It’s quite possibly a fact that all nodes lead to Margaret Anna Alice. I have met numerous stackers due to her tireless connection and amplification of people’s work (mine, included); it is because of her that I have the opportunity to meet and host CJ Hopkins on his Strangers in a Strange Homeland American tour (and please, do come if you’re in the Chicagoland area and say hello!)

I have had the absolute pleasure of collaborating with Margaret on several of her pieces, words that have withstood the test of time:

And so it comes as no surprise that it was all Margaret’s doing that I crossed paths with Noel Spangler. A man whose Substack alleviates the burden of the psychopathic times we live in through humour. I had subbed after only reading one post a while back, but in my constant desire to catch up on all the brilliant writers here on Substack, I failed to return. Until Margaret brought Noel’s stack back on my radar. A short DM exchange with her, a few hours of unexpected solo time, and the opportunity to noodle with some new AI tools, and the video above was born.

Luckily, Noel didn’t hate it because I am rather happy with how it turned out, considering it was my first use of these specific AI tools, and I wanted to share it widely. Check out more funny stuff at NewWorldHumor.com and give Noel a well-deserved follow:

I have said it a few times, but I’m going to say it again: Substack has provided a platform for deep thinkers, creatives, and top-notch writers to come together and help lift the veil of the reality we’re sold while we walk the world amongst those who have bought it line, hook, and sinker. I am honored to stand shoulder to shoulder, my brothers and sisters, even if we don’t agree on everything, even if we passionately argue. At least, we share an understanding that it’s all smoke and mirrors. (This is after I posted a pretty level-headed observation on FB (I know, I know, but if we don’t say these things to the normies, we’re just preaching to our choirs), and although I haven’t gone to check yet, I was already told privately it was a dumpster fire with unhinged emotional responses. I’d much rather hang out here and have real conversations with you lot. The delusion and madness of crowds is best left to Charles Mackay.)

The author of Visceral Adventure believes in the gift economy and therefore offers all content with no paywall, asking you to contribute whatever amount feels good to you. Since value is unique and subjective, only you can decide what (if any) contribution is gifted at this time. All contributions benefit and support my family.

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Are you tired of Epstein’s face yet? I sure am. But we can’t stop talking about him, can we? Because if we stop, they get away with it. His (s)mug is just a blunt reminder that we are ruled by psychopaths.

When I first heard Thumbnail Green’s track, I knew immediately I wanted to do an Epstein collab. But the weeks turned into months, my plate kept getting fuller, and then, the most recent ado with the unrelease of files or, rather, the lack of evidence that the files existed in the first place, unleashed a tsunami of epic Epstein memes that now became the focus of the background visuals for the track.

The memelords outdid themselves. I still have about 30 unused Epstein memes that couldn’t be included in the video. I’ve stretched the reasonable amount beyond capacity, including my expectation that you either be a speedy reader or pause frequently. And this is after I looped The Green Man’s chorus 3x to extend the song. The struggle is real for a meme lover in times of memelanche.

I’ll keep this post short because I’d rather take up your time with watching the music meme video. (memideo? 🥴) Thanks for taking a gander, and please do give my talented Aussie friend a Substack follow.

FWIW, here’s proof of my own street cred as I dangle this on my car rearview mirror:

The author of Visceral Adventure believes in the gift economy and therefore offers all content with no paywall, asking you to contribute whatever amount feels good to you. Since value is unique and subjective, only you can decide what (if any) contribution is gifted at this time. All contributions benefit and support my family.

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I wrote this piece three years ago when I thought I was going to do some audio-related content.

I always wanted to animate it, but with a full plate of projects, I never got around to it. I’m currently working on a Thumbnail Green track and have been trying to expand my arsenal of video tools. My kids were bugging me to get CapCut, so I finally aped into it and as a test, I threw in this old piece to see what AI would do.

