The Long March to Ideological Purity in Pork

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic


The Unpaid Internet Content Provider, following the stellar presentation of his esteemed colleague Dr. Thomas Wu, strode to the jiggly podium, and adjusted the cheap and inferior microphone made in China before continuing.


He said, "Testing, one, two, three, this is only a test."


The jiggling of the podium was caused by one cheap leg turning out shorter than the other during crappy mass production. Made in Indonesia, it was hard to blame China for that. It appeared to be a visible symptom of a chronic asymmetrical condition with which the Unpaid Internet Content Provider was painfully familiar. His legs were no better. Even if that Indonesian crap turned out to be from the Philippines. Though there was more wrong going on in the auditorium than that.


He paused prior to his ad hoc remarks to thoughtlessly think out loud, "What is that smell? I know it can't be me. I checked. It smells like pig shit."


It wasn't him. It was worse. It was worse even than the distortion from the cheap microphone. Many members of the audience, having punctually arrived to get cushy seats, had already endured a prolonged yammering by soulless agents of soulless numbers disguised as English words in the employ of nefarious ends. And now this. Yes, they were becoming fidgety. Others were getting cranky and combative. It was a purely natural and organic reaction. There was no question about it. It did smell like pig shit. Even as the smaller question begged the larger question. Once thoughtlessness has escaped into the ether, and can never be recaptured by creeping crawling creatures far below, where does it go and what is to be done?


Many of the fidgeters had only begun to stir from listlessness during the uplifting remarks of Dr. Wu. Perhaps the many constituted a majority. The listlessness was soullessly induced by the computer generated verbiage eviscerating the wrong and incorrect thinking of the running dog Yankee imperialists and their lackeys programmed in North Korea by one wing of the secret international cabal attempting to suck hard from the vital aquifer of Santa Cruz County and destroy a free California. In the first stage of this evil scheme they intended to elevate methane production by squealing porkers caged in leaky dumpsters to eternally rise and stink when buried underground in the Pajaro Valley. Stinky bribes were passed in fanatical prayer books and ragged Playboys in plain paper wrappers to facilitate the evil. The bribes smelled not only shitty, but fishy. Very clever, these funny looking words in translation. That was due to the correct ideology of Project Win Din Din devised by Comrade Kim Dung Dung that gonna fuck these imperialists lackeys up the fucking wazoo, but good. Just wait.


And yet, as high tide rolled in like bundle of hammers and nails, a brawny subject, recovering from his inflicted torpor to stretch out and spout, perhaps presciently, more likely not, into the ring tossed, "Fuck that pig shit."


In the course of biological events, of course, where there is no beginning and no end, as there was, is, and will be, the delivery of more scatological comments was to be expected. Handy hammers and nails are useful in the constructs needed to build strong bones and hard bodies.


"Ya gotta dig it while it's happening."


Before the proceedings veered ever more sharply into the metaphorical path of an oncoming diesel train, and in a stern, unfamiliar voice that could only be his, The Unpaid Internet Content Provider suggested, ineptly,"Okay, enough fart jokes. Now I regret I said anything. Let's try to behave like the grownups here."


Too late. Men with sharpened elbows who are nudged and perhaps shoved from an edge will plunge from ethereal heights to shallow depths on cue like the old time diving horse at Steel Pier in Atlantic City, and sink into the muck where men can then rise again as mere men and men only.


A disembodied voice, directly from his sincere heart, testified, "Eww."


Delivery of the numbing numbers causing the combustive reaction from the common decent folk on the cooler side of the Santa Cruz Mountains came from a late early model legal alien hybrid identity, ginger snappy Craig, a slack mouthpiece extolling the epistemological ideals of vast networks of arid Silicon vals encroaching with big footprints and a satchel of refried rules on perhaps your formerly friendly town next: get away with it while you can before you get stopped and can't.


Craig railed against any encroachment on his guaranteed right to apply abundant poisons as directed by the trusted manufacturer Monsanto to control the disorderly plants and animals underfoot. His was serious business. It's darn hard to keep the lines of a toxic lawn straight on crumbling earth that refuses to stay flat. He was fittingly attired in a taut acetate and polyester blended suit in a modern checkerboard design that did not burn, but melted. He spoke at arms length from the suspicious microphone. As a cabalist, who knew better how to elude encroaching contact? His entitlements were guaranteed. His guarantees don't end. His human hide was getting highly cracked and chafed.


