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Amish get down with Weed & Cocaine

By on December 4th, 2011

This story is fuck­ing hilar­i­ous. It may even war­rant a detailed analy­sis but for now just laugh:

 

 

ederal agents say that they found evi­dence of mar­i­juana and cocaine, as well as clip­pers and scis­sors dur­ing a raid on the com­pound of the Amish beard-cutting sus­pects, now charged with hate crimes.

In a bail hear­ing on Wednes­day, pros­e­cu­tors report­edly intro­duced video evi­dence that included evi­dence of drug use, sex and the infor­ma­tion related to the attacks.

Last week, fed­eral offi­cials con­ducted a raid on a com­pound of leader Sam Mullet’s break­away Bergholz Clan in Ohio, arrest­ing Mul­let and six oth­ers. All seven were charged with vio­lat­ing the Hate Crimes Pre­ven­tion Act, and are accused of break­ing into the homes of main­stream Amish, and cut­ting off their hair and beards. In the Amish com­mu­nity, the beard is a sym­bol of faith.

In the hear­ing, offi­cials accused Sam Mul­let of orches­trat­ing the attacks. ONN TV and WTOV9 report that in the hear­ing, the lead FBI agent on the case told the court that dur­ing the raid, they found Mul­let in a bed­room with the wife of one of his fel­low defen­dants doing ‘sex­ual coun­sel­ing.” Agents also report­edly found scis­sors and clip­pers, and mar­i­juana seeds and cocaine in a barn on the compound.

Another one of the defen­dants, Emanuel Schrock, bar­ri­caded him­self in a room with a child when agents attempted to arrest him, accord­ing to the agent.

Sam Mul­let, his two sons and Schrock were all denied bail in the hear­ing. ”I con­sider these vio­lent acts,” said Mag­is­trate Judge George Lim­bert. ”They are a dan­ger to the Amish com­mu­nity. I don’t con­sider them a threat out­side the Amish community.”

”It appears to me that Sam Mul­let has absolute con­trol of the com­mu­nity,” Lim­bert added, the War­ren Tri­bune Chron­i­cle reports.

The other three arrested in the raid will appear before a judge on Friday.

 

hehehe. check out those fuck­ing beards. I think I got acid off these dudes once… :o

OccupyPolitics 3 comments

What’s with the DNA Swabbings at Occupy LA?

By on November 30th, 2011

Dear read­ers, I have a ques­tion for you. What the fuck is going on? Have we finally hit that crit­i­cal point? Are those death camps that FEMA sup­pos­edly has being warmed up right now in antic­i­pa­tion of pro­test­ers? Per­son­ally I don’t know and that’s all spec­u­la­tion but shit is going DOWN right now, as I write this, at Occupy LA. As of right now, appar­ently local news sta­tions have stopped report­ing on the situation:

All local news net­works stop cov­er­age of #occu­pyLA at the same to show informer­cials for wrin­kle cream #col­lu­sion@MYFOXLA

All of the news chan­nels stopped their cov­er­age on #Occu­pyLA wtf am I gonna watch now –__–

Uh, oh. Watch out #Occu­pyLA folks! Last of local TV cvrge just signed off. Unpaid cit­i­zen journos still streaming:

Any­way, there are sev­eral reports from twit­ter & the live stream that said that cops in bio­haz­ard gear have started swab­bing protesters…what the fuck for? And is what they’re doing ille­gal?

Begin­ning on Jan­u­ary 1, 2009, all adults arrested for any felony offense must pro­vide a buc­cal swab (inner cheek scrap­ing) DNA sam­ple, and thumb and palm print impres­sions for the State of California’s DNA (CAL-DNA) Data Bank Pro­gram (Penal Code sec­tion 296(a)(2)©). This expands 2008 CAL-DNA Data Bank law pro­vi­sions gov­ern­ing col­lec­tion of DNA sam­ples from arrestees. The 2008 law requires adults arrested for a felony Penal Code sec­tion 290 reg­is­ter­able sex offense, mur­der, or vol­un­tary manslaugh­ter (includ­ing attempts of these crimes) to pro­vide sam­ples for the CAL-DNA Data Bank (Penal Code sec­tion 296(a)(2)(A) and (B)).
The fol­low­ing sets forth infor­ma­tion per­ti­nent to the Jan­u­ary 1, 2009, expan­sion of CAL-DNA Data Bank Pro­gram pro­vid­ing for DNA iden­ti­fi­ca­tion sam­ple col­lec­tion from all adult felony arrestees:

This is a gross vio­la­tion of rights. We will not be silenced nor will our movement(s) be squelched. You gave us our petty illu­sions that we are a free and demo­c­ra­tic coun­try and now you have to deal with us real­iz­ing these values.

I’ll update this as I find any­thing out, if at all.

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Banking Lobbyists Propose Spending $850,000 To Smash OWS With a Fiery Fist of Fascism*

By on November 26th, 2011

*And by fas­cism I really just mean the pow­ers of oppres­sion that band together to squelch the cre­ative ener­gies, spirit, and free­dom of the human peo­ple. This ranges from every­thing to tyranny and plu­toc­racy to fas­cism and the Black Iron Prison insti­tuted by the Demi­urge & his archons. It just so hap­pens that it’s tak­ing the form this time of bank­ing lob­by­ists con­tem­plat­ing fund­ing polit­i­cal action against OWS before it gets too big for them too stop.

Oops. Too late...

A well-known Wash­ing­ton lob­by­ing firm with links to the finan­cial indus­try has pro­posed an $850,000 plan to take on Occupy Wall Street and politi­cians who might express sym­pa­thy for the protests, accord­ing to a memo obtained by the MSNBC pro­gram “Up w/ Chris Hayes.”

The pro­posal was writ­ten on the let­ter­head of the lob­by­ing firm Clark Lytle Geduldig & Cran­ford and addressed to one of CLGC’s clients, the Amer­i­can Bankers Association.

CLGC’s memo pro­poses that the ABA pay CLGC $850,000 to con­duct “oppo­si­tion research” on Occupy Wall Street in order to con­struct “neg­a­tive nar­ra­tives” about the protests and allied politi­cians. The memo also asserts that Demo­c­ra­tic vic­to­ries in 2012 would be detri­men­tal for Wall Street and tar­gets spe­cific races in which it says Wall Street would ben­e­fit by elect­ing Repub­li­cans instead.

Accord­ing to the memo, if Democ­rats embrace OWS, “This would mean more than just short-term polit­i­cal dis­com­fort for Wall Street. … It has the poten­tial to have very long-lasting polit­i­cal, pol­icy and finan­cial impacts on the com­pa­nies in the cen­ter of the bullseye.”

The memo also sug­gests that Demo­c­ra­tic vic­to­ries in 2012 should not be the ABA’s biggest con­cern. “… (T)he big­ger con­cern,” the memo says, “should be that Repub­li­cans will no longer defend Wall Street companies.”