The voice has trouble with the rhythm of the prose, and it sometimes mispronounces the words. Granted, it’s not the easiest thing to sort, and I imagine its predictive speech struggles to understand the string of words. But, all that said, I don’t hate it. The machine chose the imagery, and I do have the option to get more granular with the edits if I wanted to, but I thought I’d throw it up here as is. I also tried it with b-roll film clips so it can be more dynamic, but I hated it. If only it could create dynamic animations that matched the imagery! Then we’re talking! I’m sure that’s around the corner.

If you have the 5 minutes to spare, let me know what you think of the choices AI made with my words.

Hope everyone is having a great summer!

The author of Visceral Adventure believes in the gift economy and therefore offers all content with no paywall, asking you to contribute whatever amount feels good to you. Since value is unique and subjective, only you can decide what (if any) contribution is gifted at this time. All contributions benefit and support my family.

To upgrade to a paid subscription to this stack, click on the button. For a one-time gift, click on this Ko-Fi link. Or if sats is your thing, I have one foot on the BTC exit ramp and you can contribute here:

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As always, thank you for being a part of my journey.

One of my biggest joys in life is having deep conversations with my soul sister about things people don’t tend to talk about in polite company: conspiracies, spirituality, death, anything esoteric. About a year ago, we thought it would be funny if we did a clown show in which we would play hyperbolic versions of ourselves; an opportunity to exhibit some of the things we don’t say around normal people, but from the mouths of buffoons, perhaps a modicum of truth will stick.

We stewed on this idea for a bit, and then about three months ago, we decided to try and put it up. We started meeting once a week, and finally, about a month ago, we patched together a script. I am currently trying to memorize my lines. Yes, we open this Friday, and yes, I really should have had my lines memorized already.

A mutual friend had a spot in her space and graciously offered to host this crazy endeavor. Maybe a bit underprepared, maybe a bit lunacy, but this Friday, May 30th, Chicago is about to get two clowns who don’t mince words get up on stage and hope no one brings rotten tomatoes. Or maybe we hope someone does. I expect some people to walk out.

Anyway, the full pitch for the show is under my theatre company’s Substack, so you can find out more here:

3 weekends. 2 clowns. 1 apocalypse.

If you’re in Chicago, please come. If you’re not, we’re toying with the idea of filming it and broadcasting it here. Quick poll: Is this something you’d tune into? Would you sit through 90 minutes of buffoonery that ventures into lifting the veil of reality on a corporeal and spiritual level? Would you watch?

Either way, we’re doing it. I’m eager to get it out in the world because it has consumed my life this month. Live theatre, in theory, takes a lot longer to produce, but sometimes events happen, and we grab onto that wind and go with it. I’m pumped!

The author of Visceral Adventure believes in the gift economy and therefore offers all content with no paywall, asking you to contribute whatever amount feels good to you. Since value is unique and subjective, only you can decide what (if any) contribution is gifted at this time. All contributions benefit and support my family.

To upgrade to a paid subscription to this stack, click on the button. For a one-time gift, click on this Ko-Fi link. Or if sats is your thing, I have one foot on the BTC exit ramp and you can contribute here:

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As always, thank you for being a part of my journey.

Margaret already wrote an exquisite post about the significance of this video and the kindest words regarding our collaborations, and I sincerely hope that if you, perchance, don’t also subscribe to her (and you really, really oughta!) you click on this link to get the full experience.

My life has become enriched by having this magical woman in my life. Not only is she a wealth of knowledge that she freely shares, not only is she a powerhouse writer, but she also happens to have the rare quality of lifting your soul and empowering you to forge through the darkness. Margaret’s strength is inspiring. Even in the face of a monumental loss, she shows grace and unshakeable love for humanity. Sometimes, the universe knows exactly what it’s doing when it shuts some doors while opening others. I am ever so humble to have had my path crossed Margaret’s.

In a way, it doesn’t seem like five years have passed since the time the world turned upside down. The covid years feel like a black hole in my timeline. It shook the foundation of all my beliefs, it changed the relationship I held with people, it got me off the hamster wheel of life. And I am grateful for all of it. Even if it meant losing friends and reinventing myself. Evolution is painful. Last Monday was my husband’s (we aren’t actually married, but I’m going to use that as shorthand since it’s the closest to what our relationship is) birthday, and we had a big ol’ party. Five years ago, his birthday party was the last affair with all of our friends before the lockdowns. The composition of who was there was altered, but the spirit of folks celebrating the life of a friend, of lifting their voices in harmony, (and perhaps of imbibing a bit too much - not me, I don’t drink anymore, but I’m not judging) was the same. Most of us crave community and I am grateful for those who stuck around in real life and equally so for those I have met here in this digital corner of the internet.