"This socialist conspiracy likely hatched in Moscow must be ruthlessly squelched."


He had been self-selected to speak as the representative of the lordly faction of techno-yuppie dweebs dutifully found ogling fixtures and displays at Home Depot each Saturday morning. Voluntary attendance was mandatory to a lordly man. Every benighted man owned his own land to poison as only an obsessive-compulsive man knew how. Every man sat in the twice weekly saddle of a riding mower from John Deere and knew the placid feeling of a fake emotion nearly a match for generic love.


As history teaches, it is not difficult in the one multiverse with no beginning and no end to incite bent and gnarled surfers who have been tossed and chopped like pickled salads on the reefs of Monterey Bay prior to additional slicing, dicing, peeling, and grinding. One of many bald heads covered by a faded SF Giant cap, a defiant Santa Cruzan from the Seabright neighborhood on the Eastside, warded off the vaporous pall of putrescence to rise and tirelessly repeat, repeat, repeat, "Shoot it out your poot, Val."


"What you don't dare do is dare say that to me, not ever."


"Dare to struggle, dare to win," a Westsider added in a touching display of unity. No oily fake and commercial Surf City, this.


"You don't, you just don't, not what can't be, not to me."


Next, copacetic hand signs were being flashed with reckless abandon. Who knew who was reading what message from whom? Genders and identities were freely exchanged. Before long there was rhythmic swinging of hips. What next after that, a concerned citizen might muse, Pleasure Point surfers welcome at The Lane?


"Stick it in your laptop, Val, and turn it to deep sleep"


"A sleep with the fishes."


"A Thanksgiving feast for the crabs."


Bravely, before he sat to an orchestrated chorus of alto and bass boos, Craig on his superficial human side vowed to wreak his lordly revenge. What you don't do, he stewed, is you don't dare believe entitled techno-yuppie dweebs don't know how to fight rough. Now, I've been patient long enough. You've been warned. This is final. He trusted the robot side of his gaunt personality to lift the heavy thinking. In that, he was not alone. He had other admirable attributes and resources to hoard as well. Carpe diem. Cogito ergo sum. Beware of the sleeping ocelot.


Furthermore, he not only expected obedience he demanded it.


With finality, he hissed, "And I don't want to receive any e-mails with sassy back talk, either."


The serene and soulful Dr. Wu countered the mayhem with advanced logic in general and specific propositions, featuring premises, deductions, and remarkable conclusions all rolled like colorful tootsie pops minus the sticks in a frosted glass bowl, none strictly medical, but overlapping with economics, oxygen rates, entitlements, personality disorders, underwater bonds, metaphysics, factionalism, modern ennui, modern pain management, and Jiangxi University of Traditional Chinese medicine, all in support of the utility of the greatest good for the greatest number. Sure, the bit about Jiangxi was stretching it. He was improvising. He had to do it. Big was late. That was much unlike Big.


Only Big, because he is what he is, was, and will be could conclude the testimony on behalf of the extended indigenous community advancing the indigenous right to propagate the natural selection of primo weed and edibles in California. .


At the end of his rip chord, Thom tugged and concluded with a quote from Albert Einstein that never failed to tingle to his tippy toes.


“Time does not exist – we invented it. Time is what the clock says. The distinction between the past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion.”


No surprise there, of course. Not only has now never been but won't be again. What happens when you try to get it while you can, and you can't, because it's gone, gone, gone?


Continuing in the spirit of scripted improv, the Unpaid Internet Content Provider offered, "Here's a question to mull in silent meditation while we strive to regain our balance and serenity. What if what we call reality is only fodder for a colorful comedy enjoyed in vast sectors of the inhabited multiverse by advanced organisms as silly fluff? Earth is, after all, very widely appreciated for its many colors."


"Good question."


"Too hard to handle."


"Hot too."


"Who wants to know so bad?"


"How do we regain what's never been attained?"


"Who can say anything for sure?"


