Guillotine Literature

From my off scene into yours...

I published a brief fictitious blasphemy in 2020, Monsieur Tourette Awakens in Mid-tic: A Retaliatory Fiction. It’s very controversial, and you will probably think I’m crazy. However a Jeff Bezos subsidiary published it, so it was sane enough for TV. Like when actors get naked and pretend to have oral sex in our living rooms.

I wrote it because nobody is writing about the insanity of perpetuating doom that need not be real or imagined. It is painful for me to read. One morning in autumn 2019 I opened the door and the words blew through me and out a 1953 Smith-Corona. I was typing faster than Jack Kerouac fingers macro-dosed on copious milligrams of benzedrine. In a couple days I had a little book of fiction to publish to a rational and dispassionate society that tucks its children in with Santa Claus dreams, then lays back on the couch to watch movies about killing sprees.

No one will ever read it unless I give it away. Which is why I refuse to do so. Many of you are my friends, and I want to keep it this way. Just know that justice-seeking is alive and well in the 21st century among chicken prophets of the plebeian class.

I ask you not to buy it. I beg of you. The cover is well designed though. I’ll take you there, BUT PLEASE DO NOT OPEN YOUR PURSES! Instead look forward to next week’s inspiration on Friday Freeflow. I’ll be finishing up for good by Midsummer’s Eve.


A photo of me and my oldest daughter, 30 years ago. I have not done enough to stop the annihilation trajectory. However my hair has definitely improved.

A photo of my youngest daughter and her pet rat, 18 years ago. I have not done enough to stop the annihilation trajectory, though we’ve upgraded to living house pets.

A photo of my wife who married me in order that I eradicate all nuclear weaponry on planet earth.

Grandchildren, like most of life in the galaxy, pretending that at any moment in the day, annihilation isn’t at the fingertips of about 100 very bad men. (Men, mind you.)


Oh dammit, okay, an excerpt. But remember, I told you not to buy it! This is one of two soft parts. The rest will get me unfriended here and likely arrested and tortured if I ever land in China, Pakistan, or West Point.

From Monsieur Tourette Awakens in Mid-tic: A Retaliatory Fiction:

The earth needs badly for United States power (economic and fire) to be constricted to the size of a modern day Italy or Zimbabwe. And it needs to happen right away. Human majorities (or minorities) must prevent an accelerated, wretched suffering of earthlings, however many episodes of “round up and execute” it takes. Is this a work of fiction. Was that a question? We cheer on the protagonists in contemporary TV dramas about the French Resistance to Nazi terror and aggression. The West (United States) is still writing the false history as victor three minutes after Hiroshima started running on a nuclear perpetuity of world power, with no challenger in sight for the next hundred thousand years. No challenger, that is, without nuclear Armageddon let loose by the Billy Graham prostate smear pedophiles posing as brave warrior generals with ass sticks and catheter veins. They are trigger-giddy John Wayners wielding little used wieners making dumb sons who shout “Yessir!” and never-loved daughters dreaming of checkered tablecloths, pipe smoke and blueberry pie filling. So today on TV we watch the brave beret French Resistance squads enlist the hapless French farmer, fighting German and French forces of cowardice and the “watch your neighbor burn” crowd. Good for them! Heroes and heroines blowing up bridges, secretly stabbing German officers in alleyways and poorly lit parks of occupation. Great writing! Beautiful cinematography. The director is gonna get an Emmy and a diamond watch. Simultaneously a giant cargo ship docks in Long Beach to unload 3 million rainbow-colored plastic wristbands all the rage in middle schools until at least April for the last sperm whale of the Sargasso Sea to choke on a thousand and float dead.

