THE GREAT CHAIN OF CONVERSATION by Anonymoses
Dead Earth Society
group of yahoos from beyond the blue oasis of Mecklenburg had formed a group called Dead Earth Society which they claimed “provides a alternative to all the world’s bullsh*t.” They believed in a flat earth. They wanted all poets dead. And they thought the earth to be dead, and free for our taking. The Dead Earth Society had finally crystallized their ideas into a newly released book called “Yourn Kampf”, which promised to be the hick version of Hitler’s classic misanthropic exhibit-A.
To celebrate the publishing of the book, the Society has rented out Buford’s Fireworks Shack and were holding a bonfire, replete with hot dogs, marshmallows, and hand-wrapped baking taters, which you could toss into the fire and fish out later with a stick. If you don’t mind lobsterpicking minute boluses of edible starch from bituminous coal swaddled in blackened aluminum, you’re in for quite a culinary surprise.
I was there to cover the event for my blog, which was dedicated to such things. I called the blog “Southern Picaresque”, and it was pretty much true to the name.
“What’s so picturesque ‘bout dis dam place I don’t know…” said Susie Sue Tanner who had motorcycled in from Gaffney with her boyfriend, “Meatstick”, who had gone to take a leak behind the dumpster.
Shaking his wang as he walked, Meatstick, who had overheard our conversation, reiterated his bitch’s concern. “Yeah. You cawl dis picturesque? You outta see ire trailor community back in Gaffney. Now dat dair is some eye candy ryt dair. Don’t git no purdier dan dat.”
Adoringly, Susie Sue wiped the tobacco off the sides of his mouth, and gave him a big ol' bear hug. “Yeah, we liv’n in heb’m. Hell, the seb’m eleb’m zonely a pisspot away. 24 ires! Don’t git no more uptown dan dat!”
“An thair coffee. Shuuuweee! I’d crap a half mile in cubic parallelographs to piss my mornin lips across the warm oceans o’ dat sh*t, I’ll tell ryt nah!” Meatstick slapped his knee with one hand while gymastically mining boogage with his other, pinky extended as propriety dictates.
As in a swoon, my enthrallitude was bisected by the sudden tonitruation of conflatulence. And any scientist knows that conflatuation is strictly verboten around fireworks, as there have been incidents where smoking lounges have gone up in a puff after some Mexican beanfood produced an incidence of conflatulation, and coupled with the tight quarters, and faulty air circulation, produced conditions ripe for such a conflagration. And the flashpoint created a whoof! that could be heard for miles around. Dogs went nuts. Cats were no where to be found. Those close were rendered impuberal, hair flown south, by the shear heat of the blast. It was a wonder that the only people who died were those trampled in the stampede of fearful hominidae. Nothing worse than fearful hominids. Nothing to fear but fearful hominids. Fear creates enmity. The need to react. Self-control suffers. Stampedes occur. Unwise retaliations. Love does not retaliate. Fear is not love. John says, “Perfect Love casteth out all Fear.” We should cast out all fear-mongers.
Then another explosion. Then another. And another. Then a series of explosions. Suddenly I could see that something had gone terribly wrong. A chain reaction of explosions erupted as boxes of fireworks submitted to the surmounting heat and fire. Chaos and confusion broke out. Hominids began panicking.
“Well, I ain’t staying around here!” I thought, and quickly ran back to my car and drove off. Ten Years After was playing on 95.7 “The Ride”.
“I’d love to change the world…but I don’t know what to do…”
“What am I doing? Once upon a time, I wanted to change the world, but I didn’t know what to do. Here I am in a situation where I can change the world, and I do know what to do. And yet I am driving away from the problem, not toward it…
“F*ck it.” Changing the channel. “I’ll yell at Foolwell instead.”
Foolwell was a wingnut wacko, sometimes called “The Prick in the Balloon” because of his weird habit of air ballooning overtop festivals and such, and preaching the gospel according to Foolwell…which always seemed to emphasize the “giving him money” aspect. And one often wondered whether or not he had done what Ben Franklin once did, which was to insert his own bogus book into the Bible, print it up, as he was most able, and then argue points with people, then show the proof from the bible which he would then produce, then open to the Book of David, the Book of Jedidiah, or some other such concoction. Foolwell was not above such antics. In fact he might do it for purely selfish, financial reasons. Foolwell loved his Mammoney!
And now Foolwell had a radio show. Why it’s on now!
“My brawthers and sisters. Prey with me now that we might wunst and for awl end the scowerge of Liberalism from our Gawd-given Nation. And may the bell of Nationalism ring out on Tuesday in that voting booth, when you vote for every Republican in sight, and if you don’t know which ones Ima talking about dear sinners, please cawl in, or visit our website at dubya dubya dubya (Aw Gawd I cannot get enough of that blessed name!) then ya punch in Gawd’s 'Merkin Patriots dot com, and we’ll send you a list of people with whom you can trust. Good Americana stock. Men of bone. No Frenchifried girlie men or metrosexuals neither. Stout men. Meat eaters. Men who like sports and Nascar. Gawd’s kinda men.
So to help our cause I need you to help me. You see I have been a-tawkin' to Gawd and he told me that you can help me expand his voice by expanding his mouth, which is my mouth, since he talks through me, and the way you do that is... you pay for it. You stretch that mouth. You stretch open that wallet. And let Gawd out. Let Gawd outta yer wallets, good folks, good clean Christious folks, I know you wanna do it! Do it for Jaezus.
I’m praying now. Praying that you feel Gawd a-talkin’ to ya. And he’s a-talkin’ to ya. And he’s saying, he’s saying…I’m getting his signal now…he’s saying:
Ana nathrok, oefess bethod dathial thaienveigh.
My Gawd! What the...?
Suddenly commotion could be heard coming through the radio, and Foolwell seemed strange, disjointed, in shock.
A voice is heard, which sounds to be a voice in the control room. Undiscernable.
But I didn’t say that, Bobbie. I mean, it was coming through me.
Anonymoses was amazed that they hadn’t cut the signal. But he was even more amused by the fact that Foolwell, who professes to having God speak through him, totally freaks out when God actually does!
Nonny heard voices too, but they were from the deepest, most inbred backwaters of Appalachia. He thought back to that Emergency Room visit in Stumptown…overhearing talk of an implant.