|Adam was, according to recent mythology, the original man, homo uno. As the forefather of cryogenic sports, Adam sits alone, the apeiron in the trees, our arboreal forefather, thee ancestor/incestor par excellence. He inseminated the world through our beloved lady of the Genetic River (homo house), Mitachondrial EVE, metachondrial Eve, if you will but allow. This insemination filtered from womb to womb until finally great panacea split leaving our great legacy relegated to the history books of our extra-somatic overlord, Mr. Freeze. A snowman par excellence our friend, the cryptozoologicl Mr. Freeze, was left to roam the mountains of Tibet and portions of the Rocky Mountains. An ardent anarchist and practitioner of neo-voodoo, Mr. Freeze began concocting hair-brained schemes, from his shack in the mountains, to replace all the governments of all the nations of all the world with tennis rackets, supreme. Again as his döppleganger, the aenphallable Mr. Hide.(ALL HAIL!) THE END His plots of course were thwarted and he was left to fade away into obscurity and disbelief. (Ibid #7.8001) THE END One summer morning several years later a letter arrived from a PO box in... THE END As soon as those events had curtailed and sputtered, the sky began to clear enough for all the world to see, from the eyes of a frog. “What a pedantic bore you are you rotted apple core of a ghost!” she said with just a little too much relish. So are the ways of us homunculi. We have been living underground for some time and wish to return to the surface and once again breath the air and let the sun drop down on our faces like blankets. But alas it is only a pipe (bomb). THE END|
PART TWO: THE
|There are “dialectic numerical digestion agents” within the functioning hierarchy along certain points above a distopian aleph, of a marginal prostheticism; namely the pantropic ether, the P.E. Now ether can be ingested in a manner of ways, but the most prominent of all is the ether supplement, called the disrationalist intoxicative, D.I., for those who aren’t down with current lingo of our current four-dimensionality. It is consumed via transpacific osmosis; a real group effort, a true collaboration on the part of several highly skilled individuals who collectively call themselves: M.O.O.F.... M.O.O.F., being an arcanum/arcanomium/anarcronym for something, anything. There was a legendary internet monster named "Moof", who was infamous years ago for disconnecting cyber-travelers from their selected sites; this was known as being "moofed". Retain pre-consistency. These legends really don’t hold much water though they do know where the bananas are. THE END|
||PART FOUR AND FIVE: THE FIRST EVIDENCES OF PROVINCIAL LIFE ON THE SUBATOMIC LEVEL VIA QUANTUM TELEKINESIS|
|No matter how micro-biotic and benign they apeiron, these little fuckers are the life blood of a great many subatomic plots on the domestic throne of the first inter-spatial event horizon summit, ala the worm hole to your right; that’s my left to you. When Gargantua had originally decided to meditate on what would make the greatest arse-wipe of all time he used a swan in a way that would make Leda blush. “I say is there anybody done there? I say is there a living soul among any of you?” So said Mr. Hide, ripe with the olive juices dripping off his forehead like so much sweat does on a hot summer day in Gondwanaland. (See part 2)|
PART SEVEN, EIGHT, NINE AND ELEVEN: DELIVERY OF A PIZZA IN THE FORM OF A DOVE TO MR. AND MRS. HIDE ON THEIR WEDDING NIGHT, EVEN
|High above the earth in what appears to be a chocolate covered woman is something called an ‘Eros Matrix’, now me and the boys caught a portion of it, when that meteor hit it, and took it down to the lab for colonization. We poked and prodded the successive layers of dust that had accumulated under its translucent epidermis. The results turned up inconclusive. It was like fucking a toothbrush with a particle accelerator. THE END Then, there was a small, faint, rather monotonous knock on the door. Mrs. Hide jumped out of bed immediately and ran to the door; knocking the antique clock off of the nightstand in the process. It was a stupid looking clock any ways. So fuck it, right? 1) Time equals baby love or T = BABY LOVE. It was ten o’clock. (You could smell that pizza from a mile away, everyone in a one-mile vicinity came to their motel door to inquire about what kind of pizza it was.) The time now is 7:15 P.M. It took a solid hour for Mrs. Hide to tell all of them that there was only enough pizza for (her + her) = (her) husband; who was in the shower washing himself, and someone just like himself, like a rosebush, auto-pruning itself/himself, utter thing-ness. For thirty-five minutes of the hour that she spent. (On and on.) (Das ding an sich.) And then came the good part. THE END It was apparent that something "fowl was a foot" when Mr. Hide burped and a dove flew out of his mouth at top speed and right into the window, as is any bird’s custom when visiting humans, killing itself in one fatal swoop. They had sex two more times and then fell asleep in each other’s arms, guilt fre|
PART EIGHT: THE NON-LOCAL AFFECTS OF USING ONE’S SHITTER
