission is free to children with a special Ice Flow Acres identity card.

But when he gets there, there is no one there.

“Welcome to Ice Sheet World!” yells the electronic penguin that sits next to the mall entrance.

Suvee walks past the self-serve metal detector, and enters into a simulation of an actual film of a realistic copy of one of Hollywood’s ice-flow special effects. And yet, Suvee feels bored in spite of the exciting ice flow action that’s taking place on widescreen TVs suspended on the walls all around him.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a slushee square he was saving for before dinner.

“I will eat this and ruin my appetite,” he deviously plots, as he looks around at the moving images on the screens. He gets so distracted that he doesn’t notice the trap door and accidentally falls into the garbage incinerator. Soon, the TV screens will be filled with burning fur and screaming bears. That is as close to “incineration” as the theme park is allowed to represent.

Suvee gets bored and walks back home to chat with his gay cousin in Greenland.

WTM and the Coach

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…

Jesus locks and unlocks his new airplane, sending loud electronic yelps through the village. As he pushes the keys on the remote starter, the repetitive “bleep! bleep! bleep! works like an ear-shattering cry for help, and his freshly plucked face squeezes into a pointy smile.  “This is the kind of therapy I probably need” he says.

The therapy he probably needs is a result of the magazine he’s got in his hand. The cover of it’s got an illustration of Moe  Silverberg’s  satirical novel I Saw Something Nasty in the Manger. Inside, the Silverberg-owned publication contains a particularly inflammatory excerpt as its centerpiece.

The latest twist in the FMJ trial scandal is that Silverberg’s newsmagazine is cross-promoting his own scathing fiction story, one which resembles – a bit too closely – the actual people and events in FMJ’s glamorous life. Free Market lawyers are already preparing a libel case, but they can’t really move forward to the litigation stage while FMJ himself is being sued from so many angles. There just aren’t enough overpaid hours in a day.

FMJ is taking other steps – besides playing with his obnoxious remote locking-device – to deal with his trauma. Murray Davidson, Registered Professional Motivational Coach – a paid friend to CEOs worldwide – has been hired to build up FMJ’s confidence during his trials. And Jesus has hired a private investigator to dig up some dirt on Moe.

But he still feels vulnerable and victimized. His bottomless well of pride has been filled with tears, and he just hasn’t been the same old messiah/attention-whore that his self-centered associates know and pretend to love so well.

FMJ tucks a thousand-dollar handkerchief into his Gucci slacks: “Sometimes, in the morning rain, I feel like a useless rich bitch who was born into money and just had to kiss all the right asses to succeed. It’s like I live to exploit other people – to bully them out of their human dignity and their spare time  – just so that I can have an obscene number of useless status symbols to ease my isolation and self-inflicted pain.

I can’t even sing my own fucking songs – I get a million-dollars per concert, and yet I can’t even impress my own family at a karaoke bar. But for $450,000 an hour, I go out there onstage in a few tons of makeup and lip-synch the prerecorded track while strutting around in gaudy costumes. The only original talent in my shows are in the costumes and the financing.”

His Registered Professional Motivational Coach turns to FMJ, and speaketh: “You know, Jesus, I think your main issue is that you just don’t believe in yourself enough. And if you don’t believe in yourself, no one else will believe in you either. Always believe in yourself. Always believe that you are a god among men.”

FMJ will repeat this self-love mantra at least twelve times a day. Doctor’s orders.

I Saw Something Nasty in the Manger
Mortimer Silverberg
(extracted from Chapter 4;  A Gangbang on Salt Street, p. 68)

The pervasive noise from the NASCAR finals nearby masks her ecstatic screams as White Trash Mary is serial-nailed by Joseph and his buddies from carpentry school. The percussive engine buzz and rouge-tinted air make everyone hornier and hornier.

She takes another deep hit of amyl nitrate, lies back and enjoys each plunge of the non-stop penetration being provided by five well-built Italian jocks with thick, calloused hands. The drug cocktail makes her numb and giddy – she feels like she’s riding a rotating roller coaster sitting on a fleshy, vibrating prod.

Waking up covered in Italian cum a few hours later, WTM sniffs a fat line of coke off the glass table. She catches a reflection of herself as she vacuums up the energy powder. Pantyless and out of breath, she quickly throws on a make-shift toga and a third layer of mascara, and then jumps onto the jet-ski to go and meet her dealer/fuck buddy in the middle of the Dead Sea.
…

Technology and the Little Bears

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The soundtrack above the illustration is playing on Bimmer’s toy radio when the glass door slides open. “There’s no airbag in real life, boys. You just go right through the windshield, split your head wide open and die!” Old Bear Roger has been listening to their storytelling the whole time.

“Roger, you scared my fur right off!” gasps little Bimmer.

