Simulation Hypothesis

Cosmic Winter Wonderland
Cosmic “Winter” Wonderland — Image via NASA

Of all things in the mighty universe,
the planets, moons, stars, and unfathomed space.
And so many life forms that came to be:
in the forest, hills, plains, mountains, and sea.
Of all inanimate objects there are,
why did I become this man that I am?
A curse, a blessing, my soul’s regressing.
Oh, why couldn’t I just never have been?
Never have end for never had begin!
There are no answers, and yet I drudge on,
knowing well the answer will never dawn.

We have no explanations, only dubious hypotheses to questions of our origin, our purpose if any. Only fools profess to know the unknowable. Myself, I can’t help but wonder, is it all an illusion, the fancy profusion of fake realities? A computer simulation, a binary stimulation? A contest, to see who wins and who loses. Who rises above the cruel and mundane? Then what is the prize awaiting the wise? And what of the fate of the losers?

Simulation Hypothesis

Veil of Illusions

All your life, you’ve been lied to, manipulated, influenced, persuaded, baited, and cajoled to do things you would never have done, to believe things you would never have considered had they left you to your will.

And the worst part, you never had a clue.

That’s how Authority’s mind controlling venoms work, keeping you unaware and assured that you’re free to decide and act on your own while managing your every thought.

The antidote to these governing toxins resides in your willingness to see the freedom entitled every Earthling. Liberty lay just beyond the Veil of Illusions.


Kenmore and Craftsman, pictured above, nicknamed Yoda and Buddy-L. rescued  June 2016, by my son-in-law, Ricky Asmus, from a K-Mart dumpster. Innocent Earthlings discarded as trash by a dreg.

Their eyes closed and their umbilical cords dangled, newborns in a world short on compassion, yet miraculously finding a hero in the Seas of Cruelty.

They are now the equivalent of teenagers, a few months older than the picture; rambunctious, happy and healthy residing with us in our country home.

Killing, Get It?

Enormous beef plants are designed to process large volumes of arriving cattle. After cattle are stunned, they are bled out on the Cargill production line in Dodge City, Kan. They then go through a "carcass wash;" their hides are removed; and the cattle are cut into pieces. (Keith Myers/The Kansas City Star)
Enormous beef plants are designed to process large volumes of arriving cattle. After cattle are stunned, they are bled out on the Cargill production line in Dodge City, Kan. They then go through a “carcass wash;” their hides are removed; and the cattle are cut into pieces. (Keith Myers/The Kansas City Star) [How lovely.]

Fellow earthlings hang. Excited hearts now pump faintly their last drops of life as blood flows a river inside the abattoir. White-robed overlords oversee with heartless glee the demand the people place upon them.

Killing.

It’s what humans do. I get it, now.

The government gets it. Man, do they ever.

Hunters, anglers, trappers all get it, and they get it well.

Every flesh-eater gets it; they cause it, abnormally so, and to their liking.

The slaughterhouse business is a boom, and they get, and take it all the way to the bank, who gets it.

The prison system gets it, with itchy fingers can’t wait.

Cops and soldiers get it, they signed up to get it.

Kill. Kill. Kill, for fuck’s sake.

It’s everywhere, and it’s 24/7/365.25.

Killing.

No big deal, right? I get it.

But hey, let a news story break, a tragic accident, a natural catastrophe, shooting, people killed, animals hurt. An empathetic twinkle sparks inside an otherwise numb-skull, and suddenly the Androids get all emotional, teary eyed. Heartfelt.

Really?

What the hell?

Somebody got killed.

So what?

Who cares?

Nobody. That’s who.

After their obligatory sorrow drowns in its evanescent grief, everything’s hunky-dory. Enervated emotions are restored. Now back to the business of kill and let kill until the next spate of death hits the public airwaves. Then guess what? Suddenly sparked, fleeting superficialities ignite once again with an emasculated flare-up.

Why bother with silly transitory sentiment?

Killing.

It’s what humans do, by fuck. They KILL!

Rejoice!

Killing, a tradition we can’t live without, by participating within.

Comparing Us to Animals?

The Animals
Image credit: Unknown. But whoever the artist, they did a mighty fine job. Kudos.

Us and Them, Let’s See

Who hasn’t heard numerous times before that, “You can’t compare humans to animals. That’s ridiculous.”

For example, you can’t compare the Jewish Holocaust with the animal holocaust or black slavery to the slavery of animals. Or, simply human suffering to animal suffering.

I agree, it’s preposterous.

It’s belittling.

No valid comparison can a rational person conjure.

