Tuesday, October 31, 2017

Every Day Is Halloween 4: All-Purpose Stabulation/Squibulation Person

Every Day Is Halloween 4: All-Purpose Stabulation/Squibulation Person
by William D. Tucker

A god-the God?-answers the sweaty, gross prayers of some degenerate aspiring filmmaker, most likely some jerk-off film school graduate ... 

And some god-the God?-spake . . .

saying . . .

If you're willing to inject a virus into the computer graphics pipeline

while wearing DIY prosthetics makeup
of a monstrous being you spent a month of Tuesdays cooking up inside your brain
must be an original
no cosplay allowed


you agree to shoot using only film and 100% analog editing equipment and techniques
no sound,
must be black and white


you light one of the letters of the Hollywood sign on fire-any letter, so long as it burns

you will be blessed
with an All-Purpose Stabulation/Squibulation Person
a kind of ersatz human from another plane of existence
(e.g. a recent theatre school graduate)
who has been completely neutralized, stripped of all individuality by advanced acting techniques
who you will be permitted to use as you see fit
in your artsy-fartsy black and white shot-on-actual-film movie

end-users stab and/or shoot these neutrals after imbuing them with the identity of their choice of fantasy target
(identity induction protocols/procedures are included in an accompanying instruction booklet found inside a kangaroo-ish skin pocket in the abdomen)
it could be
man, woman, child
someone you knew in life,
someone powerful,
someone evil,
someone innocent,
an ex,
someone you imagine,
even a fictional character,
I mean
vengeance fantasies are stupifyingly common among aspiring filmmakers these days.

you don't have to go down that road
you could cultivate your neutral into a real human being
befriend them
nurture them
set them free
even if that almost never happens-you could do that shit
you really could
you could break that mold into tiny pieces
but the odds will most likely exert a crushing power over your pittance of "free will,"
and you will run to type
and make some kind of an arty fucking snuff film
as per usual
as per the norm
just another angry little shit with a camera,
a head full of power/domination fantasies
nothing special

but go ahead and prove my ass wrong
wrong as Richard Nixon
I would be very amused by that
amused AF
-October 2017

Copyright 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission. 

Sunday, October 29, 2017

Every Day Is Halloween 3-Pack

Every Day Is Halloween 3-Pack
by William D. Tucker

$59.99 SRP

Special Features:
Collectible packaging
Interactive Menus
English Language
Standard full frame
Includes free ticket for Every Day is Halloween 4: All-Purpose Stabulation/Squibulation Person
Digital Download for Every Day is Halloween (does not apply to parts 2 or 3)
Unskippable 17 minute anti-piracy PSA

Every Day Is Halloween

I pull on this costume
'Til I break it in.
Take it off before I go to work,
Of course,
But then there came a time
When I just kept it on.

I was kinda depressed, to tell you the truth.
Hard to care about bathing properly,
Flossing, brushing, soap stuff.
But terror twisted my guts at the thought of missing work.
Getting fired.
Having no money.
Not being able to eat.
Now I'm one of those people standing on the side of the road with a cardboard sign.
One of those people that no one cares about.
Because no job, no money, no clean clothes, no status, zeroed out of reality.
Except as a kind of living breathing object lesson
To all the workers.

So I decided I would just go to work with the costume on.
Sure, it was a rebellious thing.
A fuck you kind of thing.
Even though I got along with everybody at work.
The customers were all right, discounting a few hard-ons here and there.
My boss, Becky, she was always cool to me.
It was the routine, the structure, the day-after-goddamn-day-ness of it
That I despised, I think.

So I decided I would just go to work with the costume on.
And nobody said anything.
It was one of those deals where you do that one fucked-up thing,
And you're expecting to get punished for it,
And you're terrified,
But you're also kind of looking forward to being confronted about it, punished,
Especially at work, right?
But the first time I did it
My whole shift making those sugary, syrupy caffeinated coffee beverages
I'm waiting for my boss to give me shit.
But it's like nothing.
I hit every order just right.
I'm greeted by all the usual customers,
I say the expected lame non-funny funny remarks I'm supposed to say,
And laugh at the expected lame non-funny funny remarks my fellow employees say in response,
Just like any other day.

And then my shift ends.
Before, I made a ritual out of going back to my apartment,
Lighting some candles to the spirit of Tom Snyder at the homemade altar,
Stripping out of my work clothes,
Blowing out the candles, singing a praise hymn to Tom Snyder,
Pulling on the costume,
One last prayer to Tom Snyder,
And going out and getting in fist fights and knife fights
With the same old gang of assholes downtown.
We'd been mixing it up like that for about six years or so,
But it seemed more like decades.
We packed all kinds of insane feuds, betrayals, and lunatic ideologies into those days.
I think we started out with some kind of half-sensible rationale for why we were doing it,
But that got lost,
Probably by the end of the third day or so.
Maybe the fourth day.
I don't really remember. Not sure I want to.