Two of the memo’s authors, part­ners Sam Geduldig and Jay Cran­ford, pre­vi­ously worked for House Speaker John Boehner, R-Ohio. Geduldig joined CLGC before Boehner became speaker; Cran­ford joined CLGC this year after serv­ing as the speaker’s assis­tant for pol­icy. A third part­ner, Steve Clark, is report­edly “tight” with Boehner, accord­ing to a story by Roll Call that CLGC fea­tures on its website.

Jeff Sig­mund, an ABA spokesper­son, con­firmed that the asso­ci­a­tion got the memo. “Our Gov­ern­ment Rela­tions staff did receive the pro­posal – it was unso­licited and we chose not to act on it in any way,” he said in a state­ment to “Up.”

CLGC did not return calls seek­ing comment.

Boehner spokesman Michael Steel declined to com­ment on the memo. But he responded to its char­ac­ter­i­za­tion of Repub­li­cans as defend­ers of Wall Street by say­ing, “My under­stand­ing is that Pres­i­dent Obama is the sin­gle largest recip­i­ent of dona­tions from Wall Street.”

On “Up” Sat­ur­day, Obama cam­paign adviser Anita Dunn responded by say­ing that the major­ity of the president’s re-election cam­paign is fueled by small donors. She rejected the sug­ges­tion that the pres­i­dent him­self is too close to Wall Street, say­ing “If that’s the case, why were tough finan­cial reforms passed over party line Repub­li­can opposition?”

The CLGC memo raises another issue that it says should be of con­cern to the finan­cial indus­try — that OWS might find com­mon cause with the Tea Party. “Well-known Wall Street com­pa­nies stand at the nexus of where OWS pro­tes­tors and the Tea Party over­lap on angered pop­ulism,” the memo says. “…This com­bi­na­tion has the poten­tial to be explo­sive later in the year when media reports cover the next round of bonuses and con­trast it with sto­ries of mil­lions of Amer­i­cans mak­ing do with less this hol­i­day season.”

The memo out­lines a 60-day plan to con­duct sur­veys and research on OWS and its sup­port­ers so that Wall Street com­pa­nies will be pre­pared to con­duct a media cam­paign in response to OWS. Wall Street com­pa­nies “likely will not be the best spokes­peo­ple for their own cause,” accord­ing to the memo. “A big chal­lenge is to demon­strate that these com­pa­nies still have polit­i­cal strength and that mak­ing them a polit­i­cal tar­get will carry a severe polit­i­cal cost.”

Part of the plan CLGC pro­poses is to do “statewide sur­veys in at least eight states that are shap­ing up to be the most impor­tant of the 2012 cycle.”

Spe­cific races listed in the memo are U.S. Sen­ate races in Florida, Penn­syl­va­nia, Vir­ginia, Wis­con­sin, Ohio, New Mex­ico and Nevada as well as the guber­na­to­r­ial race in North Carolina.

The memo indi­cates that CLGC would research who has con­tributed finan­cial back­ing to OWS, not­ing that, “Media reports have spec­u­lated about asso­ci­a­tions with George Soros and others.”

“It will be vital,” the memo says, “to under­stand who is fund­ing it and what their back­grounds and motives are. If we can show that they have the same cyn­i­cal moti­va­tion as a polit­i­cal oppo­nent it will under­mine their cred­i­bil­ity in a pro­found way.”

 

In older, and unre­lated news, Col­bert is  mem­ber of the Illu­mi­nati, thanks to a few beau­ti­ful Dis­cor­dians. This bodes well for the Illuminati.

Also, sick beatz, d00d. No really, check it out. Immor­tal Tech­nique has also come out with some OWS related stuff. but I’ll let you find that yourself.

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Lady Gaga throws up some love for internet piracy

By on October 31st, 2011

Fur­ther proof she isn’t a so called Illu­mi­nati Pup­pet, methinx. ^.^ >.>

It’s quite unusual for big artists to even men­tion Bit­Tor­rent, but Lady Gaga doesn’t mind request­ing a torrent.

Ear­lier today she asked her fans to send a tor­rent (or YouTube) link of the Top Chef Just Desserts finale.

Appar­ently Lady Gaga knows a thing or two about Bit­Tor­rent. But does this also means she’s okay with fans pirat­ing her music?

One thing’s for sure, the RIAA disagrees.

Link­age.

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Tenth Tibetan Torched (blame Tyrrany) [#OCCUPYTIBET]

By on October 27th, 2011

Straight from r00t3rz.

(Reuters) — A Tibetan Bud­dhist monk doused him­self in fuel and set him­self ablaze in far west­ern China on Tues­day, the tenth eth­nic Tibetan this year to resort to the extreme form of protest, an over­seas advo­cacy group said.

The Free Tibet group said the lat­est self-immolation hap­pened out­side a monastery in Ganzi in Sichuan province, about 150 km (95 miles) south of Aba, the site of eight of the last nine self-immolations since March to protest against reli­gious con­trols imposed by the Chi­nese government.

In a state­ment emailed late on Tues­day, Free Tibet said it had no infor­ma­tion about the monk’s name, where­abouts, or whether he sur­vived the incident.

Nor did it spec­ify its sources.

Gov­ern­ment offi­cials, police and work­ers at sev­eral hotels in Ganzi, called Kandze by Tibetans, told Reuters they did not know about the reported self-immolation.

“I don’t know about this, and even if I did, I couldn’t be loose-lipped,” said an offi­cial in the Ganzi county office.

Most peo­ple in Ganzi and neigh­bor­ing Aba are eth­nic Tibetan herders and farm­ers, and many see them­selves as mem­bers of a wider Tibetan region encom­pass­ing the offi­cial Tibetan Autonomous Region and other areas across the vast high­lands of China’s west.

The string of self-immolations, at least five of them fatal, “rep­re­sents a wider rejec­tion of China’s occu­pa­tion of Tibet,” said Stephanie Brig­den, the direc­tor of Free Tibet, which cam­paigns for self-rule for the region.

The group reported “sig­nif­i­cantly increased num­bers of secu­rity per­son­nel includ­ing in Tibet’s cap­i­tal, Lhasa, hun­dreds of kilo­me­ters away from where the self-immolations have taken place.”

For the Chi­nese gov­ern­ment, the protests are a small but desta­bi­liz­ing chal­lenge to its regional poli­cies, which it says have lifted Tibetans out of poverty and servitude.

China has ruled what it calls the Tibet Autonomous Region since Com­mu­nist troops marched in 1950. It rejects crit­i­cisms of rights groups and exiled Tibetans and has con­demned the self-immolations as destruc­tive and immoral.

“Encour­ag­ing some peo­ple to use this kind of extreme and cruel means to injure them­selves is a type of vio­lent ter­ror­ist act,” China’s For­eign Min­istry spokes­woman Jiang Yu told a reg­u­lar news briefing.

Jiang did not con­firm the lat­est inci­dent but said the protests were out of sync with the wishes of peo­ple in the region.

“I think a few indi­vid­u­als incit­ing a few igno­rant peo­ple to vio­late the law and dam­age local social sta­bil­ity can­not rep­re­sent the broader desires of the local peo­ple,” she said.

In March 2008, protests and deadly riots against the Chi­nese pres­ence spread across Tibetan regions, trig­ger­ing some­times deadly con­fronta­tions with troops and police.