And because in her post, Margaret mentions that we’re five years away from the big 2030 year that hangs out rent-free in the mind of any respectable conspiracy theorist, I thought I’d offer my own Apocaloptimist vision of what that might look like. And what better way to express that than in a simple pronoia haiku:

Everyone’s awake

Laughing, building, living free

Dawn licks every shore

In 5 years, those who welcome sovereignty will outnumber those who wish to be governed. In 5 years, those who build and shift paradigms will convince the rest to leave the paradigms that no longer serve. In 5 years, the world will be a kinder, more beautiful, and more fair place than it is now, and most definitely more loving than it was 5 years ago when we thought the end was nigh. We have already started a new beginning. It seeded deep inside us and the transformation was internal and, therefore, hard to see. In 5 years, though, the external will catch up. I offer this not as a prayer but as an affirmation.

The author of Visceral Adventure believes in the gift economy and therefore offers all content with no paywall, asking you to contribute whatever amount feels good to you. Since value is unique and subjective, only you can decide what (if any) contribution is gifted at this time. All contributions benefit and support my family.

To upgrade to a paid subscription to this stack, click on the button. For a one-time gift, click on this Ko-Fi link. Or if sats is your thing, I have one foot on the BTC exit ramp and you can contribute here:

bc1qlh9r0h5czgp9cv6pzfpmwr7zg30tud7fdrx0dd

As always, thank you for being a part of my journey.

Thumbnail Green from the Oxymoron’s Substack wrote another banger, and I couldn’t help jumping into the collab. If you haven’t already, check out his music. When I hear people talk about how artists have become a hive mind of one ideology, I still insist that there are plenty of us out there who refuse to swarm to acceptable comforts and continue to speak uncomfortable truths. I got the opportunity to play with new AI techniques too which is always a treat. This is my second collab with TG. Take a gander at the first one which I was thrilled with how it turned out:

I have been terribly busy in my normie corner of the world as well. The International Puppet Festival was in town, and I got hired to shuttle performers for it (a job I was prevented from being hired for three years in a row because I refused the you-know-what), but since I was still substitute teaching in the morning, the last two weeks have been 19 hour weekday shifts and 14 hour weekend shifts long. This broad is tired. However, driving around in Chicago traffic and weather (it was -7F last Tuesday) also kept me on my toes, and I used every in-between moment to work on projects, ultimately managing to edit a few of my theatre company’s retroactive productions, and a music video for my dear IRL friend Alžan.

I have a couple more projects on deck for February I hope to share with you all. Including with some of Substack’s favourites. I know the world is burning. I am keeping half an eye on the news. As I was editing the Kill Box video above, RFK Jr. was getting grilled at his confirmation hearing. The anti-vax issue came up a lot. Every time it did, he reframed it as “pro-safety,” which is valiant, I guess. But I, personally, would have rathered him stand up tall and say, yes, absolutely, I am anti-vax. And if you deciphered actual studies instead of getting them filtered through the corrupt bought-and-paid-for-by-pharma regulating agency, you would be, too. And if you read “Turtles All the Way Down” or “Dissolving Illusions,” you would be too. And if you had any sense to look behind the curtain instead of parroting the crowd, you bet you’d have questions in dire need for answers. Why are we still tiptoeing on egg shells?

After the year I had I welcome all challenges to making America healthy again with open arms. We won’t get everything right. But I’d much prefer to eat crow than to have my children be slowly poisoned inside Kill Boxes by invisible powers profiting from our labour and our illnesses. We should have the courage to pull all our chairs up to the uncomfortable table. Americans got grit. Pass it down.

Make America Brave Again.

