Thursday, February 17, 2005

 

The Trio Gets the Treatment

“There’s nothing wrong with that p-policy,” Sanctiblogger stammered. “I bought it from Captain Leibniz. All on the up-and-up.”

“Bullshit! That policy is the oldest scam in the book. It fools all of the smarty-pants liberals,” a voice called from the door. (Which, being in the Ding an sich, wasn’t so much a door as a portal made of dead souls.)

Everyone turned to the voice. A gasp rose up from Chertoff and Gonzales.

“Negroponte!” they murmured.

It was indeed, him. Standing there with three slathering Dobermans on a leash. He wore a military cap covered in gold braid and colored ribbons. His chest was covered in a bright sash dotted with gleaming medals. In his other hand was a riding crop spiked with sharp studs.

Gonzales spoke. “I thought you were—“

Negroponte interrupted Gonzales with a resounding slap across the face with the crop. “You’re a pup. I’ve been in this business for years. Now, you—“ he motioned to Chertoff—“strip that cord from the table lamp. Leave the plug on the end. Now, follow me into this dressing room. It’s time we got the truth out of those two about their real reasons for this concert tour.”

Gonzales reeled back, choking and gagging from the impact.

“But, Sanctiblogger—“ Chertoff began, only to be cut off with another slap of the spiked crop, so hard he fell into Sanctiblogger’s lap, dribbling blood from his mouth.

“Now, punks!” Negroponte snarled.

The roadies tried to block the trio from entering the dressing room, but were quickly dispatched by blows to the head and the attack dogs.

Inside, Sanctiblogger saw, Jesus and Mohammed were tuning their guitars. With them was a man dressed in a white sequined suit, long sideburns and a pompadour, speaking in a slow drawl.

“Now y’all boys gotta remember that back at Graceland I… hey!” The man shouted as the sinister trio and the frothing, snarling dogs rushed in on them.

"That's who I heard in there," Sanctiblogger thought, took out the monadic insurance policy and studied it carefully as he prepared to slip out of the dressing room. Someone had to tell the authorities that Elvis, Jesus and Mohammed were about to get the “treatment.”

And he’d have made it, too, if he hadn’t slipped in a pile of bloody chunks that Gonzales had apparently puked up after being hit with the riding crop.

“Oh, hello, boys,” he said, bending over. “Whatever has become of you now?”


 

Cough It Up

Sanctiblogger stops his hand mid-toss, tries not to chew. But Chertoff is all over him. This guy is good.

"What've you got there, Doctor?" he asks, hopping off Gonzales and walking purposefully across the room, spurs jangling. "What're you eating?"

"Nothing," Sanctiblogger manages to say around the three or four unchewed chunks that he's pushed over to the sides of his mouth.

"Open up," Chertoff commands, and sticks three tobacco-stained fingers into Sanctiblogger's mouth. As Sanctiblogger gags, Chertoff strips the remaining chunks from his free hand with his free hand, picks Sanctiblogger's pocket with his free hand, and smacks Sanctiblogger across the face, hard, back, forth, back, forth, with his free hand.

How many free hands is that? Don't try to count them, gentle reader: Michael Chertoff has a lot of free hands. Because--and here is today's civics lesson for you good patriotic Americans out there--he has a lot of freedom. That's what being director of Homeland Security is all about: freedom. The freedom to protect freedom as freely as circumstances require. Freeing up all hands to seize, search, and smite the haters and despoilers of freedom.

Over in one corner, Sanctiblogger sees over the thick black hairs of Chertoff's right forearm, plunged now halfway down his gullet, Gonzales has his head in the feed trough, and is gobbling up the old grisly remains of shredded liberal bloggers. As Chertoff finds the last undigested chunk deep in Sanctiblogger's esophagus, he lobs the whole sticky pile of Bill-n-Doug over to the feed trough too, where Gonzales wolfs it down with gusto.

