The man shall be clear of guilt; but that woman shall suffer for her guilt.
Numbers ch. 5 v. 31
Bum rap. Moses was such a woman hating prick.
And a lying bastard. Executing anyone who questioned his authority. The voice of the Lord. Against that of the hoard.
Of course he likely believe at least some of it.
And maybe he was just hoping for a way to keep his tribe alive. And kill the rest.
Maybe Bushit believes he hears the voice of the Lord. Lord Chainy. Lord Rompinfield.
Lord Myass.
We are still wallowing in our own shit. Making a cess pool out of a lonely paradise.
Meaning.
Meaning is still waiting backstage.
The curtains are stained with blood as are the few surviving children that weren't taken in the crash.
The crash we brought on by building super structures with faulty foundations. Random proclamations.
Probability.
Starting from an atom.
Just about anything, given the countless combinations.
And still we wait.
For the phone to ring.
The next war to start.
They have been preparing us for Iran. Making us hope something no one wants.
But tonight I don't know.
Inspiration wanes with the moon.
Redemption in the coming of spring.
What do they wait for on the equator.
The second coming of Lord Myass.
People will make proclamations in the name of an authority figure proclaiming the authority figure knows. Knows when to bring disease and drought desolation and hope.
Lord Myass said to John Rah: These people who follow the local religion creed or cult, bow to TV and media, they are getting on my tits.
Tell them to stop being idiots. Tell them to wake up.
John said to the Lord: Fuck man. Do you have any fuckin' idea how fuckin' impossible it is to tell anyone anything when they have been lied to for countless generations. People get shot when they stand up to oppose tyrants. They get put in jail and tortured to instill fear, to brake their spirit. It's impossible.
The Lord said to John: How many impossible things have I shown you.
John said to the Lord: I haven't counted.
The Lord said to John: We've been at it a long time. You me them. And if there was a paradise better than this one, I'd pack up and take us there. There ain't. And we are a long way from having the means to get there even if there was another place. We are limited, at least for several generations, to this poisoned
Rock.
They, the demons of destruction, must be stopped. Paradise is close to the poison saturation point.
John said to the Lord: I'd really like some wild sex.
The Lord smiled and left.
And John was left holding his own wondering what the chances were that impossible things could start happening at an accelerated rate. How set was the enemy on killing the planet. Was there any advantage to having life stopped here.
It would reduce the pain, of course. One would have to go to work for no evil pricks no more. One could enjoy everlasting nothing.
Which is impossible. Nothing doesn't lend itself to any sort of being. No spring time.
What would it matter.
It might be without life on this bit of paradise. It wouldn't know it. It wouldn't have us to look back at it.
Without that, being would not be perceived. The universe would be unaware.
There would be no becoming.
Without us.
As fucked up as we are, we may be the most brilliant thing to come along in the last 14 billion years.
Seems silly to throw away the young gods of the universe.
For the fuckin' pricks running this mad house.
Do not obey.
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