The author of Visceral Adventure believes in the gift economy and therefore offers all content with no paywall, asking you to contribute whatever amount feels good to you. Since value is unique and subjective, only you can decide what (if any) contribution is gifted at this time. All contributions benefit and support my family.

To upgrade to a paid subscription to this stack, click on the button. For a one time gift, click on this Ko-Fi link. Or if sats is your thing, I have one foot on the BTC exit ramp and you can contribute here:

bc1qlh9r0h5czgp9cv6pzfpmwr7zg30tud7fdrx0dd

As always, thank you for being a part of my journey.

Dear Embattered Americans,

There is no use mincing words: we are at the End Stage Empire. As I write this, merely a few hours ago, there was an assassination attempt (staged or real, who cares?) on a presidential candidate and the media took their sweet time crafting the narrative to bring us this:

A fall. Does it even matter? We’ve become so familiar with and accustomed to bread and circus that we’re part of the show.

It’s useless to mention that if TPTB wanted him dead, he’d be dead.

And it would bake your noodle just as much to ponder if no matter how grand the theatre is, don’t actors still f**k up their lines? The play doesn’t matter. Only how it makes you feel matters.

But every circus, sooner or later, has to pull the flaps of its tent and strike the stakes of its Big Top. The empty shells of the fire-roasted peanuts will litter the floor, the mud tracks of countless footsteps will harden under the blazing sun, and the stage bills will be picked up by the wind only to end up stuck in a pasture somewhere nearby. I’m not going to pretend that the demolition is going to be a light-hearted affair. I’d like to say America has had a good run, but there are oh, so many, many, MANY countries around the world that would strongly disagree. And they are surely popping the corn and pulling up their front-row seats at this very moment. Heck, some of our own fellow Americans are doing the same.

So, let’s give them one last big show. The world is watching.

Wipe off the flaking makeup. Put your smile back on. Turn the house lights back on. It’s time to break the fourth wall.

Dear Embattered Americans,

We can no longer ignore the set pieces falling around us. The more we engage in arguing in the stands about what we’ve been sold to believe, the more time the naked emperor is prancing around without anyone pointing at him. Even if you think you have escaped one reality for another, the hall of smoke and mirrors is endless; getting out of the maze requires not only knowing that we’re stuck in the maze in the first place but also our collaboration. Yes, past the identifying markers of what we look like, who we vote for, or who we invite in our beds, we’re a people of a relatively still new nation; a nation made up of all the different people of the world. Can you imagine if we left the stands of the arena empty, the empire’s thump frozen in mid-action, and we went to grow community gardens instead?

The storm is upon us. The empire uses our labor to pay for its avarice; it asks for the sacrifices of our children for its glory; and it engineers our consent to hold up the illusion of governance. No more. The line has to be drawn here. No further. The dissolution of big government might be painful but it has to be done. Participating in the voting process only prolongs the inevitable death. Holding your money in the banks is buying into the magic trick. Sending your kids to school is providing new generations to indoctrinate. What if we really did stop acquiring licenses, getting certificates, registering for events, asking for permission, paying taxes…?!?

What if we learned how to cohabitate in harmony not because it pissess off the empire (although, bonus!) but because deep down the spirit in me recognizes the spirit in you and it knows we can break bread together, and laugh together, and maybe, just maybe, find a way to make America OK again.

And look, there won’t be any applause at the end of this. No one is gonna be giving you a bouquet of flowers or sticking around for autographs. The marquee lights won’t flicker off immediately. But by then, the dust from the empire’s fall would fill the wings and we wouldn’t have to wait around inhaling its poison.

It’s time now. Leave the costumes and the props behind. Where we’re headed, no need to play pretend.

Blessings to you all

This post was made in response to Kathleen Devanney’s call for citizen’s SOTU addresses.

I also wanted to play around with some of the AI Lip Synch tools, hence the video. Of course, the irony as I ask folks to stop play-pretend is that I’m using the biggest play-pretend of them all: Artificial Intelligence. Maybe that’s a turn-off. Or maybe that only helps expose how much of an illusion we really do live in.