Where is the U.S. resistance? I don’t mean the pussy hat hashtag resistance. There is already a super majority of them. The Amazon dot com angry gaggle of Des Moines and Brooklyn mothers knitting vagina hats to empower their soon to dress slutty daughters. Not so much unlike the Mississippi Daddy blowing sons of segregationists all pumped up on repressed gun grease fornications with their bloated uncles and tattoo fathers. Nor those namby narcissists along the spectrum of every used and new gender who rather see a thriving Walmart than a just anarchy on a private farmette. After so much pain and suffering inflicted by the greed of the powerful upon a population of Golden Rule advocates, all this steel banana government can instigate in ways of French type resistance to Nazis are assassination attempts made on Presidential life by horny Jody Foster stalking-type psychopaths going nowhere today as nearly two generations ago.

Weak!

A weak and ignorant class of the masses, staying put in their class pigloos. Terrified of neighbors and friends, bowing to the illusion-delusion of power and celebrity because it doesn’t talk back if it never talks to you. If you don’t have to meet its eyes in your eyes, sitting across from you at the table, then you can make it any friend or enemy you want to. Exactly how God happened and stayed too close for too long. Modern people with diarrhea on the toilet asking God for help but absolutely devastated to fart at dinner beside an acquaintance. Amazing control, self and corporate made, not necessarily in that order. Friends and families celebritized to the teeth, knowing their place is a fear state organized by corporate planning and executed by corporate corruption.

“The Land of Ants and Goons,” satirist Jonathan Swift would write long ago from a time when shame still existed. Subject ants who want nothing more than to arrive to work with their favorite cup of coffee. The goons fly overhead in private planes and push button a pelting rain of small fears to overflow the anxiety of never-ending something-to-do ants. Only a supreme work of fiction can resist these goons [slash] actual players in the real world where the majority cannot [slash] will not sense the obvious. And the Resistance will need some killers. Adept killers. Dreamers who want to delve into the study and execution of a successful bridge bombing, CEO lynching, or a good old-fashioned soldier strafing. Great fiction will get these goons to squirm. I propose fictitiously that you sleep on these murderous thoughts each night. You must get used to strengthening your backbone. And sleep and dreams nourish resolve. The important time will come when you feel the power to speak freely and openly about your new code of ethics and its implementation. Time to talk about the dreams you had. Popularize locally our need to annihilate power across systems. No country, no institution, no law, no man holds dominion over another conscience. I think observing a squirrel for an hour will show you this with or without a gun. You have the power to kill it—maybe you do, maybe you don’t, but you’ll readily see now that only human power is evil which needs to expire so the rest of life does not.

I forgot about strengthening the protagonist and plot. Good fiction needs this. Orson is a man. Athena is a woman. The two are married and live in a house on a street in a town. They wake up one cool autumn day with a sky promising sun, and dismantle the bodies and brains of the entire crew working on a nuclear submarine. They do this with just a few finger spoons and twelve tree lizards.

Jesus you fuckers, don’t step foot on an airplane. Chicago doesn’t want another pissant, and the French are three or four generations more mature than you. Someone will roofie your espresso and roll you in the Seine. Stay put. Don’t be like a flighty cloud. Be like an axe, and put yourself lovingly through the skull of a Boeing® worker five salary grades above cafeteria worker. If not Boeing, then find your local supplier to Armageddon, and act.


Now for the randomness of a Great Lake summer breeze… From On Rainy Days the Monk Ryokan Feels Sorry For Himself:

January 20, 2001

Baby Throop any day now. I am so excited, tense, scared, emotional... Jourdan or baby Jane... Which grace awaits?