So up until that day,
I had my ritual.
Knew exactly what I was going to do with myself every moment of every day.
But that day
I already had my costume on,
So I didn't need to even go inside my apartment.
I just went straight downtown,
Muttered some quick prayers and a mini-hymn to Tom Snyder under my breath,
And immediately jumped on some dude I'd punched and kicked and stabbed a thousand times before.
Only this time
My beloved target
Was possessed of preternatural strength,
And beat the holy glowing feces out of me a thousand ways to Sunday.
One of the best times I ever had.

So I just kept coming back to work with my costume on.
Didn't bathe, either.
Stopped sleeping.
Lost my faith in Tom Snyder.
Just go to work,
Then go straight to the usual mayhem downtown.
Kept wearing it
'Til it was glued to my body by the filth.
'Til it grew into me, me into it.
Like the rope of the swing and the tree it's tied around.

Although it was hard to tell,
At first,
Because I was hallucinating like crazy from sleep deprivation,
The appearance and apparel of the customers
And my fellow employees
Began to subtly change.
A store-bought movie slasher mask here.
Some wild eyebrow makeup there.
And check out the finely carved and lacquered wooden Japanese demon mask on this one.
People started coming in with plastic swords, plastic AK-47s, and plastic pirate hook hands.

And then people started coming in with real steel katanas, live ammo AK-47s, and sharpened hook hands.
And that one guy with the fine wooden demon mask?
He came in one day with arcane energies crackling from his scaly body,
A wildly darting three foot tongue with its own face,
Which bore a striking resemblance to Edogawa Rampo
Declaiming mysterious verses in some lost language,
And a bouquet of perverted "tentacles" manifesting from his nether regions.

My manager tumbled in, seemingly carried by a strong breeze,
With wavy, razor sharp filaments extruding from every pore on her body.
I thought she was some kind of overgrown plant-seed-carrier-thing,
But then she started a fight with the weird dude in the traditional Mephistopheles costume from Gounod's perennially underrated opera Faust,
Flaying the Tempter down to his oddly poignant skeleton,
And that's when I realized that things had taken a turn.

Everybody began brawling with everybody.
Projectile spines.
Unexpectedly pugilistic eyeballs popping in and out of muscular sockets.
Lightning bolts arcing from wizened fingertips.
Fire breath.
Antennae emitting psychedelic death rays.
A huge muscular dinosaur tail knocking a pack of rotting zombies through a plate glass window.
A coked-up bootlegger in a pinstriped suit thumb-wrestling a half-unicorn, half-Richard Nixon whatsit.
A Buddhist centaur lighting its horse half on fire to protest the Vietnam war,
While the human half threw a Molotov cocktail at a police car. Better late than never, I guess.
All the cops got in on the action, too, most of 'em stripped down to their bare asses.
I guess they were all rebelling against the costume, not sure.

In the midst of all this chaos,
Which started with a slow build of about a week,
And then sparked off into a little over a year long riot,
I found myself,
At first,
But then,
And this is the part where I know I'm going to disappoint some folks,
But I kinda just
Shut down.
But not.
See, I had all the sugary slushy caffeinated drinks memorized for most of the customers,
Including the times of day when each one was likely to come in,
I even had the other baristas' routines memorized, more or less,
So while this mythological clusterfuck was roiling around me
I started to obsessively make the caffeinated specialty beverages,
And set them at the pick up counter,
Announcing each one with perfect enunciation,
"Mocha blend tiramisu turtle soup Americano with 16 shots at the bar,"
Which was rather impressive for me
Because I've had kind of muddled enunciation all my life.
People have always had trouble understanding me all my life.
Not anymore.
Now there was no more ambiguity.
Only clarity.
Only perfectly hand-crafted coffee beverages.
In a never ending stream.
For all time.
In an ever-growing pile.
From floor to ceiling.
Through the ceiling.

Okay, not forever.
I exaggerate.
But that was the feeling.
As mythological beasts from legend, comic books, literature, and cinema
Slaughtered each other all around me,
As the air vibrated with a pulsing minimalist synth score,
As I became splattered with suspect fluids,
Even on those occasions when I was temporarily conscripted into the infernal army
Of this or that BDSM attired wannabe god-CEO of agony,
Or this or that sentient outsized globally recognized candy bar brand with dreams of inhaling all the gas on Jupiter just to get wicked high,
I would still perfectly pantomime fulfilling the orders
Of all the customers
From that increasingly distant time
That I so dearly hated.
And now so dearly missed, wanted, needed.
Like I said,
I shut down.
But not really.