It worked. Not exactly peace, love, and understanding but close enough. Gingery Craig began to freckle and peel from the warmth. Who knows what for sure to say? How much space remains for the pork stuffing after the buying spree fills the gills? Does denial of what plainly appears in front of your eyes come before or after the lying?


"As we all know," The Unpaid Internet Content Provider submitted into the fragile lull, "lies developed by machines and robots compensating for low levels of testosterone aim to undermine and erode devolving human will and lead to unconditional surrender of the meek, weak, and feeble of mind. Stretchy yoga pants for everyone. One size fits all. XXL, black"


No cabal, of course, consists of a single evil. Evil sucks and fucks to multiply not so differently than smelly porkers. Meetings of disordered personalities far out in the nether regions of an unremarkable universe are common ground for cabalists. Do porkers stand tall ever after without cheating? No fucking way. Who knows if piglets who suck become obsessive-compulsives like humans who suck and require aberrant and poisonous outlets for menace and threats? We do know that not even wild boars with tusks strap on guns. Not even in Texas.


Many tubs of anointed goop required to hold the warped limbs of the cabal in place came from selective members of the underground Roly-Holy-Poly Church of Faith and Devotion in Immersion. Pork oil was blessed for the hollowed congregation by the barrel for dunking. Elder roly-holy-poly rollers, tested for flaccidity in battle, played a hard game. Rules were stiff and rulers stayed stiffer by the inch. Only oiled roly-holy-poly rollers had the adhesives attached to thin skin to suck so hard and and have it stick. They required lots of water rights to perform such messy rites. Comely young lugs played truth or dare in rituals with frolicking salamanders not only naked but slithering. Their pork lube was pure pristine virgin. Salamanders lapped it up from salty nipples. Volunteers would scoop excess goop for reuse. A renewable scoop was good for dozens of uses. It became by God lighter than air the next time around.


It takes practice, practice, practice to be reborn, saved, suck, gain, and profit so often. Guns, too. Religious pork handlers are able to raise eight pigs per annum for a dime a dozen that can't be beat. All the land and water grabbed from the peaceful tribes of the Ohlone turned out pretty sweet. A great deal of water is required to produce slop. Spoiled pigs need lots of blood along with their water to be spilled and produce methane. Porkers don't care how the water gets grabbed or where it comes from. Slant drilling is very popular among hereditary porkers. If that takes heathen Koreans to assist, then it must be Gods will. Doubters of sacred doctrine are not permitted to dwell like maggots on rotten meat and reproduce. Higher profits lift spiritual values in the model modern sty. Doubters, as beasts of the devil, don't know but are begging for elimination. Devil worshipers who grow marijuana must be first to go. Cut the backbone and the beast topples like wheat. The water nourishing the devils weed on their properties righteously belongs to worshipful salamanders. Why else would a pointed finger be shaped by God to curl up so nice and cozy and fit so snugly next to a trigger?


But salamanders are amphibians, not reptiles like snakes, you might interject. The short answer to that is, don't. Don't ask, don't tell, don't dare let me hear any of that socialist shit pouring out through those Internet tubes. That's right, you better watch your back. Guns make holes in backs that are turned. Who do you think you are, anyway, some know-it-all scientific egghead like Elon Musk? He swears by the lordly standards of Texas executives that methane is no big deal.


The one popular roly-holy-poly book on tape the congregation absorbed while soaking in their virgin oil explained everything. That was enough. Reading too much was too hard. Weak sissy censors allowed too many big and bad words. Pictures contained too many flashes and too much light. Books with solid spines were too heavy. Above all, the purists believed with heavenly faith in big guns that go boom in the night. Instructions, including detailed schematics, though translated by illiterates from a dead language, were clear enough. Only big booming guns were created to fill in the holes that came from the unholy. It had been an unjust and lamentable sin when slaves were no longer drafted to fight for the masters on the righteous big booming side. In the same way the hip bone is connected to the thigh bone, salamander handlers are connected to slave holders who are connected to the Indian Wars and the Trail of Tears that are connected to the Civil Wars that are connected to smelly porkers thick with slabs of fatback and secret cabals with fetishes of greed and evil on the real flat earth. But remember, it's supposed to stay a top secret. Keep it under your flashy red MAGA hat.


"You say what?"