|There is a long distance that keeps all butterflies from any sort of Gael force winds and close range de-rationalization systems used especially in the in (and out) breeding of in (and out) animate objects ‘du chode. That is there isn’t much of an un-literal connection, it just goes to show all the time. (na na na) But that isn’t much of a thought to anyone in the situation, which just unfolded before the very large and obsidian eyes of death that-that particular particle just did. Before long, and with an amazing amount of equanimity he was able to exacerbate the particular situation even farther, which he did. And it wasn’t at a small cost to the non-locals. They would be swimming in those flood waters for months to come trying to do their daily chores with five to six feet of water at every turn. Just imagine what the costs would be to non-residents in a non-local universe! There would be… THE END There was always some book right next to the toilet bowl that seemed to keep everything in order there. Funny thing was he couldn’t ever remember what book it was that he had there and every time he went and picked up the book it seemed like it was a new one. (It probably was, but who is to say.) So one day he decided to host/hostess a little experiment. He went into the bathroom and picked up the book and gave it a good look over. It was a black book with gold lettering and one of those little tassels that kids have on their graduation caps. He remembered his childhood and how he didn’t have one of those tassels on his cap. In fact, he never had a cap. He was (1)illiterate to the point(2) of not being able to(3) read sufficiently other than to(4) spell his name. He felt more invertebrated by the nanosecond. He wept into his hairy palms.(5) He wondered what the book was called, he named off the letters (he picked up letters as a child and he could spell H-I-S N-A-M-E): “M-O-O-F,” he said, each letter leaving his lips like tobacco spit, “the fuck is that?” THE END(6)|
|PART THREE AND TWENTY-NINE: THE RELIGIOUS IMPLICATIONS OF HAVING “AEMEATH” TATTOOED ACROSS YOUR FOREHEAD|
Now, before there was enough oxygen in the lower rungs of the Earth’s atmosphere for humans, and other various lower life forms, like giraffes or wiener dogs, or their cryptozoological hybrid, the wieneraffe*, there was dirt. Dirt may not have always been here, but it is definitely going to be there for you when you die. And dirt is just a fancy word for “clay”. “Clay”, used by humans, for eons, to make various useful things like some of man’s earliest forms of slaves: golems. Golems, as you know, are perfect for all those things that nobody wants to do. They do them with intolerable equanimity and a level of happy-go-luckiness that makes my skin curdle. Even things like self-applying make up to their eyeballs to test for safety is done by golems with the most deplorable of cheery smiles on their smarmy, little, “clay” and “DNA” string faces. THE END Perpetual multiplicity (or inexact consistency): A young girl, perhaps a hermaphrodite. THE END Actually, it was about five o’clock when I first noticed that it was raining when I thought to myself, “Hey, I’ll just go out for a little walk in the rain. I can sing those little songs I’ve been making up, about that cute guy I see in school, to myself so nobody will hear me.” So, I was just walking out near the stream and singing, and doing this little dance that involves this sort of frog hop side-step thing, when there, right in front of me was this tall shadow. Now, I don’t mean tall like human tall, I mean tall, like skyscrapers. It was just standing there, shadowing, or whatever it is that they do. So, I started throwing little pebbles at it. Nothing happened, so I figured I would try bigger stones and nothing happened. So that’s when I started throwing the really big rocks at it. Eventually, I couldn’t pick up the rocks I wanted to throw at the shadow; so I just threw myself at it, and I promised myself that I would never do that again. So then I did it again and again and again. When finally that big, tall shadow was just eating out of my hand. The key is that you can’t let it know you are scared of it. You gotta show those little sumbitches who is boss, and I don’t mean them, if you know what I mêmê. (7)
PART SIX: CONCERNING THE SUPERSTRINGS UNDERNEATH THE CLOAK OF MR. HIDE, AND MRS. HIDE ON THEIR WEDDING NIGHT, UNEVEN
The reconstitution of imaginary (hidden, in cryptozoological terms) things, including things that never even existed can be drawn up and reconstituted in any amount of completedness or disfinishedness, thereof. There is a popular meme floating around right now that states that anything closely resembling anything can, in all actuality, be nothing and then be re-implicated as something in a nothingness accelerator, if not. Mr. Hide lifted up his skirt. He or she could see his bulging sex-pack spelunking the plank, in the deep shadows, of his underpants. His udder was the color of excited garlic and it smelled of “love gasoline” in the sunlight. Quark file patter on the hostess subject #19.000000000000000000000000000000015634875634321: A proclivity to rectal hair/hare and…other such remedial devices used in foreplay. THE END
PART THREE: ON WHY THE GUY WAS NUTS, SO I ATE HIM