Today, after writing, my main concern will be consommé. The doctor says Marie can’t have any solid food because I think the doctor wants more than anything to cut Marie open and have a look at her inside out. Doctor’s orders. I believe we should rethink our attitude towards the medical profession. How can it be trusted? Why do we reward it with our trust? Marie is pregnant. She needs energy. The doctor and the doctor’s friends would rather her not have enough energy to push the baby out. Twenty-four hours without food. They hope birth will end up in surgery. They love to hear their team called for over the hospital intercom. I think we trust the doctor because we think his life is not as boring as our own. We trust his encyclopedic knowledge although most of us shy away from encyclopedias most of our lives. Doctor has her eat nine months straight for the baby’s sake. Don’t drink. Don’t smoke. Eat good. The doctor doesn’t know what the last order means, so it’s left up to the father to translate. Fine if the father is an artist, but the other ninety-nine million derelicts have their wives settle for Happy Meals and Stoeffer Macaroni and Cheese Dinners. All of this “good” advice from your doctor, yet the mom and baby are expected to fast on baby’s last day in paradise. Then if mommy cannot push because she just hasn’t the energy, the wise doctor will provide plenty of options for her to consider Quick! He will want to release a very painful synthetic hormone into her veins. It is called Pitocin and it pretends to be a contracting uterus. Then come the offers of drugs because mommy’s pain must be relieved. The doctor pushes the drugs even though they are linked to childhood mental retardation (the kid grows up wanting to be a doctor). Then an episiotomy (to satisfy the doctor’s disturbing urge to slice open perineums), and forceps or vacuum extraction for the stubborn, sedated child. All that before Junior can squeeze outside for a breath of fresh air. Oh my God! What if he can’t get out? Maybe his mom is too stoned to feel. Don’t worry. Doctor will put mommy to sleep with more drugs (definitely not nicotine or alcohol—those are relatively safe compared to the crack house he works out of). While mommy sleeps, the bloody baby fairy magically appears to cut open her stomach, whisks her only child off to be inspected past a gauntlet of unloving hands, like the convicted entering his prison. Mom can look at the thing, but do not touch! Doctor’s orders! The good baby fairy left a smiley face scare, prolonged intense pain, and a devastating bill of sale. For thousands of dollars, they got you that thing alive and just slightly deranged and unprepared for the dangerous life ahead. For an extra fifty, if mommy happens to push out a boy, the good doctor will cut up his little penis with razor precision. There... Now that’s a work of art! Doesn’t that look nice? He’s screaming and could possibly go into shock and die from the agony alone, but heck, I’d fuck it, wouldn’t you? Here’s some ointment for the eyes because we assume that you have gonorrhea. Well, maybe you don’t have it, but those dirty street people sure do. Can’t take any chances. Sleep now. Rest mother. You worked very hard for this joy. Sleep, sleep. Rest now. For in just a few weeks my colleague, the pediatrician, whom I trust with your child’s life, although I don’t know his face or name, will have his army of toxic inoculations ready to invade your baby’s healthy immune system. Two weeks, then twomonths, fourmonths, sixmonths, 1st year, 2nd year, school age, DPT, Polio, Vertigo, MMR, Chicken Pox, fever, diaper rash, meningitis, pink eye, hepatitis, tonsillitis, boils, hemorrhoids, ear infection, stress, depression, the maddies, vomiting, high blood pressure, low blood pressure, societal pressure, asthma, allergies, toxemia, scabies, lice, ringworm, strongyles, tapeworm, rabies, poverty, poison oak, poison ivy, pigeon toes, nervousness, neurosis, convulsions, temper, fear of grown-ups, fear of doctors, the wanton abuse and torture of animals, inability to make friends, selfishness, greed, anger, hate, jealousy, despair, Tourette's Syndrome, bad manners, poor dresser, easy target.

Yes, it’s just plain smart to simmer consommé today. Healthy humans do not need to go to the doctor. If I can convince two people today to avoid the doctor tomorrow, and these people can do the same, right down the human line ad infinitum, then we can oust these dangerous quacks from our previously unmedicated planet earth.

It won’t happen I know because most people are oblivious. I’ve had a sinking gut feeling ever since I met our doctor. Of course she can’t be trusted! Why should we trust her? Because she loves us? Do we trust anyone before love? Yes? Why? Because generally we are stupid. Is trust a noble trait? No. Why? Because people are good and bad to each other and my life is not a roulette wheel. You must earn my trust. I will not take chances with my own life, let alone my unborn child’s. So what can I do about it? Well, unfortunately Marie refuses to have the baby in our bed, so we’re going to the doctor’s work house, who more than likely would not miss dinner out tonight if earlier in the day she delivered a stillbirth. I pity her if any seen or unseen injury damages little Jourdan or baby Jane. Isn’t it a lovely world that coaches a father to begin his child’s life with threats and unjustified accusations to invisible enemies? Yes, it’s not my fault! As a newborn baby boy, I too was on the pediatrician’s rigorous schedule. Modern life was brought to me, not me to it. Maybe I was sick, but damn everything! Now I am diseased.