"Look, Sanctiblogger," Chertoff says, slapping a pair of ontological cuffs on Sanctiblogger's in-der-Welt-sein, "we sucked out your mortal spirit once. What'd you do, buy a new one on the gray market?"

With the cuffs on, Sanctiblogger finds himself powerless to dissemble. "Found one on eBay," he mumbles. "Still in the box."

"Shrink-wrapped?" Chertoff says.

Sanctiblogger nods glumly.

"Easy enough to take care of that," Chertoff says, and pulls a hose out of his back pocket. Rubber nozzle in Sanctiblogger's mouth, thloop, and the new mortal spirit is in the bag. Good thing he doesn't know about the monadic insurance. "And now," Chertoff adds, "about that monadic insurance policy you bought at Gitmo ..."


Wednesday, February 16, 2005

 

In the Waiting Room

The crow flew into the Ding an sich as if it was a simple crossing from one county into another, an invisible line crossed.

Of course, others had attempted such crossings, not crows, but others. They were, of course, immediately subsumed. There’s a special corner of the Ding an sich where the husks are stored, in fact. Not that they’re not useful, these husks. In fact, a pile of them are being used to prop up the stage for the Jesus and Mohammed tour. They’re a little crinkly underfoot, sure, but they’re sturdy.

The cockroach rode on the crow’s head. Roaches and crows, taking the sustenance derived from eating those poor dear boys to our dear Sanctiblogger, now sitting in the waiting room for a meeting with Jesus and Mohammed.

The roadies were collected in the waiting room as well, and they were tired and sweaty and drinking beer. Sanctiblogger wanted a beer, but he was suspicious about the brand, Monad Light.

Inside the dressing rooms, which of course were delineated by lines of reasoning instead of semantics of individual words and word strings, there was an argument going on. Sanctiblogger was aware of the voices of Jesus and Mohammed, but there was another voice that he couldn’t place. A soft Southern drawl. Some deity from Alabama or Mississippi?

Not likely.

That was when the crow arrived and plopped on Sanctiblogger’s lap. The roach puked up the bits of meat that were the boys not so long ago.

“Boys!” he cried. “So glad you’re here. I’m starving. I thought I’d been forgotten.”

But of course it was at that moment that Alfredo Gonzales scuttled into the waiting room with Michael Chertoff riding him bareback, whip in hand.

"Well, well, looky what we got here," Chertoff croaked.


Tuesday, February 15, 2005

 

'Bama Blog-u-Ling-a-Ding-Dong-sich

One by one, the cockroaches bite off pieces of the boys and vanish with them through the permeable membrane display. Bits of flesh, bone, and gristle seem to scurry on their own steam, sturdy little roach legs just barely visible under the bugs' loads, through the pink and yellow dotted screen. There is surprisingly little blood--perhaps because they have already been sucked dry of blood-words (claret, clot, cruor, gore, hemobloggin, bamablogulin, plasma, corpuscle, erythrocyte, hemocyte, leukocyte, consanguinity, and of course, last but not least, exsanguination) by the antisemantotron.

Bama Blogulin?

A metallic echo decays into the ether ...


 

Another Day at the Office

Why is my computer full of bugs?

I guess it’s a bad program. Wasn’t debugged properly.

No. I mean BUGS. Look.

Holy shit! Your CPU is full of cockroaches! And what’s that on your monitor screen? A crow?

He’s been there all day. Every time I try to check my mail, it comes up all scrambled, and then there he is. I think he’s trying to peck his way through the screen.

Look! He’s hitting it with his beak from the inside.

Only a matter of time till it breaks through.

What then?

I don’t know.

Turn it off.

Can’t.

Why?

You try.

Ow! Goddam roaches bit me. Fucking took a chunk out of my finger! They’ve got teeth.

So. Here we are.


Sunday, February 13, 2005

 

The Antisemantotron Kicks In


Stop asking questions based on snippets of what I say.