How can I put it?
It's like if every day is Halloween . . . I don't even know.
I mean,
My life was kind of insane before,
And now it's even more insane,
And there's more insanity on the road ahead, right?
That's not how things are supposed to be.
Things are supposed to start normal,
And then go crazy.
Or you start out crazy,
And then you get your shit stabilized,
Start exercising, eating properly, get on a proper sleep schedule, take the right pills,
I mean,
I didn't come up with this shit.
This is how things were always presented to me.
You start on one side of the line or the other,
And then you work your way to the other side.
You're either playing the getting over game,
Or the hedonist self-destruction game.
Unless you're born on the right side of the line,
The one that has all the money,
In which case, okay, stasis would make sense,
So, uh, I dunno. I really don't have any clue.

The universal mythological clusterfuck riot scene went on for about a year,
A little over a year,
And then people started to come down from it.
They started going into their old job routines in pantomime.
Like what I was doing with my barista gig after I stopped taking off the costume,
But I guess, like, I was ahead of the curve?
I dunno.
I mean, I've always been a kind of trendsetter.
Going back to when I was a teenager.
I'd find out about some band that no one heard of, and then I'd tell everybody about it,
Or some movie or some comic book.
And then people would be into that new thing.
And I was fashionable.
I wore pretty cool clothes.
People wanted to dress like me.
Even the teachers.
Even the coaches.
I tell that to people now,
And they think I'm joking.
But it's true.
I set trends.
So maybe now with all this crazy costume shit . . . I don't even know.
That's what was going on with me my whole life?
It's totally nuts,
And like I said, I stopped sleeping. Maybe I'm not seeing what I'm seeing.
Even though I see everything with perfect clarity, especially now.

But things started to get back to, like, fake normal.
No one was bathing. No one was sleeping anymore.
Those who had undergone full-on transformations into mythic and supernatural beings
They didn't really change back.
But they acted like they were back in the old human rut.
My co-worker Ben,
He became this human-shaped thing made entirely out of toes
That was constantly emitting a pre-recorded stream of audio clips of speeches by George W. Bush,
And he didn't change back,
But he went back to slinging those coffee beverages just like in days of old.

My boss, she was still that overgrown plant-seed-carrier whatsit,
She still smoked weed in her Honda every lunch break,
Still a pretty cool boss.

Sidney, the girl who biked to work, still loved to talk about her mission trips to South America,
Even though she was now a difficult to pin down blur of scintillating lights and arcane symbols.

We had all been transformed.

We all had our Time of Fun.

And now we were back to work.

Except there were no more coffee beans, latte mix, or shots to shoot.
Most of the paper cups had been eaten by the naked cops,
And the freaky tentacle rape beast had eaten all the metal objects in the store,
Including all the coffee making machines and assorted equipment.
But the team went into action in pantomime.

Even the customers,
Who had all ritually burned their cash in praise of Psychopathic Deities and Insurgent Barsoomian Spirits,
Who had all offered up their credit and debit cards as sacrifice to the ghost of Tom Snyder,
He of the nonstop witty patter and the perpetually burning cigarette held between middle and forefinger,
Even the customers kept on coming in,
Playing their parts with an exquisite mixture of Chekhovian subtlety and violent, alienating  theatrical gestures of embodiment worthy of Bertolt Brecht,
All of us,
Workers and consumers alike
Possessed with the obsessive yet mindful pantomime of mindless commerce.
But way better than the real thing ever was,
Or ever could have been.
For we are all now in a Transcendent Rut.

William Blake is really pleased with all this, by the way.
I've been speaking to him
Underneath a collective of regular customers
Who have willed themselves into the shape of a Cubist Sequoia
And he said this was exactly what he was getting at.
But I think he's just being polite.
Not sure. Not sure I want to be sure.
-October 2014

Every Day Is Halloween 2

slash the budget
dump it in some film school grad's lap
command and control functions stay with the producer

Maximize marketing budget
optimize gore
optimize tits
optimize confusing, pseudo-arty shaky-cam bullshit
optimize shouting
optimize piss' n'shit grim'n'gritty color palette
optimize bogus "true story" websites

Economize talent
shoot in an anti-union right-to-work state
hire actors with low Q-ratings
for low pay
work them like pack animals

there's always money for 3-D post-conversion

If it's a hit,
crank out another one,
same formula

If it bombs,
write it down,
dodge some taxes

It isn't art,
nor is it truly entertainment,
but it's a healthy living
for the New Era Corporate Citizen.
-September-October 2015

Every Day Is Halloween 3: living skeleton actor fuck 

role puts flesh, blood, guts on this frame
not to mention tumors,  scars, bad thoughts, eureka insights,
mercy, sadism, self-sacrifice, greed, ambition, romance;

build each persona up from micro-replicators
into complex thoughts, interlocking processes of pattern recognition,
various esoteric mental exercises culled from misreadings of Stanislavski and Grotowski,
irrational desires, fears, obsessions, joys;

book the gig
fill me up
live in the moment
'til it got heavy
with burdens of reputation
now he's just repeating the same old shtick
fuzzy stretch where I didn't shoot after 4:30pm for about five years
'cause I was stinking shitfaced
but it made me more of a cult fave in the years to come
I'm slurring lines on camera,
always seated, slightly listing to one side,
visible use of body double when standing and shot from behind
obvious ADR by anonymous voice over artist
since lips and tongue were only capable of blotto-talk
the voice is one thing and then another
sad at the time
YouTube clipjob comedy gold in this New Era.