Just a moment ago I let Beany run loose into the backyard. He and Frisky the cat love to chase the birds and squirrels. It gave me some free time to think. Yesterday, Marie and I went to a family doctor for a consultation. We wanted to get his opinion on immunizations. This “feeling out” of prospective physicians has become a common practice for us lately. We don’t trust anyone! Well, to tell the truth, it is me who won’t trust anybody. Marie is a Libra. Libras see every angle, but unfortunately for the Aquarius, they tend to side with the guilty party. Libras appreciate both doctors and the criminally insane. No, it is I who searches for the “right” person when pressured into looking for a doctor. I could spend the rest of my life without one, if repeating nuisances such as asthma attacks or my child’s exploding eardrum could be avoided. These misfortunes happen because of my own negligence. Proper home care and prevention hinders development of both dumbness and disease.

As a young man I was willing to take the doctor’s opinion as truth, if not law, which should be one in the same thing. I had no reason to doubt his learned expertise. Really, I could care less what was done to me as long as I got better. I had very few doctor visits in my life. The first one I can remember happened during my freshman year at college, after two long years of avoiding my swelled and monstrous left testicle. It had become too big not to notice. When my roommate brought back a pamphlet on testicular cancer from the health center, I knew that it was time to see a professional. I can’t remember the doctor’s name or face. He asked me to drop my pants, said “Oh my,” and two weeks later I was out like a light, under the knife, and sent home with a monster scar to show my girlfriend.

Yesterday we went out in the cold late afternoon to visit with a prospective client who will oversee our babies’ medical emergencies. We can trust the doctor to handle an emergency. All minor and major ailments, from the common cold to influenza, ear infection to rabies, diarrhea to pink eye, and any other childhood discomforts and diseases will be sent over to our offices, Marie’s and mine. She’s a mommy and I am a daddy. Who is better equipped to handle infection? The licensed cadaverous physician clutching a clipboard, shooting off his mouth and gesticulating his body as if he were playing air guitar, to prove a well-researched and documented point-of-view? Off his sickly, green tongue memorized medical terms and phrases jump past his white lips with frightful intentions. But he’s wasting his time. Words make us angry. We are not poor, ignorant teenagers voicing a “yes, doctor, whatever you say doctor” answer to every problem. We are intelligent adults there to find an emergency care provider. The stuff of broken bones and deep wounds. All other visits are just a waste of our time, money, pride and joy. He doesn’t agree. Now he doesn’t trust us. That is what this world of books and cars has come to be. The idiot thinking the other guy is stupid and always so depressingly vice-versa.

I bet there is an Erasmus society in existence on the web. At Oxford or Harvard paid academics discuss discussions over what discourses Erasmus discussed with his eager students. The poor doctor had books. Greek books. Roman books. “Get back to the classics fellow sufferers. For the next hundred years we should dive into the pool of ancient learning, and dog paddle there until we tire and drown.”

Yes, an ancient scholarly twit like Erasmus is studied because he studied Roman law and wisdom, and was so amazed by their utter simplicity and cleanliness. Of course the poor dirty beggar Erasmus was impressed! He walked about the shitty streets of Europe just giddy in anticipation of the next eggs of knowledge to ingest, those to nurture his mind and the minds of his well fed followers. The cult of “oneupmanship”. To know more than peasants and kings. It is no different today, except that knowledge finishes last in a one man race. To know is to pass tests is to graduate is to set up practice is to get rich. Any dwerb can know. It’s the greatest failures of the heart who actually get rich off knowledge. And failures of the heart prefer long nights of study. It takes discipline, hard work, and a well-trained ignorance of reality to memorize the difference between fibula and tibia. Memorize well, stitch a few bleeding gashes, brush up on your failing memory every couple years, put an MD after your name, and live the life of money and prestige because you copied better than the uneducated, drippy nosed, disease spreaders watching prescription drug infomercials in your waiting room.