"I say boo."


Reaffirming his posture and position, and beginning to dig it while it was happening, The Unpaid Internet Content Provider started moving, grooving, doing his thing. He did not hesitate to culturally appropriate bits of qi gong, tai chi, reggae, rhythm and blues. The waning moon was occupied getting too thin to judge political correctness. He fixed his stare on the auric squiggles of gelatin emanating from cohabitant members of the Santa Cruz County Board of Supervisors. They represented hard working public dollars making good plain sense for private coffers. Time will always exist to make deals out of sight on that back road. He knew each of them not as salamanders or snakes, but as spineless invertebrates, like worms, and they knew him as nothing but trouble.


Rousing the marrow from his bones, he addressed the guilty parties, "As we know, if not for the benefits accrued from growing and taxing weed, you'd all be sweating in strait jackets and drip dry plastic suits, lined elbow to elbow in cramped offices, and spinning on lopsided stools, fretting about vanishing tax bases and market share. Oil from crude Bakersfield would still be sticking it to you and yours. There would be no rock and roll, no rubber flip flops. Word processing would be cutting edge. Your kids would have another endless war to be fighting. Personally, though a term of redundancy, I haven't worn a suit since Cro-Magnon days, 9/11/2001. You might not remember the date so long ago and far away. When I was sufficiently cowed to wear a suit it was made of 100% natural fabrics that breathe, wool, linen, silk. Admittedly, the wrinkly linen went too far. The facts as facts remain however, that I never enjoyed a good time while entangled in a suit. Sure, you're the same guys under the thin skin, and no better than ever, but you have a choice to make. Look at your sorry selves on bended knees and weep."


He was wearing a clean but fading black t-shirt with racy letters spelling Full Speed. Before long the blackness would join the great procession of pastels into passe. The local silk-screener who designed it was no longer able to pay the exorbitant rent on a shitty warehouse and had gone out of business. The leaky roof caused too much of his inventory to bleed. The canneries that employed thousands had skipped town for cheaper plowed fields. Green Giant was gone hunting for bear in dried up brown pastures. Plenty of shitty jobs were available at Burger King, though. One of the stooges glaring at him had cut the ribbon at the gala grand opening.


He was about to introduce the youth soccer teams of the Pajaro Valley, beneficiaries of new playing fields donated by local weed industry largesse, one by one if Big didn't show soon, when he sensed a wave of heat but no illumination arising from behind. He heard the slashing metal bass and steel guitar of a cauldron beginning to bubble and pop. He knew the beat. He knew how to dance to it. The next move with his hips was his. The whole lot of shaking going on rocked where it used to roll. Nothing new there. He performed an unpardonable breach of etiquette with a pirouette away from the audience to confront the merger of a nexus between a twisted grin and smirk on a smiley face not so dissimilar from his own.


Inquisitive, but not asking, he demanded, "What."


A single spawn from his youthful loins, an amped yang twin remarked, "Dude...Chill."


"You are the driver. Where's Big?"


"Big told me to go ahead."


"And what about what I told you?"


"Big's the boss."


"What are you trying to do, suck up to the boss?"


"Why not? He's a great boss."


"You never listened to me like that."


"You were never my boss."


As we all know, when beams of high energy atoms collide with the surface of a head fucking head on there are likely to be serious chemical reactions, severe physical realignments, and sharp and pointed sonic reverberations. These will occur not only in that now fucked and fucking head, but way the fuck beyond. Such phenomena will also be accompanied by a beat to a new and different drum that won't ever fucking quit. It takes two for a one-two punch to land. That's why contradictions are such a major building block of the multiverse. That's why the heat keeps rising in a muddled misaligned planet. That's why the yang twin maintained that look on his face. That's when the back door finally opened wide enough for Big.


Big was flanked by the yin twin on his equilateral side. They paused in tandem for effect. Steam blasted from the cauldron as it continued to bubble. Attentions spans in the auditorium were stretched like molten plastic. Effects were affected. The yang twin had a cap prepared for blasting off. The look on his face remained solid. The bubbling part sounded a lot like he was laughing his ass off.


He deigned to confide a clue to his bedazzled dad, "This is not the beginning and this is not the end."



Submitted: November 02, 2021

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