Sermon for the Night of a Thousand Screams

October 31, 2010 § Leave a comment


Mark how fleeting and paltry is the estate of man – yesterday in embryo, tomorrow a mummy or ashes. So for the hairsbreadth of time assigned to thee, live rationally, and part with life cheerfully, as drops the ripe olive, extolling the season that bore it and the tree that matured it.

You! Yes you, the grownups, or adult specimens, third-stage chrysali, or whatever They are calling you this week. That’s us now. We are officially taking over. Our parents are old, and preparing for their final bout of senseless hedonism on this planet. We are seeping into the positions they used to fill. Think about it. Most of the critical functions necessary to keep this crappy old recycled space vehicle we’re renting off that shoddy silicoid mafia front on the tip of the cock of the horse nebula is now being operated and maintained by our generation. Our Peers. The People Who Are Our Age.

You know those guys. And gals. You’ve seen them pee themselves, hit each other over the heads with plastic ponies, drink until they started singing and fall over, and chew on live ‘lectricky wires for fun. Now ask yourself, honestly, in your heart of hearts; do you really trust those fuckers for one single minute?

What? Well, yes; previous generations also fucked up. That is indeed a traditional and quite viable excuse. In fact, fucking up is practically a tradition in itself. Some generations fucked up more than others, and are indeed remembered in song and tale for the spectacular and aesthetic manner in which they did so. The fuckups of the turn of the 18th century ARE quite famous, and have now been canonized to such a degree that the continued fallout is seen as an almost heroic boon from the heavens; mostly due to the spectacular fuckups of the early 20th century, which has lead to an unbroken string of humanitarian disasters of such savagery, murder and baby- eating patriopsychosis, that it makes the occasional occurence of fuckery which happens to reminds us of the good old days when they merely raped you with bayonets seem like a dance trough a fragrant summer meadow.

Still, we can manage this, right? All these buttons and gauges and blinking lights and mysterious twirly things held together with chewing gum can’t be that hard to figure out. Nevermind the gremlins chewing on vital engine parts and nonessential passengers. Nevermind the fuel leakages and the dead Puerto Ricans in the cargo hold starting to smell. We can land this baby. Somewhere out there in that eternal void of blackness and raditation and interstellar dust, salvation is speeding towards us. And when they arrive, remember to have you membership card ready.

Meanwhile, let’s dress up in plastic crap and get drunk and eat candy until we puke.



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You are currently reading Sermon for the Night of a Thousand Screams at the Exploding st. Judas Ministry to the Lemurs.


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