“Well, I must be going on home now,” chugs the old bear. “I really like how you integrated wiki articles into your little story, lads.” And off he goes into the frozen air, back past the Climate Institute, avoiding the oil mercenaries on ANWAR hill.

“I’m sort of scared, Range,” adds Bimmer. “Maybe we should go downstairs and play with the girls’ barbies just to calm down. I’m not gay or anything. I’m just kinda nervous.”

“I used to find barbies sort of faggy too, Bim, but if it’ll help you sleep, why not. I’m confident enough in my bearhood that I think it can withstand the occasional fashion drama.”

They head to the girls’ room and quietly sneak out with a nice set of tastefully-attired dolls.

Ten minutes into a mediocre round of How do you like this outfit?, Bronc’s doll has a flash of doll-playing brilliance. “I just discovered an amazing new technology, Rangina. Want to try it out? It’ll revolutionize your life…”

“Why sure, Nurse Bella!” Ranger walks his Chanel-knock-off-cloaked Barbie over towards “Nurse Bella,” Bronco’s nurse-uniform-wearing counterpart.

Bronc whips out a can of industrial varnish and gently sprays a few wisps onto Rangina’s hard, round cheeks. Putting on an exaggerated high female voice, he says: “I am not endorsing or soliciting anything, but I just know that this product will give you a lively complexion and a glow that Ken will love!”

He empties the entire can into the trendy doll’s smiling face.

“I LOVE my new look!” shrieks Rangina in a faux-excited  Barbified voice. But then, the doll’s plastic hair catches fire from combustion with the varnish fumes and Ranger drops the glamorous melting clump of plastic onto the snowy tundra.

“Oh, I think my face is melting, Nurse Bella!” Ranger giggles. “Maybe you should have tested your product a bit more.”

“I’m not really a nurse. The nurse outfit is just a way of branding my technology. It gives it a science feel.”

And on that note, Nurse Bella hops into her convertible and  drives quickly to the next town where the local Barbies have never heard of her or her “revolutionary” product or service.

My American Dreams

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—

My American Dreams
By Ann Aipac Monrovia

Submitted to:
Mr. Tomley
Twelfth Grade Enriched English,
Deering High, Portland, May 15, 1980

—

My first American Dream happened after my first ever nightmare! When I was about six years old, I had a recurring nightmare where my mother gets squished by a giant Lego block.

The child psychologist at school told my parents that this was because I felt ashamed to grow up in a one-story house. So, my first American Dream was to live in a two-story house where Mommy would be safe from the blocks.

When I was seven, I got my dream! We moved into a larger bungalow with a finished basement and I stopped having that nightmare, which I later found out was a Socialist one. The new house had the same stereo system as the one that my mother dreamed about (from the Lucy Show) and had a carport which my dad dreamed about watching I Dream of Jeannie. I love to make my dad egg salad sandwiches and bring him fresh Tang when he’s thirsty, just like the very dreamy Mary Tyler Moore used to do between commercials.

Then, my American Dream of 1972 was to own an Easy-Bake oven. I cried and I cried every time I saw one on TV. But, through prayer, crying and promising not to pull my little sister’s hair, that wonderful empowering dream came true! And – not coincidentally I think – it came true on the savior’s birthday ! American Dreams are related to Jesus !

And then there’s the story in Iran. They used to have a pro-Western Shah who was in favor of Easy-bake ovens and Lite Brite. But then the people went crazy because they don’t have Christmas, and then they stopped making toys, and the people couldn’t dream correctly any more. What a tragedy for dreams.

Now, my brother Allen wants to have a phone with no wire like the crew on the USS Enterprise. Of course, it’s still just a dream, but this is America. And I’m sure that one day, he’ll be able to bravely call people who have never been called before! (Just like on the show!) Or maybe not, but it doesn’t matter. The dream lives on.

A lot of people criticize the media, but it helps us find our dreams. It’s sort of like the song “Dream Weaver.” The media weaves together the dreams of all the audience members into one big, great dream that is fantastic for everyone who watches movies and eats ice cream. And that dream is called America, and it happens every single day !

..

Mr. Tomley, her draft-dodging English teacher, wrote:

Ann, you didn’t really fulfill the assignment criteria. You were supposed to discuss a modern world problem. And though you do touch on the Iran problem very briefly, you haven’t really made this the main bulk of your essay. Nonetheless, you obviously care about this subject, and you did such a good job, that I’m giving you an A.

Towards A Gay Homeland

national anthem

—

Why a homeland?

Gays have been discriminated against since the beginning of organized heterosexual religions. Forced to live scattered among the world’s (often violent) heterosexualites, a diasporaed Gay Nation has nonetheless thrived by cultivating enriching international relationships and by setting up parallel societies within the hetero cultures in which the Gays find themselves trapped and repressed.

But if the Matthew Shepard Tragedy/Iranian Hangings have show us anything, it is that the time has finally come for a Gay Homeland – a nation-state where Gay culture and values can thrive and evolve with the needs and desires of its loyal Gay citizens.