Tibet’s exiled spir­i­tual leader, the Dalai Lama, who China con­demns as a sup­porter of vio­lent sep­a­ratism for his home­land, last week led hun­dreds of maroon-robed monks, nuns and lay Tibetans in prayer to mourn those who have burned them­selves to death or been imprisoned.

The Dalai Lama denies advo­cat­ing vio­lence and insists he wants only real auton­omy for his home­land, from which he fled in 1959 after a failed upris­ing against Chi­nese rule.

But the Chi­nese For­eign Min­istry has said the Dalai Lama should take the blame for the burn­ings, and repeated Beijing’s line that Tibetans are free to prac­tice their Bud­dhist faith.

(Report­ing by Chris Buck­ley, Sab­rina Mao and Michael Mar­tina; Edit­ing by Yoko Nishikawa)

Here are a cou­ple of more recent sub­jects from r00t3rz on the same subject:

http://www.reuters.com/article/2011/10/20/us-china-tibetans-burnings-idUSTRE79J1IT20111020

http://www.reuters.com/article/2011/10/18/us-china-tibetans-protest-idUSTRE79H0H020111018

And here’s a fun lit­tle arti­cle about the his­tory of Tibet’s occu­pa­tion from Free Tibet.

                                                              FR33 T1B37

dali lolma
OR I WILL HUG YOU
 

~*TTFN~*

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ninth chevron

By on October 16th, 2011

Ninth Chevron

both ears open
you can’t make me hate myself
strive
sign lan­guage — glos­so­lalia
I’m not crazy
I cre­ated the universe.

I’m still try­ing to muster my thoughts, as the over­all expe­ri­ence was fairly over­whelm­ing… But at the long and short of it, the night before I sat down to write this arti­cle, I ate LSD for the first time in about eight months, and I may or may not be the cre­ator of all real­ity. And we may be fight­ing a cos­mic, time­less bat­tle against a mind­less hive of swarm­ing insec­toid evil. But, ah, more on that later.

First I sup­pose you need to know that this is not the first time I’ve been con­tacted by god, or gods. The first time I was much too young, and fool­ish in my prepa­ra­tions (or lack therof). I pushed a hole into the fab­ric of the things-which-were, and started out into the expanse. To my ever last­ing sur­prise… Some­thing stared back. Some­thing out there sud­denly realised that I was awake, that I had switched on that lit­tle bit. Of course, that wasn’t where I was sup­posed to be at that point. I wasn’t ready, and I didn’t know it — Which is a most dan­ger­ous state to be in, blun­der­ing blindly into events of great cos­mic sig­nif­i­cance… And I paid for it. I had to be restrained by seven or eight guys and force-fed antipsy­chotics at a fes­ti­val out in the bush while I frothed and fought. it was ugly, it was traumtic…

But it was real. Every­thing I’d been dream­ing, won­der­ing, exper­i­ment­ing with… it was real. This was fuck­ing con­fir­ma­tion man, that shit was not what it seemed on the surface.

I was told a lot of things that day, many of which made no sense at the time, but as life pro­gressed, the mean­ings unfolded… There’s a lot of things which still don’t, but every­thing will be explained in time, I’m sure.

Fast for­wards back to last night, I ate a cou­ple of tabs in the com­pany of my best mate of a few years or so, now. He’s been doing this nearly as long as I have, we went to high­school together, we’re both psy­trance DJs, we love music and we’ve been through some pretty unbe­liev­able shit. He hadn’t tripped in a very long time either, so this was to be a spe­cial night for the both of us.

We were out the back of my place, sit­ting on gar­den chairs when the drugs began to take hold. Chain smok­ing and just talk­ing, laugh­ing and mostly just sit­ting there in long pauses of com­fort­able silence. Once it began to get cold we moved inside to lis­ten to some music.

Boom!

“Wow, holy shit. It’s bright in here. jesus, this is some strong board. I am barely see…”

He sug­gested a cou­ple of tracks I wasn’t famil­iar with, so I down­loaded an album or two and audio­gasmed for a lit­tle while. The albums went in the play queue, and we went back out­side for another cigarette.

Sex­u­al­ity is some­thing which has never really trou­bled me. I always thought I was straight, and over the years I’d exper­i­mented a lit­tle (usu­ally while under the influ­ence of some fairly seri­ous doses of MDMA) with guys, and enjoyed it, but never really found myself trou­bled by the thought that I might be gay. Now, don’t stress. This isn’t going to turn into a “How I got super high last night and fucked my best mate” story.

Any­way, he said he had a headache and wanted to go and lie down. So we both went back inside, and I went to my com­puter, logged onto tum­blr and put some music on again.

Now, God has always seemed to have a spe­cial hard-on for my com­puter. The sec­ond time I encoun­tered Him, it was when I was liv­ing with my now ex-girlfriend, almost a year ago. I spent the night then, lay­ing in bed while God cre­ated music and pat­terns to explain things as he spoke through the per­son I loved — This was not what you would call new behav­iour for her, as she had more then once in her life (before we were together) con­sid­ered her­self pos­sessed by var­i­ous demons or to be oth­er­wise a mech­a­nism for divine intervention.

I thought she was crazy. Until that night, I mean. She who had often chanted glos­so­lalia and spo­ken of her unflinch­ing con­nec­tion with God… That was the first night I dis­cov­ered I had faith. I believed. There was a higher power out there, and he a had a plan, and I was impor­tant to it. That was the impor­tant mes­sage there. But the lit­tle mes­sages — The small, impor­tant things that went with that — I was too proud to really pat atten­tion to. Still not ready.

Between then and now, A lot of bad shit went down. I got heav­ily into meth, I turned on a lot of my friends, I turned my back on my fam­ily… Don’t worry, this isn’t an addic­tion sob story either. The short ver­sion of that is, I nearly got myself killed try­ing to play psychedelic-vendor in the amphet world. They didn’t play by my rules, they didn’t play by anyone’s rules. So that world took me, and skinned me, and ate my fear.

It was only because of the love my fam­ily and friends had for me that I sur­vived that time of my life.

So the past six months has been heal­ing from those wounds, and remem­ber­ing how to care, and to be a good guy, and all that. I went back out­side for a cig­a­rette, and got lost in thought again. Both times prior that I had met god, it was when I was with my pre­vi­ous girl­friend, A. I thought I loved her, she thought she loved me. it was beau­ti­ful, it was intense, and it even­tu­ally got very ugly as meth got between us both and under our skin — Love became dis­trust and I used the shard as a crutch to iso­late myself from her.

If I’d only been brave enough to admit the truth to myself back then, I could have saved us both a lot of heartache, I’m sure. Both of the times I met god before, I spent hours try­ing to con­vince him — and myself — That I was straight, and that I loved her. I was con­flicted. I was uncer­tain. I was afraid.

Not this time, though. I’d had enough time to really think about it, and come to terms with what it would mean. So, again out­side for a cig­a­rette, I admit­ted it aloud for the first time.

“I think I’m gay.”