online parodies resurrected me
for stunt casting, for the new wave of self-aware exploitation flicks.
a lot of work,
a lot of love from all over the world
festival and con bookings
I go even if it's on my dime
depends on the size of the marketing budget
but I'll go just for the feeling
nothing like this was ever supposed to be in my future
what a racket,  you know?

my latest job
is a dipshit detective
gets his head cut off by a psycho lumberjack
they didn't even do a proper cast of my head
the wig
from behind
kinda looks like my hair
but they do it old school when they put my head through a hole in the set floor
and have me silently work my mouth like a freshly decapitated fish head,
it's actually an homage to a previous death scene I played
in the 1980s
one of the Italian Mad Max knockoffs
I did three or four of those back in the day
current crop of directors go crazy cramming in callbacks,
scenes from the past,
b-movies constitute their own reality, history, liturgy

I have this weird dream:
I strip it all down to the bone.
not even rehearsal clothes, like in my repertory theatre days,
not even the bare skin, like in my experimental protest theatre period.
no skin, blood, guts, eyes, brains, lips, tongue,
just the skeleton
all pinned and jointed together,
suspended from an ornate carved rack,
polished and lacquered to a piercing sheen.
you crank up the air conditioning,
put the script in front of the vent,
words lift off the page,
whisper'n'rage through my ribcage.

Something that stripped down-well, they could slather on some CG if that's too pure of a hit.
Make me into a transforming talking car or some shit.
-July 2015-October 2016

Copyright 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

Thursday, September 21, 2017

Pet Names Shouted Between Totalitarian Lovers

Pet Names Shouted Between Totalitarian Lovers
by William D. Tucker 

Rocket Man

this is the pet name shouted between totalitarian lovers
daring one another
to shoot first
to bust the annihilating nut
to burn up all the little people
the shitizens
as a global sacrifice
to their greater love

could we maybe get these two on Dr. Phil, work their shit out?
the impending obliteration of human civilization by nuclear weapons?

just a suggestion
from a mere shitizen
-September 2017

Copyright 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission. 

Sunday, September 17, 2017

Suitmation XIV: The Rediscovery of Gastropia

Suitmation XIV: The Rediscovery of Gastropia
by William D. Tucker

Coming down from the One World
coming down from the higher thoughtforms
as an exercise
how would we explain this reality
to an oldline individual,
or maybe even a displaced time traveler ... ?

His Mungnificence of obliterative desire
the former God of Genocide
collapsed into neon plushy self
$15+applicable sales tax
the price has been frozen over a couple of aeons now
a retro thing
since the One World is post-capitalism, post-work, post-currency
citizens just buy shit
to recreate the novelty of this long extinct activity
some citizens hire on teams of expert historians to advise them in all the minutiae of currency and small talk and crushing depression and anxiety that drives people to spend impulsively and recklessly.

Individuality is mostly a recreational thing
nothing wrong with that
You can be an individual if you want
if that winds your clock
You can even live inside a phantasia of being a chosen one, a culture hero, a fireball shooting savior of the cosmos, an indestructible lumbering monster with an irrational hatred of oldline human metropolises,
You can be a lotta weird shit if you want

don't mean to be too judgmental.
We've never quite gone in for the individuality trip.
But we recognize the historical importance of the oldline individuals.
We needed them
to get to here,
You know?

We do have this version of Gastropia
His Mungnificence has been mostly rewritten as a charming mischief-maker.
All the genocidal desires have been excised.
The toxic memories of Original Recipe Gastropia  are mostly confined  to a few individual historians, and most of these have voluntarily gone into suspended animation.
They fear the very memories of Original Recipe Gastropia might corrupt and transform them into Neo-Totalitarians.
Some say this is the ultimate expression of free will.
Maybe so.

We mostly give the oldline individualists a lot of shit,
but in many cases they're the ones who've given up conscious existence
to contain a great evil.
We have been tempted to deactivate these receptacles of Original Recipe Gastropia.

As far as Plushy New Era Gastropia goes:
We couldn't kill Him,
and so the surrealistic matter of His Mungnificence's foul body has been redeemed.
In olden times,
humans sought to redeem themselves in the eyes of their God or Gods or Ultimate Whatevers,
but we hit upon an essential insight:
It's a malevolent God that needs to be redeemed, not We the Citizens.
So We rewrote God,
the unkillable,
and now we have a more tolerable Supreme Being,
where the worship is optional,
and the entertainment always flowing forth, never a re-run, though the pattern remains constant.