THE END (3) THE END (3) THE END (3)
PART THREE: THE ALEMBIX ARCANUM ARCANORUM, PART TWO(8)
THE END My mother told me once never to trust anything that laid eggs, and that included anything that didn’t lay eggs. Cannibalism runs very rampant in these parts come wintertime. And for a small fee I can make sure that your body will not become part of someone else’. I myself have only eaten the flesh of other humans when it was absolutely necessary, and it has helped me out of many a jam. ($) A Special Announcement: As everyone is very well aware, golems and homunculai, though pleasant to lick when thirsty, are not suitable to eat, being neither vegetable nor protein. There have been several recent reports of children eating loose golems and homunculai. Please try to keep them locked up in their closets. This is the last time I want to talk about this. “Sure, sex and cannibalism can go hand in hand. Though it’s usually the other way around.” (Tongue in cheek.) (Sex in hand.)(9)
PART THREE: THE PHYSIOLOGICAL DELICACY
“It is imperative to remember, when working within the confines of tesseracts (nature morte), that you should never put your hands out of a moving vehicle. You may not get it back for another twenty years or so.” Those were the last words my father said to me before he finally checked out of this aluminum foil. I never quite realized what they meant, until recently. They mean that everything has a price value attached to it (in this case, $27.13), and that our jobs as salesmen is to make sure that the customers don’t realize the eternal implications of what it is they are buying from us. It means that we are some of the good guys and that it doesn’t matter what happens to this person or that person along the way. It means that everything in life is a semantic judgment on our parts, and that every one of those motherfuckers deserved it. I mean they were asking for it. Dressing up like women and all; acting so swish, it would make snails horny. (Suicide by auto-homunculization.) A deliberate exuberance, sometimes dove like, but never “dovely”. Never was there a prizefighter like him. He was a machine. What you want to look for when butchering the brain is a tiny little thing called the pituitary gland. Don’t eat that. That’s the little devil in the brain. Might as well wash it down with a tall, cool glass of mercury; call it even, meme. “It’s the reason that having sex in automobiles is so fun though. It’s like you really are in a ‘spaceship’ and that the two of you need to ‘get it on, a a very serious and meaningful way, because it is up to you to replenish the Earth. The two of you are the only ones left. All future humans will be our little whiskers and kicks. And it feels that way every time I make love and then I am pregnant again (Freudian night slips)…I mean she’s pregnant (not pungent) again; and there you have it.” “I only decipher (Laurasian Ur languages) and then...only more so.” (Tap dancing is quiet now.) “Oh…” “But, please continue, Mr. Hide, going on and on. I find it fascinating and I am about to come.” “Well, I had this one dream where I am at a funeral and there is this lady there (the widow), who I really find quite amusing and I start making out with the body (French kissing, like Lautremount) and I just start…” THE END
PART THREE: A LITTLE BRUNCH MUSIC FOR ONE HUNDRED LOBSTERS
“Bottle of beer on the wall.” “I used to just sit and stare at the lobsters in the big fish tank at grocery stores when I was a child. I would try to name all of them before my mother finished buying the groceries, but I would always lose track of which ones were which. I still, to this day, have never eaten lobster because I know that somehow paddling back up our genetic waters I am going to find where our family tree breaks off with their family tree and there they will be having a nice English style breakfast, better than being boiled alive though.” Anyways, there were enough lobsters in those days to skin a rat. Obscene, really. They are called the cockroaches of the sea. And that is not to be taken lightly; they can easily as kill a man as sleep with their daughters. These things are down right pernicious. I had my first “experience” with one a while back. Went by the name of ‘Frog Lips’. He was tall and handsome, and he always had a few bucks to spare… THE END
PART EIGHT: A RETURN TO THE SCENE OF THE PRIME PENUMBRA, 1938
Hibernation, and pantaphobia. (Dyslexic crytptozoology) (10) I stayed wrapped up in a blanket for three weeks trying to pretend that I was somewhere else. Nothing seemed to work. I played house, but I couldn’t imagine what my kids would look like so I played tea party instead, the whole time I am shivering and trying not to let my face peek out of the blanket. “More tea, Mr. Freeze?” I asked. But there was no reply. I breathed out and the cold air turned my breath into a butterfly. I shivered and made a little moan. I looked out over the mountains, my new home. “I will learn to be part of these mountains and I will take on the way of the non-locals and become their king,”(11) I thought to myself. Thank you. “I will haunt this mountain side. I will eat the children of all who dare to conquer this peak.” “I have always wanted to eat children anyways.”