Why this amazing piece of beachfront real estate?

The traditional Gay lands of Sodom and Gomorrah have been inhabited by members of the Gay community since before the age of religions and nation-states. Throughout the region, there are stone-age cave drawings depicting Gay acts which pre-date the Sodom/Gomorrah period by over 400,000 years. There have actually been Gays living in the area continuously for over 6 billion years, long before the Akadians, the Sumerians, the Arabs or the Zionists.

The biblical story of the tragic genocide of the Sodomites demonstrates the extent of state-sanctioned persecution the Gays have been subjected to since the beginning of heterocentric religions and nations. The events of the last few years in Wyoming and Iran point to a pressing need to provide a safe haven from homophobianism, and the Levant is the most significant region on earth for Gay History. With a thriving and successful Gay nation in the Holy Land, Gays all over the world will benefit from the presence of a pied-a-terre at the center of world politics and oil production.

Our phones are standing by

It is time for the Gays to return to their Ancestral Homeland (as has been recently promised in an email signed by Barack Obama). The current heterosexualist “states” of Lebanon and Palestine are their ancestral home. The current inhabitants are opportunistic heterosexualites who could live comfortably in any other part of the world. There are over 200 heterosexualite nation states, and NOT ONE Gay state. The absence of a Gay political entity is the reason for Gay suffering, and the Gays will only know freedom when this situation has been remedied – when the earth has at least one rock-hard Gay nation state.

Lubeland and Phallus-stein (their original names) are the natural provinces of the Gay Homeland. Together, with Sodom and Gomorrah as their undivided capitals (one for gay men, the other for lesbians), this new state will be a beacon for Gay Culture that shines out all over the world – a safe place to live out the Gay Dream. It will also provide a model of what can be accomplished when the earth’s crust is divided into various thematic tribes, when some of them just have more fashion sense and irony than the others.

1-888-gayland

It’s time for the Gay Nation to rise to the occasion in the beauty pageant that we sometimes call civilization! It’s time for the Gays to return to their Gay Homeland!

Little Bear Authors

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..

Ranger and Bronc have decided to downsize Old Bear Roger. His terrifying stories are making sleep difficult, and Ranger has started picking the fur off his inner thigh because of what his beariatrician calls Generalized Environmental Anxiety.

“Bronc, until we get the TV back, let’s make our own stories instead of getting Old Bear Roger to come over and creep us out with his,” suggests Ranger. “This way, we can stop them just before they get too scary. Or slap on a happy ending.”

Ranger nods. “That’s a great idea, Bronc! I already have an idea for a story. I wanna tell about how airbags were a form of military-industrial propaganda back in the human days.”

“How’s that, Range?”

“Well, airbags were supposed to save human lives after they slammed their SUVs into telephone poles, right? Well, in this way they’re sorta like the douce axe machinia that always saves everybody at the end of a scary movie or TV show. No matter how badly the good guys screw up, the airbag saves them from paying the price. With the airbag, you don’t have to assume adult responsibility for your own actions. It’s empowering in a way. It lets you do some pretty violent and dangerous stuff.”

“I think it’s called “Deus Ex-machina,” Range. What does it have to do with airbags? Try to frame your answer using a critical vocabulary. Don’t just rely on folkloric cuteness and terrifying punishments to tell your story, like Roger does.”

Ranger straightens up. He has just written a mid-term test on Critical Polar Bear Discourse. “Well, the airbag acts as a commonly shared metaphor. This symbolic saftey-net manipulates the general public into feeling that automakers and governments will always come up with solutions to whatever damage their previous products cause. ‘In an interstellar burst, they come back to save the universe,’ as that miserable human being Thom Yorke used to sing. This is a type of spin.”

…

..

Bronc smirks. “So car-makers use a comforting historic symbol that is taken from a commonly shared mythology? Are you arguing that airbags – and perhaps all technology – are miracle signifiers? And that humans treated them as if they were actual miracles from a special magical messiah corporation?

If humans were so good at saving lives with miracles, where did they all go? And how did such smart creatures end up believing in magical miracles in the first place?”

They look up at the black-light Star Wars poster on the bedroom ceiling and start chuckling at the airbag cupidity that was so socially accepted just before humanity’s endtime.  “He’ll save us. The airbag will save us!” Ranger laughs so hard that he drops his Spiderman doll.

Bronco continues. “I think it’s a great idea for a story, Range. And why don’t you include the Radiohead song by the same name?”

“I would, but I can’t get the copyrights, Bronc. And anyway, it might be overkill to use a song called Airbag in a story about airbags. Maybe I’ll  just root through Roger’s old record collection to find an obscure Australian techno track, and quote some of the Radiohead lyrics in my story…”

In an interstellar burst

I am back to save the universe.