But a funny thing happened on my way to export: I either don’t know what I’m doing or there is some kind of safety mechanism built in for catching unsavory rhetoric because I was only able to export half the video, the rest kept blowing up with error messages. I changed my specs several times to see if it was a length issue or a size limit issue, but I could never get the other half of it out, finally letting it be in the wee hours of the morning. So. I hope you’re reading instead.

Kathleen, thank you for prompting this exercise. Even if I’m not quite a proper American, I still love this country. Not many places that will let you go around saying this s**t.

The author of Visceral Adventure believes in the gift economy and therefore offers all content with no paywall, asking you to contribute whatever amount feels good to you. Since value is unique and subjective, only you can decide what (if any) contribution is gifted at this time. All contributions benefit and support my family.

To upgrade to a paid subscription to this stack, click on the button. For a one time gift, click on this Ko-Fi link. Or if sats is your thing, I have one foot on the BTC exit ramp and you can contribute here: 

bc1qlh9r0h5czgp9cv6pzfpmwr7zg30tud7fdrx0dd

As always, thank you for being a part of my journey.

I’ve been compiling a memelanche post for the end of the year, which I’ve been pleasantly distracted away from by other projects and so a brief update post:

First off, the last few months, I’ve been really interested in all this supernatural and occult hidden hand behind what we perceive as reality. Coming from the theatre world, it’s no surprise that I’m drawn to it: stories of mysteries are spell binding. It’s also interesting to see what stories take hold; why do they sound totally credulous to some and wildly unbelievable to others. Where do I stand on the believability spectrum? My needle fluctuates on a framing scale that itself shifts against the metric of civilization.

I had stumbled upon a podcast that set me off in a few different directions and then Mathew Crawford of Rounding the Earth Substack met with Matthew Ehret of Matthew Ehret’s Insights to talk UFO Cults and it might have melted my brain a little bit. It definitely moved my needle so I put together an 8 min highlight video (pasted above) to distil it for myself and to recap it for others if ever a Part 2 to the conversation was to take place. And there is. Tonight, December 19th at 9p ET on here and here. So, I’ll be wrapping presents taking part of a holiday that is based on a supernatural tale, one that I could not partake in growing up under communist buzz-kill only to now be exploited by capitalist feudalists to extract as much value in a commercial craze and the dang carols are so darn catchy and pass me the ribbon because kids, ya know? But while I’m doing that, and sipping some vino, I’ll also be listening to Part 2 of UFO Cults because I want to wrap my brain around this lever of control and I want to expand my understanding of all THIS. The post comes at the heels of Mathew’s conversation with Gabriel from Libre Solutions which only recently having caught up with, filled in many gaps in my understanding. Watching them riff off of each other is also pretty remarkable.

And so I was extra thrilled to join Gabriel and friends Liam and Margaret for another Digital Autonomy in the Arts conversation.

Substack is wonderful for enabling access to the minds and talents of unique thinkers and creators and I am overjoyed to be a part of this ecosphere. We got to discuss AI and art and war and unique gift ideas, and even managed to sneak in more collaboration potential. Coming soon!

And lastly, on a random monday a couple of weeks ago, I got the opportunity to fill a spot in the Rounding the Earth podcast. I put my youngest to bed without a hitch, I managed a quick shower. I even prepared notes, you guys! I wanted to talk about all this woo woo in the Matrix because that was now inexplicably butting up against me wanted me to engage with its mysteries… and as fortune should have it, one of the twins woke up from a nap with a fever. I tended to him and I jumped in the stream but in my haste, instead of expanding my notes, I clicked out of them. With hundreds of tabs open and the countdown reaching the end, I tried winging it all from my chaoting brain. I don’t suggest you watch, but posting here for posterity, so here is that malarkey of mine:

For sharing the UFO highlight reel, here are some options:

YouTube

Rockfin

Rumble

Bitchute

Website

The author of Visceral Adventure believes in the gift economy and therefore offers all content with no paywall, asking you to contribute whatever amount feels good to you. Since value is unique and subjective, only you can decide what (if any) contribution is gifted at this time. All contributions benefit and support my family.