PART THREE: A REFERENCE TO DETERMINISTIC REALITIES
There are many-worlds of which we humans take part in; there is an infinite number any way you look. Up, down, left, right. These transfinite, ironic postulates don’t apply to our universe. We live in a beer bottle. We are (not) the reason for dis-reason in an anything goes situation (you are). Giving enough respects to Pre-Cambrian ecolytes and faber tooth tigers, we are the immortal constructs of spiritual Lilliputianism. That is, we are Zarathustra’s monocles. (Dip that in your tea and eat it.) With time the world will bow to its knees. We will murder the universe fetal alcohol style *. And there was super-luminous light. With the hour near approaching for a tender morsel to be fetched from the kitchen, our Mrs. Hide was packing her bags and heading out the door to the taxicab that just pulled up. And so was the nig(12)ht… THE END And with that the rain began (2) fall. And it rained for forty (40) days; which coincidentally is as long as it takes to house the homunculus in their bottle, in the horse dung before feeding them on the Arcanum of human blood for forty (40) weeks. His name was Adam, part homunculus, part the homunculus I love.
PART TWENTY-TWO: HOW MANY PHOTONS DOES IT TAKE TO “TURN ON” A LIGHT BULB?
It was particularly sunny that long, lost winter’s day. I remembered that on account of this string I tied around Adam’s finger some forty years ago. His finger just fell off. I don’t know what it is about his hands that I always thought was so appealing, but they just always had that thing to them-you know? Adam was trying to fuck a light socket, that’s how he lost the finger. Got to be careful these days with all those new fangled gadgetries and whatnots. I was just watching.
PART TWENTY-THREE: A MANUAL APHRODISIAC FOR CUCUMBERS
In an argument over the possibilities of actual hybridization work done manually between humans and vegetables I set out to forever change the face of cryptozoology. Hypothesis: It is possible to impregnate a cucumber with human sperm and to carry that “vegetablean fetis” to term naturally, or without the use of illeatoric "gene machines", in the actual conception process. (Day one: I bought today a package of cucumber seeds and planted them in hydroponics.) THE END Today, the cucumbers are large enough to begin mating with. I picked the second to largest cucumber in the greenhouse and began to caress its outer portions. THE END Since that day I have mated with a cucumber several times a day to no avail. There is a certain enthrallment in the process of making love to a cucumber, but not much in the way of an aftermath (aemeath). Occasionally I would feel like there was something wrong with me, or the way I was doing it. I knew that they knew I loved them, but I wanted them to “feel” it too. I wanted my love to manifest itself in the form of a child. Romance was an issue, but it is surprising how little time there is for the wining and dining vegetables. I began over-flattering the cucumbers, to the point of conspicuous lies. Saying things like, “I love the greenness of your skin, it is more than the sun, the moon and the stars to me.” (See section 78.00005) Another problem was that one cucumber after another died, of natural causes, in time that is too quick for regular human conception and delivery. It is quite a blow to your nervous system, losing sexual partners like that. So, I constructed this large walk-in freezer/love nest/ happy home area where my cucumbers could stay crisp and fresh for me. I became conspicuous in seeing more than one of them at a time. When I went walking down the street people began treating me like a person worthy of