The sky smiled, and my mind began to run in cir­cles, loops, back and forth, try­ing to come to terms with the accep­tance. After a few min­utes of that self indul­gent panic, I got a grip of the trip and sat down again. I realised how that as much as I loved A, I also loved B, the friend who was trip­ping with me. He’d always been there, we always got on per­fectly, he knew me bet­ter than almost any­one. So I sat there for about twenty min­utes chain smok­ing, think­ing about how I loved him, and what that meant. He came out­side then, and joined me for a cigarette.

We didn’t say any­thing at first, but my mind was still rac­ing. Do I tell him? How do I tell him What will this mean?

Part of my brain was scream­ing to just tell him, to get it out in the open. The other half, though, was just apol­o­gis­ing, over and over again; “I’m sorry, I can’t tell him that, I don’t want to change things, I just want him to be comfortable…”

The sec­ond that thought creased my brow, the music changed. There was a com­pli­cated lit­tle fan­fare, the track changed for a moment — a sam­ple, processed and fil­tered but still clearly leg­i­ble, “Hal­lelu­jah!” — BOOM BOOM BOOM.

That neat lit­tle break­down in the track pinned what I was think­ing and made me realise what I was say­ing. I Just wanted him to be com­fort­able. I loved him, sure — The same way I’d loved A. But that wasn’t roman­tic love, that wasn’t sex­ual love. She and I had failed because we loved each other as peo­ple, not as boyfriend and girl­friend. In the spirit of the word; ‘namaste’ — The divine in me recog­nises the divine in you. I loved them both as my best friends, who had been through things with me that nobody could ever under­stand. And noth­ing more — Try­ing to make some­thing out of that was what had dri­ven A away from me, I wasn’t going to push away the other per­son in the world who really got me because I was con­fused and grasp­ing at straws to explain things. I wasn’t gay. I just loved my best friend like a brother.

Whether I was gay or not was sud­denly irrel­e­vant. Being gay didn’t mean that I had to make a move on my best friend, or be torn by inde­ci­sion. Get ahold of your­self, man! gay, straight… It doesn’t change who you are. I am me, and you can’t make me hate myself. It doesn’t mean that I don’t enjoy sleep­ing with girls, beause I do. It doesn’t mean that I only want to sleep with guys, because I don’t. Any­thing else is just seman­tics — Life is about liv­ing, enjoy sex wher­ever you want to. It’s not per­fect, but it is beautiful.

Another break­down. Like that lit­tle riff in zelda when you dis­cover the impor­tant tool, the music stepped up a notch, the beat took on a more com­pli­cated time sig­na­ture. Ben had gone to lay down on the couch in the lounge­room with a cold com­press on his fore­head, I was now alone in my room with the music.

I thought about what I’d said to myself again. You can’t make me hate myself.

The music. The music kicked again, and I realize :

It’s you again, isn’t it? I smiled, and God smiled back from the speakers.

Set­tling into a more com­fort­able posi­tion on the bed, I felt myself calm­ing, relax­ing — I was in con­trol here, every­thing was on track. This was impor­tant. Tonight was important.

It’s not… Easy to describe what hap­pened next. A lot of the events tend to blur into one another, and I don’t clearly remem­ber how they started and how they flowed from one to the next. But I lay there, think­ing about what I’d realised already, and how it changed things. What it changed, if any­thing. I was gay, or I wasn’t, and I was okay with that, but it wasn’t what tonight was about. My hands were mov­ing — I felt like I was shak­ing hands with myself, lock­ing fin­gers, watch­ing shapes form­ing from the trails they left wher­ever I reached. The music, relent­less. Inspir­ing, com­pli­cated. And then I fet thoughts welling up in my head that were mine, but weren’t. That were not spo­ken in any voice or heard in any real lan­guage, but just known. I looked down again, and realised that I had been echo­ing these thoughts in my hands. I was silent, not speak­ing, but sign­ing. I have never known sign lan­guage, but I’ve often wanted to learn. And yet, as I lay there in bed, my hands moved like they had a life of their own. With­out hav­ing a con­scious grasp on the lan­guage, I couldn’t tell you now if I “recog­nised” it as as the words the pat­terns and ges­tures rep­re­sented. But I knew it was right. Log­i­cally I had no idea, but I knew.

And that’s faith — The con­fi­dence and strength in your beliefs with­out logic to back it up. I am a sci­en­tific per­son — I believe in the sci­en­tific method, and peer review, and logic almost above all else.

Almost.

And then, once more, blind­ing real­i­sa­tion. All that mat­ters is that I’m happy. Rela­tion­ships come and go, sex­u­al­ity waxes and wanes. Life is about liv­ing, don’t worry — be happy, and have great sex. I’m not gay. I’m not straight. I’m just me. And nobody can ever change that.

Lan­guage… Began the thought. It might even have been a phrase spo­ken in the music? It began in my head, or in the speakers

Lan­guage is uni­ver­sal. Lan­guage is a way of mov­ing feel­ings across human dis­tances. Music is a form of lan­guage, a way for you to con­dense all that joy you feel and syn­chro­nise it into a packet that you can broad­cast into a room full of peo­ple, so every­one can expe­ri­ence that joy. With­out spo­ken lan­guage, how do we com­mu­ni­cate? With thoughts, pic­tures, signs, music. And elec­tronic music — The beat, the bass, the dri­ving rhythms and com­pli­cated, fast synths… Any­body can under­stand that. japan­ese, french, aus­tralian, young, old… Every­body knows what it feels like to want to DANCE.

And as the thoughts unspooled in my head, I watched my hands explain the uni­ver­sal­ity of lan­guage as music, and how all forms of music had the poten­tial to speak and to unite and to sing and to cre­ate, to bring together peo­ple of all backgrounds.

The music was like black pol­ished chrome, and it came over the sum­mer like liq­uid night

Music was the plan. Music was the lan­guage for all of human­ity, and in all its gen­res, sub­gen­res, tastes and vari­a­tions — Each of them like a lan­guage unto them­selves, but still a lan­guage with­out borders…

And now, as I lis­tened to the music, I could hear things dif­fer­rently. I could hear what was, and what wasn’t. Was could be, and what should have been. I could hear the harsh tones, that didn’t fit, and the warm, resound­ing kicks that swelled to fill the void.

I’m not sure how it started. But there was a sud­den moment of real­i­sa­tion that the music was sud­denly about so much more then some­thing to lis­ten to. The music was real­ity itself, and each many-layered mul­ti­fac­eted moment was an expanse of time and space laid bare for me to inves­ti­gate and to work my head around. And I could see… dark­ness. There was an ugly rep­e­ti­tion to some of the sounds, it was hol­low, life­less. Cold and gleam­ing. I didn’t like those sounds. They had their own lan­guage, and it was the lan­guage of fear.

I looked down at my hands again, and my skin was sud­denly black­est night sky, awash with stars. The dark­ness of my room was replaced with white and I watched my hands become the sky, each star of light that flecked my skin infi­nitely con­nected to the other, and with the music. I watched as the light bled out, and arced around my fin­gers, form­ing tiny arcs and knots of colour in the dark­ness. And I could iso­late the sounds that I didn’t like, the ugly tones, the harsh fuzz and the nasty fre­quen­cies. And as my hands writhed and danced, the music screamed and I finally caught one of those stars between my fin­gers. I could feel it. It was cold, and it was buzzing. It writhed, try­ing to escape by grasp. The music bucked and spasmed, because it knew I had found it.