I tell you, the persistence of modern science has ruined humanism. Humanity, when it is thriving, considers people like Erasmus, the Popes, or Ted, the barber from Havenshire, as colorful individuals from a glorious past. A sweeter time before the invention of toilet paper, when it was okay to juggle colors and images in your imagination during a walk to market to buy milk. Books are fun for the purpose of pleasure only. I will let you in on a little secret. I know nothing about Erasmus! I saw a painting of him with his pointed nose, holding down a fat book with Latin letters printed along the spine. Isn’t that wonderful enough? Everything I need to know can come from the colors of my own imagination. Colors. He is whatever I want him to be. I can argue my point-of-view, even if that point develops into a circular confusion of contradiction, and I end up thinking about Erasmus’ incredibly funny looking red hat. It’s my god damn brain! If I can’t enjoy it, who will? Science wants it. It can’t have it. It is so easy to see what science wants to do with my imagination. It does not pretend disinterestedness. It wants my brain. It needs my brain to survive. If peoples’ minds are too busy with happiness, nobody can get sick! If no one gets sick, the American Medical Association can’t show off the elegant swan ice carving and twelve foot long pâté en croûte at their annual Marriot Hotel convention. Membership will dwindle fast. Only the most dedicated and impoverished doctors will meet in a clearing of the ancient, dark forest. With big fat frowns they’ll share the latest findings from Medical Discoveries Magazine. The peasants are too superstitiously happy to accept this grave band of learned men. When Ted junior, the barber’s son gets sick, Ted makes a funny face and hops up and down like a bunny rabbit. When Ted’s village gets struck with the plague because one of Erasmus’ colleagues made a visit to Genoa last week, and while contemplating muscle structure during a lecture on Roman anatomy, stuck the end of his quill pen in a rat’s ass and then put the quill in his mouth, then Ted, his family, the village, the surrounding countryside, including all the asses and sheep, perish.

The day I trust science I will enter medical school with a thousand colorful syringes dangling from my skin.

So if you want to know something more about Erasmus, find it in a book written by some scholar who researched the subject well. The libraries are filled with reference about his life and teachings. Why? Because us little illusion-stuffed gluttons of science imagine ourselves to be as important as Dr. and Dr. Jones, the medical, political, botanical, psychiatrical, archaeological, anatomical couple who have everything, a Mercedes-Benz, and even knowledge. We trust them to know the truth, and to keep us safe and warm. Why? I cannot answer for the mob. It takes only a matter of seconds for my imagination to picture the privacy of my doctor, a moment to himself when he is all alone, practicing some filthy habit or dirty routine of ignorance and prejudice, or just plain stupid acts of mental retardation. I need only picture him watching TV or eating a fat piece of chocolate cake to convince myself of the dire need to avoid his practice like the bubonic plague of old.

So far every doctor but one I have visited is an fool of institutional science. Books. Books. Damn the books! This baby and books have got me into a lot of trouble. It takes just one sentence to screw up the brain of a noble father. “The vitamin K shot given to newborns to prevent hemorrhaging has been linked to childhood cancer.” Oh shit! Really? But the hospital frowns on those parents who won’t accept it. What if your baby has cranial bleeding? What if the doctor drops the baby on the floor and bleeding happens in the brain?


Took a lovely drive down to Cooperstown, NY to pick up a rejected painting. I stumbled upon these naval prints from the collection of Franklin Delano Roosevelt in an antiquarian bookstore:

Here is one:

I think this might be an original print. If you know anyone in the business, please have him or her give me a call. (555) 354-2443.


Until next week fellow travelers standing in one spot and turning round and round!