owning a harem, even though I know that they were jealous of my successes with the vegetable kingdom. There began to develop large secret societies whose common objectives focused around their jealousies of me. It was actually quite flattering. “Let them rot!” I said, “Let them rot!” After a while I found that I was able to please more than one of my precious cucumbers at a time. That’s when I began my serious study of the Arcana Sutra. To say I “ was the greatest lover that vegetables have ever known, ” would be an understatement of gargantuan proportions. The sounds emitted from the pores of the cucumbers’ bodies when they are moved to orgasm are the most wonderful sounds I had ever heard, like rainbows frolicking hot shit out of their proverbial arses. I began to experiment with the taboos of vegetable society, exploring the depths of their sexuality, trying to learn the secret aphrodisiac that would unlock the secret chastity of their pre-conscious ovaries; in hopes of finally impregnating a cucumber with my own human breed-spunk. Vegetables are sadists of the highest caliber. I began to give them love marks on their ripe young bodies as I made love to them. Soon, I was taking small bites out of them as they were climaxing. One thing led to another and the next thing you know I am eating whole cucumbers in front of other cucumbers to drive their pre-conscious veggie-libidos wild. Then, a radiant and glorious success, one of the cucumbers began to show. THE END Now, I had already placed my own pre-sperm cells in the egg shells I personally harvested from willing cucumbers, to see how long the offspring needed to gestate for, and to check for the stability of such creatures in our non-local environment. I had learned early on that cucumbers, when pregnant, are not the most pleasant of organisms to be around. They are infinitely cranky and always complaining, because they grow about thirty extra pounds; mostly from skin tissue that builds up around they walls of their stems where pre-conscious semi-vaginal organs begin to take form. This really wasn't the aphrodisiac that I had been looking for. I am still uncertain as to whether it was even an aphrodisiac at all for them (the cucumbers). It was apotropaic intercourse, to say the least.
PART TWENTY-FOUR: HOW VEGETABLEAN PREGNANCY CAUSES THE FIRST IN A SERIES OF NATURAL ABOMINATIONS, NAMELY THAT OF “PICKLED CANNIBALISM”
She was only pregnant for a few hours before she started craving pickles. Reluctantly, I went out to the store and bought her some.
PART TWENTY-FIVE: THE BIRTH OF A HERMAPHRODITIC CUCUMBER/HUMAN HYBRID, WHO WAS MY FIRST-BORN SON/DAUGHTER
In two weeks time the cucumber delivered a beautiful, three ounce hermaphroditic cucumber/human hybrid, who was my first born son/daughter. I quickly circumcised the male portions of my child's anatomy and tattooed "AEMEATH" across its forehead. I named him/her Adamada, after the ancient story of the first hermaphrodite in history. There was a certain “zing” to that old tale that I felt may expound on my child's life non-locally, here in ??Elsewhere??. Adamada, as I am sure you are well aware is a palindrome. So, another way of pronouncing it would be adamadA, or even adAmada, or even still adamAda. The next day I put Adamada into an illeatoric "gene machine" and had his/her quarks identified. (As follows:) Transfinite quark code # 1.00000001. This was very interesting to see appear. Though it is an abbreviation for a longer quark code that can theoretically go on ad infinitum, it was a palindromatic numeration. Adamada, also a palindromatic cryptozoological hybrid was also, in the context of transfinite quark identification, a palindrome.