“Who are you?” I demanded, stretch­ing the star between my fin­gers. I twisted the cold black energy, try­ing to look closer. It spun around my fil­gers like spider’s silk, try­ing to knot them closed, try­ing to clench my hands together, to freeze them in place. It was like a great and ter­ri­fy­ing paral­y­sis, two huge clamps pin­ning my hands together and forc­ing me into mute­ness. Then, in the black­ness, I saw, just for a moment — the buzzing of wings. An insect. At the core of the dark­ness, an insect. The root of all my fear, the root of the dis­trust in the world, the root of the poi­son which had turned so much music into a mech­a­nism to sub­ju­gate oth­ers. Insects.

My voice, I found it again.

“I am god… You are insects.”

Only it wasn’t my voice. My hands spoke it, and the sen­tence had a kind of power to it, and the music knew it too. My fin­gers strug­gled like dig­ging them­selves out of half-set con­crete, and I felt the power surge behind my eyes.

You are the forces of dark­ness, uncer­tainty and doubt. You are every­thing I loathe, you are every­ty­hing that fights for self­ish­ness and cow­ardice. You have cowed me in the past, but no more. You are insects, I am god. And I am not afraid of you.

WHAM. The paral­y­sis, redou­bled. Press­ing down on my chest, squash­ing my hands into the mat­tress. This was it. The time to fight. The time to show them what fear and fury really mean. I could feel a mil­lion cold points try­ing to push me harder down, and even as they did so, two mil­lion hot voices in my ears spurring me to resist. The dark­ness threat­ened to engulf my vision, every­thing sweep­ing to black­ness as every ter­ri­ble ter­ri­fied mem­ory in my past began to reap­pear, all the moments I tried to block out swelled at the seams, try­ing to bend me to the will of fear.

And then, when the dark­ness seemed all-covering, like a web that cov­ered me from head to toe, a blind­ing spray of dia­mond mist burned into life for a sec­ond, like a mil­lion tiny alu­minium fibres ignit­ing all at once — And in the inten­sity of each tiny point of warmth, I saw the face of some­one that loved me, and of the peo­ple I loved. And their voices, swelled in my head.

I AM NEVER ALONE. I WILL NEVER BE ALONE.

The weight on my chest was suf­fo­cat­ing, my fin­gers ached like they were in boil­ing water. But I strug­gled, and I fought, and my fin­gers found the air again, and in that free­dom, I found my voice. My fin­gers danced…

No mat­ter how dark things will ever get, or how many forces of evil bring their nasty self­ish­ness to bear on me, to try and squash my will. I will never be alone. And that is why I will always tri­umph. Because I am loved, and I can love, and you can never under­stand that. Love is the bind­ing armour, the strength of light and the god kick, love is the sub­woofer, love is every­thing that empow­ers. I am god. I am love. You are insects, you are fear.

And I am not afraid of you.

In that instant, my mus­cles turned to liq­uid gold. My every nerve crack­led with power, and I watched my hands ignite with mul­ti­coloured fire, every mil­lime­tre of my skin a mov­ing, kaliedo­scopic jewel-like frag­ment. I sat bolt upright, drag­ging the dark­ness off my chest, and held it in both hands.

I am not afraid of you!

And as the dark­ness turned in my grasp, like a fish out of water, strug­gling in the hands of its cap­tor, I began to see more and more of its shape. The music expanded, every point and note and tone vis­i­ble simul­ta­ne­ously. And the dark­ness expanded, like a dis­sec­tion, or when a com­puter pro­gram is decom­piled — and I could see the lay­ers of decep­tion and fear, and lies, and shadow that was in my grasp, and what it was made from. As I peeled away the lay­ers of chitin and gleam­ing exoskele­ton, I began to realise just why the dark­ness was so afraid of me.

The dark­ness was a mask — And who wears masks?

Peo­ple who have some­thing to hide!

And as the mask dis­solved, I felt a great tug, like one does in the bath when the plug has been unex­pect­edly pulled. Some­thing was with­draw­ing, some­thing was afraid, because sud­denly — I had the fucker right in my grasp. Some­thing was hid­ing from me. Some­thing that didn’t want me to find it.

WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO HIDE?

And now, my voice filled my lungs as well as my hands, my human voice, and it fol­lowed the dark­ness down the rab­bit­hole it was try­ing to escape through. I could feel it, this pal­pa­ble hole in real­ity again, I had seen this before! But I wasn’t ready last time.

But this time… I was so much more then ready. I was born for this. This was why I was here. I had found the FEAR, the source of all mis­ery in the unvierse, and I had tricked the sneaky lit­tle shit into show­ing itself

And now that I had seen it? I could fol­low it. I forced open the rab­bit hole , reach­ing through and grasp­ing at any­thing my fin­gers could reach. I was see­ing in nine dimen­sions — The tra­di­tional three, my human body, my arms snaking into the air above my bed. And then, six, or maybe even more — over­laid, expand­ing, depth beyond depth, a vision of things that could not exist, that did not exist! I could see it all, an incred­i­ble tapes­try of mesh­ing gears, jew­els and time. And I realised, this was beyond human exis­tence. This was beyond the uni­verse. What I had found here was the space OUTSIDE of exis­tence, where all things came from. The howl­ing void, where fear lived. I was reach­ing back to the cold emp­ty­ness of the uni­verse before the big bang, and I found the ancient, uncom­pre­hen­si­ble evil that dwelled there.

But I could feel my grip slip­ping. I was god still, but in the body of a man not built for this kind of pandi­men­sional com­bat. I now had the brunt of an infi­nite cold suns pick­ing at my fin­gers, try­ing to loosen my grip. I could feel it slip­ping. But sud­denly, I knew what had to be done. Smil­ing, I looked fear in the eye. With my last ounce of strength, I reached into myself, and found the love that had given me the power to make it this far. Extend­ing my hands, I turned my mind to project, and every­thing just… stopped.

Frozen in time for a moment, noth­ing hap­pened. Then my fin­gers began to vibrate. My arms shook, my body writhed as I poured out my heart, my soul and my love through this hole in time and space, and into the void I cre­ated light.

The power, so full in my eyes, now streamed into the noth­ing. And from noth­ing, there came cre­ation. The dark­ness spread, and the seed of love took root. The dark­ness spoke in tongues, sow­ing fear and hate and cow­ardice. And I answered, in the only lan­guage I knew. Music. Draw­ing on all of my tastes, my love, my music, I planted the seed that would one day defeat the fear. I gave the dark­ness jazz, and rock & roll, and Bach. I gave the dark­ness trance, and drum and bass. I gave the dark­ness every­thing I had.

I am god, you are insects. And now you’re going to lis­ten. Pay atten­tion, cos I’m only going to say this once.