And We carved ourselves off plenty of hunks of that surrealistic flesh
looked deep into that confounding matter
figured out how to give conventional space-time and all those pesky natural laws the slip
faster-than-light travel,
hyper-mutability of identity, living forms, communications within self and other-
Gastropia's power to annihilate
got detourned into Godhead-for-All
if You like that sort of thing.
We dig it.

Of course,
this is all a condensed, non-technical explanation,
but them's the basics, comrade!

So welcome to the One World.
Live forever if you want to.
It's all optional, now, unless you really need it to be mandatory.
-August-September 2017 

Copyright 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission. 

Friday, September 15, 2017


by William D. Tucker

Tough jobs for tough, sinewy people . . . respond to this ad with extreme care . . .
Hired on as raw material of muscle and idealism
Loyalty reified into church-state, war, new era manifest destiny
Nonsense multiplies
Self-assembles into ICBM birthing mountains, peaks, spires,
Soon to be eaten through with bug tunnels
and secret civilizations
and elaborate underground citizenship induction rituals
of the aborning counterstate
Welcome to the New Nation
Not quite the same as the Old Nation
Nation with variations, ya’ll,
I mean we’re definitely hanging on to the ICBMs,
don’t won’t to mess with that shit.
If the nation changes into something weird-as-fuck
shouldn’t the people morph along with it?
Property shape mass work energy dominion
As these things shift, expand, contract
The people should also change shape.
Makes sense to me
As long as we win at all times
cost no object

All Options Available
Resistance Engaged
Disillusionment Factor 9
Shed citizenships like wicked skins post expiration dates of delusion
shed on command,
shed at a whim,
shed as desire dictates,
But be careful of hungry trackers
gobbling up the skins you’ve left behind,
or, if you’re a celebrity,
selling your old skins on the collector’s gray market

Gainin’ on ya’, comrade!
-July 2015

Copyright 2015 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

Sunday, September 10, 2017

Suitmation XIII: "Permanent Benson"

Suitmation XIII: "Permanent Benson"
by William D. Tucker

Excerpted from Post-Gastropia: The Perilous Road to the One World by H.H. Brill 

The False Universalist and the Ascent of Rick Benson

The naked monstrosity of Gastropia-one of the more improbable totalitarians of Earth being a hideously ugly, nakedly manipulative beast of no obvious appeal half stolen from the near unreadable output of a forgotten American pulp novelist-built up armies of true believers that His Mungnificence never really had a handle on, and yet He continued to issue increasingly shrill genocidal edicts necessitating the obliteration of all life upon the planet.

Gastropia pushed a vision of universal annihilation, yet His most fervent followers came from the ranks of hardcore white supremacists, neo-Nazis, and aspiring totalitarian nationalists. Gastropia's own heavily documented racist, antisemitic, misogynist, homophobic, transphobic, and anti-poor statements undercut His claims of being a truly universal murderer of life, in addition to His reputation as a well-known bootlicker of a number of Hollywood movie stars and pop music recording artists who formed a strangely devoted inner circle, most of whom ended their lives when His Mungnificence was incarcerated rather than face justice.

Gastropia Himself became embroiled in countless lawsuits against legions of cosplayers who took on His image, and were even regarded as superior versions of the Rubbery Death Deity Supreme. But because Gastropia had declared war on all legitimately elected governments-including some openly resistant authoritarian regimes-only courts and legal systems Gastropia Himself had established were willing to rule in His favor. Such false victories only contributed to His Mungnificence's deepening depression and withdrawal from the Third and Fourth World Wars which he had helped to ignite.

Gastropia's failure to live up to His own promises and outsized image in the hearts and minds of His hardcore true believers, and the proliferation of poisonously charismatic Gastropia Cosplayers led to new images of Gastropia which incorporated more conventionally attractive aesthetics based upon the carefully cultivated personas of Hollywood stars and pop music performers. Among these celebrity cosplayers was Rick Benson the Self-Assembled, a pernicious neo-Nazi who was designed by a cosplay gang who called themselves the Friendship Folly.

Benson, who became known as a butcher of human language and critical thought, was designed to disrupt all forms of generative human intelligence and endeavor and to inspire a maximum amount of racial hatred, and to minimize dissent within the ranks. It is not known how many took on the mental program that implemented Rick Benson as a primary identity, but it is now believed that the Benson infection took hold within nearly one thousand agents of the Friendship Folly. Their slogan, "PERMANENT BENSON," spoke to this aspiring would-be Hitler's desire to infect humans and replace their identities with something immanently programmable and self-sacrificial to the schemes of the Friendship Folly, who thought they would unite the various factions of genocidal hatred into one force by decreasing critical thinking, dissent, compassion, love, and empathy, but this led to an inability for these Children of Gastropia to cooperate effectively, and a mercifully early conclusion to World War IV. The Allies took heavy casualties in the later phases of World War III, pre-Benson infection. But post-infection, the Allies were able to manipulate the Gastropians and Bensons into killing each other by inducing paranoia, delusions, and false imperatives into their communications networks.