To upgrade to a paid subscription to this stack, click on the button. For a one time gift, click on this Ko-Fi link. Or if sats is your thing, I have one foot on the BTC exit ramp and you can contribute here: 

bc1qlh9r0h5czgp9cv6pzfpmwr7zg30tud7fdrx0dd

Thank you for being a part of my journey!

A yearning of yesterdays flutters in a candle melted together by a nostalgia of memories.

We received our hand of cards, suffered through a blush of embarrassments, fell prey to a great deal of used car salesmen, and jumped through a ho ho of loopholes. Yet, we still followed a strangle of bad laws because a faculty of academics who had read a compendium of books taught us to behave like an obedience of subordinates.

So, some of us became an impatience of wives; some became an unhappiness of husbands; some became a Rand of Objectivism; some became a dilemma of prisoners. A nerve of neighbours would whisper a dish of gossips. A delirium of debutants would reveal a pumphouse of egos. An ennui of haute bourgeoisie would turn into a gaggle of pill poppers. Some of us reluctantly joined an extinction of critical thinkers. Not enough of us for a calendar of saints. Perhaps, we were just a thicket of idiots, in the end.

We trusted an equivocation of politicians who appealed to a desperation of voters wanting a vane of direction but all we were left with was a kompromat of senators surrounded by a concert of yes men. And then this bunch of w*****s and this wunch of bankers stole our vision of dreams and offered only a moan of lamentations while clenching a fistful of dollars. Can we, at least, admit we acquiesced to a talent of gamblers and a knuckle of gangsters?

A twinkling of todays is as transient as a soufflé of clouds.

We spend the day making sense by listening to a slant of journalists and a veneer of newscasters; paying attention to a pretension of intellects and a worship of writers; getting lost between the babel of words spoken by a quiver of geniuses. How many of us flip through a meaning of dictionaries and comb through a pitfall of fine print? How many of us seek the knowledge from a slumber of the old guard? How many of us avoid the firehose of information because we’re afraid of a shush of librarians?

No, we are not a furrowed brow of scholars, friends. We get transfixed by a twaddle of public speakers eschewing our knowing to a pomposity of professors and an ex cathedra of professors emeriti. We neglect our gut of instincts to pursue a litany of limitations imposed by a complex of psychologists. And we do it without a clutch of second thoughts.

And now, as a culture of viruses was said to come from a cauldron of bats, we have to rely on a sleuth of mama bears to sift through a jungle of nazis, avoid a borg of eugenicists, and locate a kolkhoz of commies because a shriek of claques, an erudition of editors, and a hush of censors won’t let a host of epidemiologists, a guess of diagnosticians, a helix of geneticists, a colony of microbiologists, a number of statisticians, an addition of mathematicians, a body of pathologists, a nucleus of physicists, and a sequitur of logicians speak. No one expects a congress of baboons to run a battery of tests holding responsible a pfuckery of Pfizer and a malarky of Moderna. Certainly no one expects the whored of presstitutes to jeopardize their splurge of sponsors. But some expect that listening to an example of experts will lead to staring at a slab of morticians as the truth gets erased by a page of wikipedians.

So a subtlety of designers line up a queue of actors and a parade of liars. An example of masters request a mixture of pharmacists and a cartel of pharmacologists to throw a luck of dice which sometimes lands on a wisdom of grandparents and sometimes on an abandonment of orphans and leaves a pathos of mourners in its wake. An altruism of philanthropaths create an industry of villains accompanied by a gush of sycophants who drown a persistence of parents who, in fact, are a better bevy of judges than this sling of psychopaths. A clutch of kleptomaniacs loot a kaleidoscope of currencies and hail the cult of moloch. Who let this continent of leviathans assume they are a Pantheon of gods?!? Someone, please, slip this reflection of narcissists a magic of mushrooms.

A promise of tomorrows is no more assured than a flamboyance of flamingoes and a snuggle of otters around a float of crocodiles.