And from my fin­gers streamed the fire again, between each fin­ger­tip an invis­i­ble, but blind­ing strand of music. Every­thing I knew, every­thing that had been. Came from my fin­gers. Weav­ing them together, the strands egn to knot, splin­ter­ing and thick­en­ing, send­ing new roots out from where they touched. Have you ever played cat’s cra­dle? with the pieces of string in your hand? it was like that. Every piece of string inter­meshed and knot­ted and wove and then expanded, cre­at­ing every pos­si­ble incar­na­tion of music, every sub­gen­res, every style, very tiny resur­gent move­ment that ever flour­ished in a back­alley beat club, or in every island nation’s drums. All music, infi­nite. Creation.

And then, my grip waned. I flexed, and smiled. I blew the dark­ness a kiss — The final touch, love, to enter the music and give it life. Then I let go, and col­lapsed, shak­ing, sweat­ing, back onto the mattress.

The trip con­tin­ued for sev­eral hours beyond that, but that’s a story for another day…

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Kill this Bill

By on April 18th, 2011


S. 605:

Dan­ger­ous Syn­thetic Drug Con­trol Act of 2011

Mar 17, 2011 — Intro­duced in Sen­ate. This is the orig­i­nal text of the bill as it was writ­ten by its spon­sor and sub­mit­ted to the Sen­ate for con­sid­er­a­tion. This is the lat­est ver­sion of the bill cur­rently avail­able on GovTrack.

S 605 IS

112th CONGRESS

1st Ses­sion

S. 605

To amend the Con­trolled Sub­stances Act to place syn­thetic drugs in Sched­ule I.

IN THE SENATE OF THE UNITED STATES

March 17, 2011

Mr. GRASSLEY (for him­self, Mrs. FEINSTEIN, Mr. HATCH, Ms. KLOBUCHAR, Mr. MANCHIN, Mrs. HAGAN, and Mr. WHITEHOUSE) intro­duced the fol­low­ing bill; which was read twice and referred to the Com­mit­tee on the Judiciary

A BILL

To amend the Con­trolled Sub­stances Act to place syn­thetic drugs in Sched­ule I.

Be it enacted by the Sen­ate and House of Rep­re­sen­ta­tives of the United States of Amer­ica in Con­gress assembled,

SECTION 1. SHORT TITLE.

This Act may be cited as the ‘Dan­ger­ous Syn­thetic Drug Con­trol Act of 2011’ or the ‘David Mitchell Rozga Act’.

SEC. 2. ADDITION OF CANNABIMIMETIC AGENTS TO SCHEDULE I OF THE CONTROLLED SUBSTANCES ACT.

Sched­ule I, as set forth in sec­tion 202© of the Con­trolled Sub­stances Act (21 U.S.C. 812©) is amended by adding at the end the following:

‘(d)(1) Unless specif­i­cally exempted or unless listed in another sched­ule, any mate­r­ial, com­pound, mix­ture, or prepa­ra­tion which con­tains any quan­tity of cannabimimetic agents, their salts, iso­mers, and salts of iso­mers when­ever the exis­tence of such salts, iso­mers, and salts of iso­mers is pos­si­ble within the spe­cific chem­i­cal designation.

‘(2) In para­graph (1), the term ‘cannabimimetic agents’–

‘(A) means any sub­stance that is a cannabi­noid recep­tor type 1 (CB1 recep­tor) ago­nist as demon­strated by bind­ing stud­ies and func­tional assays within the fol­low­ing struc­tural classes:

‘(i) 2-(3-hydroxycyclohexyl)phenol with sub­sti­tu­tion at the 5-position of the phe­no­lic ring by alkyl or alkenyl, whether or not sub­sti­tuted on the cyclo­hexyl ring to any extent.

‘(ii) 3-(1-naphthoyl)indole or 3-(1-naphthyl)indole by sub­sti­tu­tion at the nitro­gen atom of the indole ring, whether or not fur­ther sub­sti­tuted on the indole ring to any extent, whether or not sub­sti­tuted on the naph­thoyl or naph­thyl ring to any extent.

‘(iii) 3-(1-naphthoyl)pyrrole by sub­sti­tu­tion at the nitro­gen atom of the pyr­role ring, whether or not fur­ther sub­sti­tuted in the indole ring to any extent, whether or not sub­sti­tuted on the naph­thoyl ring to any extent.

‘(iv) 1-(1-naphthylmethyl)indene by sub­sti­tu­tion of the 3-position of the indene ring, whether or not fur­ther sub­sti­tuted in the indene ring to any extent, whether or not sub­sti­tuted on the naph­thyl ring to any extent.

‘(v) 3-phenylacetylindole or 3-benzoylindole by sub­sti­tu­tion at the nitro­gen atom of the indole ring, whether or not fur­ther sub­sti­tuted in the indole ring to any extent, whether or not sub­sti­tuted on the phenyl ring to any extent.; and

‘(B) includes–

‘(i) 5-(1,1-dimethylheptyl)-2-[(1R,3S)-3-hydroxycyclohexyl]-phenol (CP-47,497);

‘(ii) 5-(1,1-dimethyloctyl)-2-[(1R,3S)-3-hydroxycyclohexyl]-phenol (cannabi­cy­clo­hexa­nol or CP-47,497 C8-homolog);

‘(iii) 1-pentyl-3-(1-naphthoyl)indole (JWH-018 and AM678);

‘(iv) 1-butyl-3-(1-naphthoyl)indole (JWH-073);

‘(v) 1-hexyl-3-(1-naphthoyl)indole (JWH-019);

‘(vi) 1-[2-(4-morpholinyl)ethyl]-3-(1-naphthoyl)indole (JWH-200);

‘(vii) 1-pentyl-3-(2-methoxyphenylacetyl)indole (JWH-250);

‘(viii) 1-pentyl-3-[1-(4-methoxynaphthoyl)]indole (JWH-081);

‘(ix) 1-pentyl-3-(4-methyl-1-naphthoyl)indole (JWH-122);

‘(x) 1-pentyl-3-(4-chloro-1-naphthoyl)indole (JWH-398);

‘(xi) 1-(5-fluoropentyl)-3-(1-naphthoyl)indole (AM2201);

‘(xii) 1-(5-fluoropentyl)-3-(2-iodobenzoyl)indole (AM694);

‘(xiii) 1-pentyl-3-[(4-methoxy-benzoyl]indole (SR-19 and RCS-4);

‘(xiv) 1-cyclohexylethyl-3-(2-methoxyphenylacetyl)indole (SR-18 and RCS-8); and

‘(xv) 1-pentyl-3-(2-chlorophenylacetyl)indole (JWH-203).’.

SEC. 3. TEMPORARY SCHEDULING TO AVOID IMMINENT HAZARDS TO PUBLIC SAFETY EXPANSION.

Sec­tion 201(h)(2) of the Con­trolled Sub­stances Act (21 U.S.C. 811(h)(2)) is amended–

(1) by strik­ing ‘one year’ and insert­ing ‘2 years’; and

(2) by strik­ing ‘six months’ and insert­ing ‘1 year’.

.…

Hor­ri­ble stuff. I blame you.