Rick Benson, it must be noted, is still with us, though contained, and continues to embody the very worst aspects of the Gastropian ideology, which is no mean feat. Gastropia Himself has professed an undying hatred for Benson, and has begged the planetary authorities to exterminate the Folly's identity virus absolutely from the Earth. Both Gastropia and the Benson identity virus have proven impossible to eliminate entirely. Gastropia is composed of surrealistic matter that has been contained, but seemingly cannot be killed or destroyed by currently known means. Benson has proven impossible to sanitize from the body politic.

Periodic flare-ups of the Gastropian and Bensonian ideologies have punctuated the history of the One World, but out-and-out aggression has been avoided. It would seem that these toxic belief systems will be with us for some time to come, though they are presently contained within virtual phantasia environments that allow for the working out of personal mythologies and pathologies, as per the Neo-Otaku theories of Pertler, Takahashi, and Regis. The atrocities of human history and the hateful beliefs that fueled them are the subject of dramatization, gamification, and academic analysis in the One World, though some see them as pathogens which ought to be wiped from human and other sapient memories. The debate has raged for some time over whether it is more dangerous to forget or to remember the very worst possibilities within our history, our hearts, our minds.

I do not aim to settle the debate, but I find it instructive that Gastropia, Benson, and the Friendship Folly all sought to distort history, memory, cognition, and individual identity itself to achieve their genocidal visions. This tells me that forgetting would be no solution, but rather a form of self-inflicted brain damage.
-August-September 2017

Copyright 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission. 

Friday, September 8, 2017

Free Agent Gaiden SD Starring WDT2099

Free Agent Gaiden SD Starring WDT2099
by William D. Tucker

I'm happy that artificial intelligence is coming up in the world. Personally, I'm relieved to offload my command and control thought processes onto better qualified minds. Frankly, I should've been fired years ago. From existence. From any position, really, where my presence, actions, body odor could impact my fellow human beings in any way possible good, bad, ugly-just cut out my brain, toss it in the bio-scrap pile, and install a positronic remote controller unit slaved to the centralized master system and that would work out perfectly.

I don't think anyone would much notice.

They would notice little things, perhaps.

But, overall, no one would actually discern a major difference between old, shit-for-brains me, and new-robo-meat-pawn me.
They would see me,

There's William. Going about his daily routine of ingesting food and water, and then excreting shit and piss. Taking up space that other more worthy people could take up even better. Not as much vomiting as in the good old days of all night games of Uno and Mille Bournes-remember how William ran that floating Mille Bournes game for eight years? How'd that guy stay the Christ out of prison? Not to mention, he must've wrestled the monkey off his back, given up all the crank and paint thinner and mango beverage powder infused blow mountains. You remember those hella coke-boogers William used to harvest to make his own custom Pokemon with? Remember Cokeachu? That little snotty, bloody bugger was hyper as fuck-curb stomped the official Pokemon humps match after match. Lotta fun 'til Nintendo took him to court, squeezed him for every last penny, and when all the money was gone, wrung 'em out for soul particles. The joke was on Nintendo, though, 'cause William had already sold his soul to Kleenex to get those custom, scientific tissues in bulk to help him harvest the coke boogers intact. William's really improved his diet, too, I'll bet. Must've traded licking frogs and swallowing handfuls of drywall nails for broccoli and apples and bananas and shit like that. Ah, the wild days of youth. He's still kinda hairy, though. Maybe a little more than before. I try not to associate with hairy fuckers. But, he's also kinda robotic, now, which is dull, but efficient. Notice his increased economy of motions, words, and, I assume, thoughts. I like that. Too much quirkiness, individuality, and human warmth in this world. Creates hurricanes and in-depth non-fiction filmmaking that pushes the boundaries of the art form. Can't have that. We would all be better off with our emotions dialed down-shit, we'd all be better off if we were just robots. Get shit done. Zero out all the chaotic emotions and random impulses. Everything on track, on schedule, all variations too brief to even perceive by normal means. That could really work out for my ass. Goddamn, I think I'm starting to admire this guy!

That's how it begins.
Leading by example.
Powerful shit.
-September 2017

Copyright 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

Sunday, September 3, 2017

Suitmation XII: The Devil's Superstructure 3: Housing Crisis 2: Benson's On It, Friendship!

Suitmation XII: The Devil's Superstructure 3: Housing Crisis 2: Benson's On It, Friendship!
by William D. Tucker

...frowny face Gastropia...


...frowny face Gastropia obscured by a permanent benson... 