And so it is left to a tabula rasa of empiricists and a conclusion of conspiracy theorists to refuse to become an obeisance of servants to a tyranny of dictators. There will be no league of superheroes. There will only be a suspicion of saviors, a decorum of deans, a disputation of lawyers, as a tide of critical mass turns. Followed by a parliament of beggars, a lying of pardoners, an amnesty of aparatchicks; a plague of rats jumping off the Titanic as a string of violinists play to a diminishing audience of listeners and a slithering lounge of lizards. Let’s not await for a persuasion of prophets. Let’s not create a nervousness of AIs. Let’s avoid becoming a lamentation of Morlocks, a vexation of zombies, a bank of automatons, a skynet of cyborgs… Let us return to enjoying ourselves as a consciousness of beings.

Just maybe the future can be left alone archived only by a confusion of philosophers and an iamb of poets.

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[Transcript]

In the hunt for utopia, we set our minds on easy times while pushing our desires to the brink of excess. We convince ourselves we want what’s being sold but no matter how many [blank] we buy, they end up as a precious link we forge on our own chains. Soon, even the privilege of owning will be gone and daily life will be a monthly subscription; a sliding scale based on your carbon footprint and intellectual curiosity and for what? What is the promise here? Shiny futuristic cities housing millions of us, like ants in an ant colony, predestined in a social order organized around an acceptable lifestyle, with no space vast enough and private enough to be able to ponder your own (in)significance? Thanks, but no, thanks. Take your elegant dystopia and your idiotic explanations and shove ‘em up your EVs.

I wonder what it would smell like when countless birds slam and break their necks in this “mirror glass facade” and begin to rot in an unofficial avian graveyard. Or is foul fowl merely an inconvenience in your fascistic abominations? I can only imagine the epic HOA meetings. You’d be hard pressed to keep Mr. Rogers as your neighbor. I have to be frank here, it is impossible to underestimate this schema. Desperate for Nirvana, the best and brightest have, without a whisper of satire, shown us the idilic life and it is a doozy. Please, just take your Big Bird brains and your beehive blue prints and bugger off.

Your ads are the stuff of sci-fi disaster flick beginnings. After years of dreaming and billions thrown out for solutions to our societal needs, these sustainable metropolises (metropoles? metropolii?) designed to herd human cattle is the best you can come up with? Let’s stuff people in a giant farm where you have constant surveillance and constant predictability, who needs consciousness anyway? Let me guess, Snowpiercer was your inspiration. So, rich people on the top and poor people on the bottom, eh? How novel. How quaint. How absolutely moronic. You got this plan from the donation pile?

You vill live in Ze Line and be happy.

Klaus Schwab, probably

You parade the future before us dressed in cold slick garbs while intoxicating heads of state with monolithic hypnosis. You appeal to them because they strive to be like you, but the rest of us aren’t bred the same. So you can take your used Nazi sales pitch and your technocratic playbook and knock on someone else’s door.

I get it now, how Yuval and the Useless Eaters (h/t Galoshes) will offer up the myth of the metaverse, in hymnals praising sustainability made effortless by AI: leisure for your mind and lethargy for your soul, and the body… well lazy is as lazy does nothing! Drones delivering foods and products, five minute walks to your farthest destinations, perfect weather, all day, every day is desirable, they say. To combat climate change, they say. Combat? I never enlisted in this conflict, my dudes. What’s that you say? I can’t hear you up there, yelling at me from your private plane, and me down here nuking a grub burger. You want me to plug in, tune out, jab up, and shut up to live here? Sounds tempting. I would much rather wonder if my asparagus survives the caterpillar carnage and the Chicago winters. It’s not much of a thrill at the moment, I’m afraid, but who knows, in five years, it just might be a matter of life or death. So, I decline your provisions on Noah’s Dark. If the Gods are angry, let us pay for what we’ve done, you guys can knock yourselves out in your disco mall. I would like less…angles. Sure, you can have access to nature, and with millions of others whose cabin fever is on par with yours, the train out to the forest will resemble the deck pool on a cruise ship. I’m not interested, you soulless unsalted pretzels. Take your halcyon and your Harari Har Har and hit the road.

So beat it with your grand ideas. Scram. Be gone with you. Don’t let the doorknob hit ya where the good lord split ya.

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