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China Grey Dawn / Black Mexican Sunset

By on April 9th, 2011

Depo­si­tion rhythm, re-written side­tracked by the inevitable

Rail­roaded by the pet­ti­ness of self­ish men

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Whose eyes lied? And what is in the money?

I stare with child­like won­der as peo­ple shout and scream,

Bay for blood and throw their credit cards at the television.

///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\

It’s elec­tric, this feel­ing of sub­mis­sive superiority -

A warm voiced, amber­gris answer to the quiet murmurs

Of dis­sent at petrol prices and how late the pizza guy was.

“I can be bet­ter than you because I don’t care…”

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Where does it all go? cash­flow, into the crook of your elbow -
Hun­dred dol­lars buys an arm­ful, cheaper then a girlfriend…

…and more reliable.

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I guess what i’m really try­ing to say is that if you’re find­ing soci­ety hard to deal with then heroin is a pretty good alter­na­tive to consider.

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My Name is King Owl, and this is a Story about Dumb Bitches on Acid

By on April 7th, 2011

These events came down some­where after my eigh­teenth birth­day. It was a wednes­day night, and, as was the fash­ion at the time, on wednes­day nights we would all cruise down­town and hit this one club that played pretty slick drum and bass. I like DnB, but more impor­tantly, I like busi­ness, and I liked see­ing my friends. So in my pocket was a lit­tle bot­tle of breath-freshening solu­tion, guar­an­teed to brighten up your synapses with a delight­fully sparkling load­ing of about 150 mikes of nice Cal­i­forn­ian LSD per drop. A hun­dred drops in the bot­tle, give or take. So wednes­day nights were usu­ally an excuse to get on the train, get loaded with a few friends on some ball-blazing acid and gen­er­ally careen around the street­lamps and tar­mac fuck­ing with cops and hit­ting on pretty girls.

Tonight was absolutely no dif­fer­ent, only I hadn’t yet dosed up. Any­way, some guys I knew from way back saw me, said hello, and we chat­ted for a while. One of them asked if I knew where to get any pills. I shook my head, sadly apol­o­gized, but offered them some of this dar­ling LSD. They said it wasn’t for them, but some chicks had just asked them so they were try­ing to help out. Nor­mally I wouldn’t have any­thing to do with peo­ple I didn’t know per­son­ally, but fuck it, I was feel­ing loose. So they intro­duced me, and these two chicks and I slicked over to this alley­way, where I asked them if they’d had any­thing else already. They said they were pretty drunk, but other than that, no. I explained that the alco­hol might make it take a lit­tle while to kick in. They said that was fine, cash was exchanged and they got the magic drop. Imme­di­ately, one bitch started to com­plain. “Uh, wtf? This tastes like mouth­wash!”. The retard-alarm had now begun to ring in my head. “Have, uh, have you ever tried liq­uid acid before?” I asked, heart tens­ing. This stuff was pretty hec­tic, the girl could be in for a hell of a night. “No, only in pills!” She responded. “Let me see the bottle!”

Oh, dear.

So I held it up for her to see, and she made to snatch at it. Tak­ing a step back, I put it back in my pocket, telling her to back the fuck off and calm down, to try to enjoy the ride. I asked her if they were here with any­one else. The other girl chimed in. “Yeah, our boyfriends! They’re gonna kick your ass for try­ing to rip us off! Give us our money back!” I rolled my eyes. “You paid, now you play. This shit is good, it ill kick your skull open in about thirty to forty five min­utes. Come back at nine, and if you’re feel­ing noth­ing, I will refund you your money or dose you up more.” They didn’t seem to pay much atten­tion, storm­ing off. “What­ever, fag­got.” She sneered, head­ing back towards the club.

The night was offi­cially about to get inter­est­ing. Amongst the reg­u­lars of that club, over half were good friends of mine, and they all knew I had qual­ity wares. So I found some­body I trusted and told him what had just hap­pened. He laughed, con­clud­ing that she was indeed, a dumb bitch. But he said he’d watch my back in case any­one tried to sucker punch me. Ten min­utes or so passed and the girls were back, demand­ing their money back. I was smok­ing out­side with a few mates, and they tried in vain to help con­vince them. Moments later, the boyfriends appeared — With about five guys behind them.

Hmm. This was more inter­est­ing than I really was hop­ing for tonight. “Give them back their money cunt and we won’t beat the shit out of you!” Under nor­mal cir­cum­stances, to avoid a scene like this, I would have just paid them to shut them up — It was only a cou­ple of drops after all, not worth the has­sle. But the night had been good and I had a grand or so in my wal­let, did NOT want to open it up in front of these guys. So I politely declined, again try­ing to explain. “Let me it, I know acid when I see it.” The guy insisted, so he and I and his friends, and a half dozen or so of mine, walked round into the alley. I could see where this was going, but I was con­fi­dent that my spun-out acid-jibbed tweaker street fighter bud­dies could han­dle this posse of drunk jer­sey shore types. So I hold up the bot­tle for him to see

WHAM

sucker punched. Vision goes white, just for a moment. Not enough to slow me down, I respond with a fast right to the guy’s solar plexus, the bot­tle in my left hand. He goes back­wards into the wall, grab­bing at my hands. His fin­gers find my adam’s apple, and he starts try­ing to choke me. I feel two pairs of arms grab­bing at both of mine, I was torn between going for the knife in my pocket or spin­ning around and try­ing to take them, but I didn’t want my back to any­one, and the del­i­cate bot­tle of magic was still in my left fist. So I relax, and they pluck it out of my hand, the choker eying it sus­pi­ciously. My mates are ready to kick heads at any moment, hang­ing on my words, but I’m hop­ing we can still resolve this mostly peacefully.

Even as I’m decid­ing to try and talk him out of it, though, I can see the thought process tick­ing over in his mind. It’s as if time slowed down, and I could head his men­tal process, see it blos­som­ing into a deci­sion that will undoubt­edly haunt him for the rest of his life.

“This isn’t fuck­ing acid, I’ve had acid! I bet it doesn’t even taste like fuck­ing acid!”

“NO! DON’T!” I cry, but it is too late. His mind is made up. he pops the cap off the bot­tle, not real­iz­ing it was a mea­sured dropped cap — And tips the con­tents of the entire vial into his mouth. Every­one there goes very quiet for a moment. He has just ingested prob­a­bly around thirty thou­sand micro­grams of strong, clean acid. “Spit it out! Quick! Wash out your mouth!” I am PLEADING with this guy, try­ing to save his fuck­ing mind, maybe his life. All of my friends are laugh­ing, but also, plead­ing with him to spit it out. You can see the look in his eyes as he real­izes he might have just done some­thing very, very silly.

In the dumb, still moment, I snatch the bot­tle back. There’s some­thing of a lit­tle splash left in the bot­tom, where it was before almost com­pletely. I screw the cap back on, and pro­ceed to fuck­ing power-walk it out of there as fast as pos­si­ble. This guy will be going nuclear in ten min­utes, maybe less. I hail the first taxi I see, dial­ing a friend on my cell, telling him needed to get the fuck uptown pronto. He’s at a nearby gay club and he meets me out front with a cou­ple of girl­friends of ours. We take the taxi back to his, and I explain what just hap­pened. Nobody really knew what to say, or do. The taxi dri­ver though, this big African bloke, is just laugh­ing madly though. “Ah, the devil gon come for ‘im tonight!” He cack­les, slap­ping the steer­ing wheel.