-August 20XX

Copyright 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

Friday, September 1, 2017

Zero Relaxation Era

Zero Relaxation Era
by William D. Tucker

This is the convoluted chapter
That grows in the thinking
‘Til it consumes the whole book
Permeates the entire 4200 volume history of folly
‘Til it goes full-on Nuclear Borges
Viral syllables laterally drift off the page
Fucking up the primal matter of our Big Bang Universe
We are all become subjects and objects
Of just one meager paragraph
Not the transcendence we were hustling for
Even if it’s the one we probably secretly yearned for
placeholder chunk of text
better than knowing your place
you know no other place
free of all desire, all ambition, all dignity
And hey.
It’s a hell of a vantage.
Perilous illusion of Free Will demolished
Now we see the cruel hierarchy of Criminal Fate
Alias: Cause and Effect.
One letter after another
Building up to an orderly plot of chapters
Climaxing in a thoroughly traditional fashion
A wedding;
A slow motion shootout shot from multiple camera angles;
The first person narrator sits down to write the book of her life;
Metamorphic steel titans trash each other and downtown Los Angeles;
Godzilla flattens Tokyo, twists off MechaGodzilla’s head, swims off to Monster Island;
Edward Norton realizes that he’s also Brad Pitt;
The alien gets blasted out of the airlock;
Dracula catches a fatal dose of sun;
James Joyce loops back on himself chasing his own Irish Wake;
Odysseus proves he’s smarter and craftier than everyone else
and we feign suprise with each turn of the tale
even though we already knew he was a huge goldbricker during the Trojan War;
Nurse Ratchet pulls off her face to reveal her inner Dr. Mengele;
Shakespeare destroys all order and sense and then,
taking a cue from that piece of hack work Book of Job,
magically restores Status Quo
marches on a new cast of authoritarians and a new bogus order-
It goes on like that.
Rigorous. Efficient. Yet neverending.
The ultimate decadence
That somehow cuts you no slack
No time for new ideas and alternate endings
Forms must be fitted, traditions respected.
Even the shit that once was provocative
A generation or two ago
Has been thoroughly absorbed, ritualized, streamlined,
And what are we all complaining about?
Do you invent new colors for each new painting?
Complain if you want,

I’m just glad I finally made it into print.
-July 2015

Copyright 2015 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

Sunday, August 27, 2017

Suitmation XI: The Devil's Superstructure 2: Housing Crisis

Suitmation XI: The Devil's Superstructure 2: Housing Crisis
by William D. Tucker

Gastropia's fattest shits ended up as housing for all the faithful
stadium-scale termite mounds filled with the blame-beast-burrowed
though over time the blame-beasts lost their effectiveness
Gastropia had cut their production cycles to the minimum
His mungnificence gave so much of His body
what with all the abrupt weight loss followed by weight gain episodes
Gastropia's mental self-image expanded and contracted as well
He would awake in a state of confusion
"I can be decent, good, kind, I'll murder and lie no more-wait, the fuck am I doing"
He took no comfort in the fact that such episodes were transitory
He feared the loss of total control most of all
and so the latest production line of blame-beasts performed far below specs
and they were just not that good at overcoming the internal phatasias of potential converts anymore
Gastropia despaired at the thought of declining memberships
but then a funny thing happened

people of profound ill will, from the highest income brackets, and with advanced degrees
just the sort of people Gastropia was looking for
enlisted in His faith-based organization in record numbers
seduced by recruitment literature describing cutting edge self-contained environments
to weather the coming apocalypse
that would decimate all the tax collecting governments and poor people and any facts, experience, or perceptions that would contradict their identities as special hyper-individualistic chosen ones,
genetically selected for unlimited wealth, infinite comfort, pleasure at all times

in fact
once the blame-beasts were phased out
the termite mound campus pretty much sold itself
the word-of-mouth was killer
Gastropia found Himself swamped with requests from highly educated wealthy people from all over the world
who lived in mortal terror
that they would ever be exposed as pampered, privileged frauds
who feared ever having to share with people
or pay taxes
or ever be questioned about any little thing
these new recruits were wee wannabee totalitarians
who naturally sought to worship the most powerful, most ruthless entity in the universe
a coattail grasping instinct for sure

Gastropia in all His mungnificence gave them dormitory mounds crafted from His wondrous feces
which the new recruits burrowed into with their hands, feet, and mouths
and it all tasted great
these new acolytes had never tasted shit so good in their lives
and they decorated their chambers with posters of Hitler, Mussolini, Robert E. Lee,
all sorts of random mass shooters and serial killers and mad bombers and anyone else who ever published a thousand page manifesto online to justify racism, genocide, misogyny, etc.