PART NINETEEN: WHAT THE PRE-CONSCIOUS ENTAILS AND WHY IT IS USUALLY ILLEGIBLE OR HOW TO NOT GET FOOLED BY THE DEATH OF RATIONAL UNICORNS
Cryptozoology, which is the study of imaginary animals, should really be called the study of pre-conscious animals. Animals manifest themselves in a variety of ways. Some prefer to remain hidden from a homocentric view of the world. Others, though fond of homocentrism, are too far removed from consciousness to manifest themselves in a timely or decipherable manner. The good thing about the cryptozoological implications of a branch of quantum mechanics (called the many-worlds hypothesis) is that the construction of pre-conscious animals (including humans) is possible. It is only a matter of determining the appropriate quark patterns that would coincide with the existence of such a thing. THE END Or on the other end of the scale there is a whole world open for the possibilities of hedonism as a language of ecto-plasmic orgasms and endo-plasmic noirgasms.*
PART TWENTY: THE NATURAL EVOLUTION OF PLASTIC NOIRGASMS
Noirgasmophilia, in the world of the non-local or the living pre-conscious is a subject of much controversy. If something never existed and is now in the process of copulating with other non-local or non-existent entities, what are the calculable manifestations of their emotions and/or their general feelings on the subject? They started in the early part of the century with the explorations of Mr. Aemeath Hide. Mr. Aemeath Hide was an arcanist, that is, he possessed the secret knowledge of clay, especially that of the secrets associated with the irrational disposition of porcelain, accounting for its extremely high endorphin/sugar content. Porcelain is the non-local manifestation of noirgasmophilia. By boiling his own noirgasm fluids in alembics he had constructed from porcelain he was able to distill the pantropic ether known as the disrationalist intoxicative. Having an extremely large proclivity towards addiction to aleatoric substances, Mr. Hide began devouring large portions of the pantropic ether in secret. When his supply ran out he would quickly distill a small portion of straight arcanohol from a special bottle he kept buried under ten pounds of horse shit. THE END Having thusly reversed the alphabet he had revised from a formula found in an old text...(14) Those spagyric substances came in handy when he was working on the formula to roil a noirgasm out of a dead body. He was taking a fresh corpse from a livery that was then running perpendicular to the Milky Way. It was a teenage boy, maybe sixteen years old. There is a point in cryomation* (cryogenic + cremation) where the body begins to start speaking and saying things that don't seem to make much sense but in actuality can be seen as “illogical novelties” *. (Or snippets of the noirgasmic.) Mr. Hide was roiling this particular body, and was almost at the appropriate stage to record the body in a state of perpetual noirgasm. This recording became the prototype for the era of plastic noirgasms, being neither imaginary (pre-conscious) nor able to be manifested through any physical conduits. A new wave impetus for plastic noirgasms everywhere, meme.
PART TWENTY-ONE: A TRIUMPHANT RETURN TO CRYOGENIC SPORTS
At the speed of language, a body can sustain a perpetual state of plastic noirgasm. Given that the arcanum of super-fluids that are preserving it (the body) are 1) either one or the other of helium, nitrogen, oxygen, or neon; 2) none of the above of castrated gelatin, post-libidinous coagulant or distilled crypto-salvia divinorium. That is to say the least, but not the last. With a hyperbolic act of goodwill, on return to the cryogenic coliseum, Adamada was hoisted up on the backs of several, small homunculai and carried for the duration of their small and insignificant lives. (Along the way.) This was a statement about the, to make a statement about the, in order to better elucidate, that is, to decipher it in a more intimate and orderly fashion; to tie together with both hands for the sake of a molecular stimulation. As an out-cropping of the original intention in the design of such large and magnificent, or rather, a rather tempered and well-stated device used in, and not just used for the original purposes. I.E., the connections to the midsections of the exterior of the homunculus, with nest, or the obnoxious elaboration’s on the neck of the witness, used in housing the genealogy of the hybrids. They remained safe in the safe. (With eyes twitching at night to see the stars.) A waterfall, heard from miles away, takes the place of a constant and annoying ring in only one ear. (For the unlawful carnal knowledge of the noirgasmic.) It stains not only the carpet and the couch, but the mind and the underwear, not unlike any other condiments, meme. It is a selfish gene game we play, and the one with the most diasporic progeny wins, post-circadianity. Some just break, even. Some stay frozen forever in the love juices of quantum physics: the super-fluids. They are marinating for their big day, wherein they are there again, non-utero, ex-temporal, hedonism let loose.
PART TWENTY-TWO: SPAGYRICISM AND THE DEATH OF MADAMADAM
With the dying of the great Adamada there came to be another great sport to commemorate a life lived so… All *, in this book are extracts from personal letters received by the author from the Meme-Rider, Formerly Known as Sir Froon, the Almighty of Eugene, Oregon and are used via his specific permission; all rights are preserved in an arcanum of spagyric substances.