The rest of the evening passes remark­ably peace­fully. We get to his place, chain smoke and smoke a lit­tle green till dawn, where we share a joint laced with DMT and say a lit­tle prayer for that poor dumb fuck.

About a year later, I was sell­ing trips to some guy at a big hip-hop and drum and bass fes­ti­val a cou­ple of towns over. Turns out he was one of the friends who was the that night, back­ing up the guy. He didn’t know the whole story and he shook his head sadly when I told him what had led up to the events. “He spent the next eight months in a men­tal facil­ity.” He told me. “The first few hours he said he was being chased and raped and mur­dered by demons. Ambu­lance took him to the emer­gency ward, he never really left.”

As for the girls who orig­i­nally bought their dose? Yeah, it even­tu­ally kicked in. One of them walked about forty miles across town just because she was try­ing to catch up with the pat­terns god was show­ing her. The other, I never heard from.

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The Dark & Brutal Truth of Australia

By on February 21st, 2011

The name “Aus­tralia” stems from the latin ‘Terra Aus­tralia Auto­mo­bile’, mean­ing “Holy shit it’s a wom­bat get in the car”. Up until only a few hun­dred years ago, the sole occu­pants of the Aus­tralian con­ti­nent were a race of hyper-intelligent ants that had come from space to bring pros­per­ity to earth. They were promptly eaten by nig­gers com­ing across a land bridge from Poly­ne­sia, who mis­took their com­pact fusion mod­ules for bloated sacks of honey. Fol­low­ing their rapid extinc­tion at the hands of the invad­ing new­com­ers, came the first white set­tlers. Rid­ing motor­cy­cles and giant whales, they were mainly crim­i­nals from Eng­land who had been arrested for not being any good at Polo, and sen­tenced to col­o­nize this new and boun­ti­ful land. Most of them are still won­der­ing when the pun­ish­ment starts.

The cul­tural land­scape of Aus­tralia faced a major turn­ing point in 1885 when giant hump­back whales were deemed ille­gal for use in V8 Super­car com­pe­ti­tions. The econ­omy, largely built on the export of high-octane nitrob­lub­ber, crashed hard. The result­ing depres­sion shaped Aus­tralia per­ma­nently, instill­ing in them the spirit of mate­ship, of the hard go, and the eat­ing of rats. It is for this rea­son that the Aus­tralian coat of arms includes the Hump­back whale, and at Albany in West­ern Aus­tralia, you can visit a museum built from the last rac­ing whale garage to oper­ate on Aus­tralian soil (the noto­ri­ous off­shore whale yards ran ille­gally for the next decade or so until finally being stamped out).

Set­tlers in Aus­tralia lived a tough life. The pri­mary inter­ests at the time were gold, wool and wheat, so when Doc­tor Kel­logs opened the first wheat mine in Iowa, Aus­tralia com­pen­sated for the loss in busi­ness by devel­op­ing the gold farm. By care­ful hus­bandry of the steel wool-giving ‘Fer­rino” ram, they were able to breed a sheep with golden fleece. This ush­ered in a new age of peace and pros­per­ity, until some wog bas­tards in a lit­tle wooden ship came over and nicked it. That sim­ple event sparked a fuse which even­tu­ally ignited the famous Cronulla Riots — Remem­bered by all, and immor­talised by the phrase. “We shall fight them on the beaches… With trol­ley poles and a bro­ken stubbie!”

The flora of Aus­tralia con­sists of wild black­boys, spinifex grass and dirt. Aus­tralian fauna com­prises over four hun­dred species of ven­omous snakes, six­teen hun­dred ven­omous arthro­pods, two ven­omous mam­mals, twenty dan­ger­ous eagles, two deadly flight­less birds, the rare Tas­man­ian Fly­ing Knife, and sev­eral dozen very, very angry species of assorted mam­mals with axes to grind. After the rabbit-proof fence was enacted in 1901 to com­mem­o­rate two hun­dred years of fed­er­a­tion, indige­nous ‘natives’ evolved into the com­mon Aus­tralian icon of Kan­ga­roos, in order to bound the fence and the dole-line, and also to bet­ter fight with police. Every ani­mal native to Aus­tralia can and will kill you if you give it a moment’s notice. There are many imported species, and luck­ily, most of them set­tle for steal­ing your job and way­lay­ing Nor­we­gian cargo ships.

Suf­fice to say, only the strong sur­vive in Aus­tralia. With spi­ders the size of a small suck­ling pig, strange mutant beaver-ducks with ven­omous spines and an ostrich that can dis­em­bowel you with velociraptor-like pre­ci­sion, Aus­tralian men have adapted to a hitherto-unseen stan­dard of man­li­ness. The path to an Aus­tralian pri­mary school is sown with barbed wire, bro­ken glass and old syringes, and unless the chil­dren can kill a croc­o­dile with their bare hands, skin it with their teeth and craft a rudi­men­tary pair of boots, they go unschooled, and quickly die. Aus­tralian cow­boys grew tired of chas­ing cows on big flat plains, so they let wild stal­lions loose on moun­tains and ran their horses up and down eighty degree inclines until the horse caught fire or exploded, as was com­mon with the cheap Chi­nese imported horses they used — This was the ori­gin of the mod­ern ‘burn-out’, and for some time it was a com­mon sight to see a crowd of young men in leather coats, crowded around a young brumby, hooves and knee joints bil­low­ing clouds of smoke as it’s rider drove it in tight cir­cles around the Woolworth’s carpark.

Com­mon pas­times of the Aus­tralian pub­lic are ‘Aussie Rules Foot­ball’, which is a vari­ant on the French game Rochem­beau. Aspir­ing cham­pi­ons take turns kick­ing each other in the nuts with scor­pi­ons taped to their feet until some­body passes out. A death is con­sid­ered highly unsport­ing, and very rude, as it ruins the game for the next guy in line. Rugby is gain­ing pop­u­lar­ity, though it is harder to keep the scor­pi­ons on the try line. Aus­tralian cul­tural tourism attrac­tions can be clas­si­fied into one of three cat­e­gories: Big rocks (Exam­ple: Uluru, Wave Rock), Big holes (great Aus­tralian Bight, Lime­stone Caves of W.A) or ridicu­lously over­sized fruits (E.g The big ban­nana, Shan­non Noll, etc…)

Aus­tralian wines are widely respected as some of the best in the world, the recent export vin­tage 2005 ‘Caber­net Sauvin­goon’ of the Barossa val­ley was highly sought after in the pro­fes­sional rac­ing cir­cuit over­seas as an effec­tive antifreeze for reac­tor coolant in nuclear ice­break­ers, AND as a top­i­cal cure for athlete’s foot.

Surely, with such a rich and var­ied her­itage of bad-assery and fight­ing for your life on a daily basis, one would expect Aus­tralia to soar in future years! God­speed, Aus­tralia! And good luck!