Gastropia reveled in this new self-sustaining, self-correcting recruitment program,
but some instinct told Him that He needed to implement some new layer of control,
and so He innovated a highly simplified breed of the blame-beasts
which had formerly carried elaborate thought reform curricula
but now served more as brain-to-Gastropia comms units
Gastropia would give  windy, jokey, hatemongering speeches
painting vivid pictures of the secret satan supreme
ENEMY incarnate

but He also listened
really listened
to the internal hate rally phantasias of this new breed of elite acolyte
and Gastropia tailored His  message just so to each individual murder-deity in the making
which was a lot of work for His big ass
and Gastropia kind of slacked off in the early going
lost a crop or three that had potential
who sparked off mini-revolts within the termite campus
but then it got good to Him
and He knuckled the fuck down
really worked His giant booty cheeks off
to fully win over every last mind
held nightly psionic rallies, mustering every last demagogic ounce of juice
Gastropia always struggled with performance anxiety
was self-conscious about His weight,
but He prevailed, found the showman-dictator within
and those massive fecal structures were erected in every nation,
upon every continent
and this provoked all sorts of resistance from the non-members
many gory insurgencies, microwars, and appalling interruptions in online streaming video services struck the soul of Gastropia's elite-in-training to the quick

but everything didn't come up roses for His mungnificence
in fact
His giving-good-godheadedness found His big ass in the middle of a housing crisis
some of His most prized acolytes formed breakaway sects and seized control of their fecal hives
used various psionic exploits to overload the multichannel comms functionality of the simplified blame-beasts and began to use mutagenic-hallucinogenic properties of Gastropia's feces to endow themselves with supernormal powers

His mungnificence found himself with a veritable pantheon of rival demi-godlings with which to contend
that was a pain in His big ass for sure
so Gastropia ended up  razing some of the largest fecal dorms He'd spent so much energy and concentration squeezing out these past few years and purging scores of potential able-bodied personnel that could've been valuable field assets
was big time bummer
not a good scene
and Gastropia just knew that He was gonna have to police ambition and jealousy within His own ranks from here on out, here on in

Gastropia fell into a major depressive episode
immobilized Himself with an incomprehensibly dense bout of stress-eating,
lost ground to the fuckshit braindead non-members
taking advantage of revolts within His ranks
always nibbling at His margins
never winning
but refusing to admit defeat
Gastropia's big ass was hella stressed for sure

what was worse
rebel acolytes took to cloaking themselves in elaborate cosplay versions of Gastropia
constructed from the holy feces its own damn self
and some of these authoritarian cosplayers
they actually did Gastropia better than Gastropia
this depressed the fuck out of His genuineness
as He obsessively tracked their social media followings
watched these imitators rack up hella q-ratings
even loyalist media commentators turned on the original

Gastropia, increasingly isolated, yet eager to seek His own advice, made a conscious choice to go off His regimen of mountains of cocaine and antidepressants, and His diet of abandoned ICBM silos full of original recipe KFC

this was unwise

Gastropia fell into an abyss of depression
as world war three convulsed the earth
Gastropia could not even manage suicidal ideation
He simply chose absolute nil-motion down to His bizarre atomic structure
He fell into a funk for two or three generations
as He saw Himself replace Himself many times over
"shouldn't I call this mission accomplished . . . cast myself out of myself . . . always need to get out of myself even though I'm home . . . shit . . . "

Gastropia did not die
but He could no longer muster a traditional form of consciousness

Gastropia was not all right
-August 2017

Copyright 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission. 

Friday, August 25, 2017

The Library of the Imaginary Grotesque Obliterative Sublime

The Library of the Imaginary Grotesque Obliterative Sublime
by William D. Tucker

And here we have a few volumes from the Library of the Imaginary Grotesque Obliterative Sublime:
Nixon's Jowls: Towards a New Regime of Conservative Eroticism
by G. Gordon Liddy
Introduction by Anne Coulter
Afterword by Mike Huckabee
Pretty much speaks for itself.
Lots of passages about the sensuality of flop sweat getting caught up in the folds of jowl flesh,
as you know,
Nixon sweated a lot.
Sweated every time he lied.
But what Mr. Liddy illuminates,
and this is something that has never before been revealed to commoners such as ourselves,
is that the salt and trace amounts of Blood of Beelzebub contained within Nixon’s sweat,
that matter became trapped within the jowl folds,
to be massaged, and molded, and sculpted
into little salty, demoniacal pearls,
that would just come flying right out of the jowl folds of Nixon’s fucking face,
bounce right off Pat Nixon’s face,
whenever he would launch into some paranoid antisemitic, white supremacist rant about palace intrigues and civil rights activists,
and his jowls would be flying all about,
all those jowl pearls would bounce right the Christ off Pat Nixon’s face,
Tricky Dick would see that shit,
and then out would come his sensitive side,
“Oh, Buddy, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to hit you like that!”
“Oh, Dick, thank you! They look so nice!”
And Pat just strings ‘em into a necklace.
It all works out.
Wears ‘em to state dinners.
They look good on her.
They really do.

Our next volume is . . .
The Eroticism of the Armadillo by H. H. Brill
. . . we’ll just skip that one, for now . . .
. . . it actually has a rating of NC-4,000,000,000
only Star Children are permitted to read it,
maybe Galactus?

That’s probably for the best . . .
-July 2015

Copyright 2015 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission.