Thursday, February 24

doing it in the missionary position... part one

in difficult times, men find solace in all sorts of vices... booze, drugs, gambling, thieving, whoring, exxxtreme sportz!, family, and (most profitably) religion. for me, the fact that skip is missing has been a strain... but there are only so many nights you can rip people off at zargle's, steal from zog, spy on cute little galactopus girl or abuse yourself to dirty vids. at some point, you've got to fall back on what gave you solace as a kid... what your family taught you... your values... as i have none of those, i decided to go back to the only thing that ever made me truly happy... the shack of beration... with a fucking vengeance

apparently this was missing from a lot of other people's lives too... lots of the broken souls and weak minds of the station have been pouring through hangar 23. it's been hard, no doubt, without skip handling some of the practicalities (like setting up security cordons, making sure the spaceurchins (the young ones that people still find cute, not the old, gross, saggy-spiked, dripping with toxin 6-foot wide balls of repulsion that roll their way around the station looking for trouble and sexual release) are filling their pickpocketing quotas, cleaning up vomit from the newly ill tourists (ill typically from the gas we dose 'em with so they don't pay attention when the little spaceurchin rolls up and takes their wad, as they think they have sas... sas never existed... it was always a ploy to rob you... eat that, 20th century astronauts!!!!!) and so on.

but, if you need a replacement for a broken janitorial robot, a giant retarded disowned alien heir to an intergalactic shipping fortune is probably about right... and none of my other so-called friends were up for it. so flapjack, buddy, you've been promoted to assistant to the prophet... wear the mantle proudly, my lad.

i've dealt with the mechanics of the shack of beration many times before, but... seeing as i've neglected by dear readers for many many space months now, and your memories are probably damaged from overindulgence in anything you can get your hands on, or, in the off-chance that there is a new reader, who, potentially, might, maybe want to help me dramatize my amazing, sexy, dangerous life in some sort of amazing, sexy, dangerous, moving picture format, i'll remind you. idiots pay good money to stand in line and enter a shitty tent that we've erected in hangar 23, where i sit, all dangerous and sexy (like an oracle) and berate them until they cry. once they cry, they hand over their filthy lucre, thank me, i spit on them and they leave. it's very therapeutic, moral, and spiritual. i expect none of you will understand. if you do, you wouldn't wait in line, like the rest of these corpses-in-waiting.

sooo...... as business has been booming (perhaps because of the implied threat of flapjack stumbling around the shack), we've been dealing with some organization issues. the dude who helped me a while back has been eliminated, due to theological and ethical differences. so it's just us now. but... we've come upon a new scam, which is actually an old scam. some people call it being a missionary. i call it unpaid franchising.

a curious sort of person has been showing up to the shack. these people, usually middle aged (or worse), wealthy, and aimless. they made such a success of themselves, retired early, bought gorgeous ships, and sail about, looking for meaning in life. i thought the meaning was to get rich. they got rich... what the fuck do they want to do now? they need to shut up and enjoy themselves. if they're feeling guilty about their amassment of coin, i'll happily remove some of their guilt. it's encouraged, you know, for the betterment of their soul.

now... a taxonomical question...are they starclowns? i'm not sure... starclowns are looking for adventure, they want to feel alive, feel like they are in some vid... these followers are looking for purpose... meaning... answers. of the two, they are way easier to manipulate. and more fun. the best you can do with a starclown is get him killed. the best you can down with a follower is break his mind... that is pure ecstasy. you can't put a cred value on that.

well, i guess you could. it's pretty high. i'll have to consult my schedule.

so these... i'm too fucking lazy to give 'em a clever ame... let's just call them "idiots"... have been showing up in waves at the shack. somewhere, somehow, in the circles that they float in, one of 'em came here, got a good yellin' at... went back to the nest where they thrive and told the lot of them all about it. half the line is paunchy, well-dressed, well-walleted well-wishers seeking spiritual and moral enlightenment.

this is something i know a little something about providing.

so they come and i yell and more come and i yell more and yet more come and yet more yelling and eventually i'm down at the doctorbot with a fucked up voicebox and hemorrhoids on my lips from all the straining. life ain't easy. but this time, i could finally pay the doctorbot up front, without having to jam a screwdriver into his pay slot and then running like fuck.

yay for small victories.

so these... right, "idiots"... are approaching me... they say that the shack of beration has changed their life. they need to do more. they want to do more. i figure this is their subtle way of asking for some free attention... so i started screaming back, instructing flapjack to insert on of the larger ones into one of the smaller ones, which he does with marvelous precision... they are in ecstasy over all this but one of them comes to and says

"seriously... we want to spread the word."
"what fucking word?" - i inquire politely
"your word - the universe needs to hear it"

i proceed to explain how stupid they are... how all i've been doing is ripping them off, stealing their money, and molesting their daughters when they come to visit, but just think it's more therapy. the more i shout, the happier they become. the more i explain, in violent imagery, how flapjackish their idea is, the more convinced they are it's right.

be careful what you wish for. that goes for both me and the idiots.

so i guess it's time to for the angry one to fly. as long as someone else is doing the work, i suppose i don't really give a damn. let's see where this one goes.

No comments:

Post a Comment

what the fuck is your problem?