What demented reasoning defies logic to suggest an identity between the two? Ha!

Double Ha!

What possible presentation could infer equality? Only, lunacy.

Who contests we have no equal? Who dare?

What animal, ever, in its existence, possessed the indispensable disposition to initiated a war. None! Damn you, I say, none.

What animal able of producing massive amounts of disposables to overload the landfills and fill the mighty oceans? Yes, only us, and us alone!

What animal ever invented machinery able to pollute the air, water, and land with such ease and indifference? The mere utterance, asinine.

What animal capable of creating genetically modified organisms, medicines, chemicals, and poisons able to sicken and disease every living organism? Oh phew!

What animal maliciously harms another? Rape? Murder? Steal? Lie? Cheat? Grab a pussy?

What other being commands such convoluted communication skills as to sow ambiguity and dubiety into every syllable? Bark, bark. Meow, meow. Moo, moo. Really?

What animal ever watched Jerry Springer?

What animal willingly surrenders their freedom to empower an Authoritarian Overlord? A government they bow to? And then willingly pays this Determining Absolute the fruit of their labors? Come-on.

What animal creates imaginary Gods to give license to injustice? Damn you; they have no such imaginings. Thank God.

Now, who fancies any animal even remotely capable of such atrocities as the Holocaust, or that of black slavery, or the genocide of whole native populations, or the extinctions of entire species, or animal agriculture? None!

How dare any dunderhead compare us to the animals. Idiots.

Why I Write

Loving mother and calf. Source Mercy for Animals http://www.mercyforanimals.org/
Loving Mother and Calf

Why I Write

I write for change.

I write to free the slaves.

I write to expose the criminals.

I write to protect the innocent.

I write to denounce the guilty.

I write to reveal cruelty.

I write for the voiceless.

I write for freedom.

I write for peace.

I write as though all the world is reading.

As if, all the world cared.

The Winner Is…

It feels like this. Doesn’t it?

By hell, it is like this.

And not just somewhere, but everywhere.

Go anywhere, and you’ll see them. Their faces downcast, with eyes transfixed as though impaled to the tiny illuminated screen they hold in front of them, mere inches away from reality. Engrossed in the trivial, suspended in the binary, irredeemably locked into the Matrix (Yes! The Matrix. It is as real as the words on this screen. Hmm).

Poor souls.

They are, the walking dead in the Brave New World of the Android (no pun intended).

Capitalism has won.

The game is done.

Changed

They tell me I’ve changed,

but they don’t know the half.

They say I’ve lost my mind,

but it was never mine to begin.

—At an art fair in Southern Indiana

artists peddle their overpriced wares, nice as they are,

to the interested disinterested masses

who will go home carrying mostly what they came with.

There’s a fat, red-faced white man wearing a bow tie and straw hat,

his shirt wet with salty sweat,

holding the reins to his horse-drawn carriage,

sitting beneath the shade of the built-in canopy,

while his slave horses bake in the sun on the hot pavement

beside God’s Christian church where they’re serving chicken breasts

to the old folks bused in from who-the-fuck-knows-where.

(Little do any of these, the old fat fucker, or God even care as long as they all get what they came for: money, a meal, obedience.)

A racially mixed crowd marches through the streets protesting the KKK,

who are protesting Goddamn knows what.

However, the straight-piped Harleys drown them both out

in a sea of roaring CCs, with attitudes to match.

Thick smoke drifts up in the hot still air from the food corridor,

where folks revel on the flesh of my friends,

invading like a mob in a creepy zombie film show,

immersing clothes, hair, and eyes in a rancid haze

nauseating the senses of the sensitive,

while I buy six dollars a bar, handmade soap

—only because it’s vegan.

A few miles down, in middle of the road, a deer lies slowly dying,

her legs twitch, her eyes alert.

Hit by a distracted driver posting selfies to Instagram—

because the bitch thinks she’s special and can.

With 4000+ faux Facebook friends, what other possible conclusion is there?

Well, I think you know what the problem is just as well as I do.

The Millennial’s mother told her, she was special,

and so she believes it.

Well, she’s not and neither are you.

—Unless you’re doing something special, you’re just another

run-of-the-mill, bottom-dwelling crap-sucker

sucking hind tit off an Empire struggling

to defeat 30,000 Taliban

while it taunts a billion Chinese

and a million Russians into war,

set to the music of a nuclear finale.

But still, its dutiful citizens pledge allegiance.

(Except for a handful down on one knee.)

And the nation prepares to make it all better

by voting to be, “Stronger Together.”

A megalomaniac on one side a psychopath on the other,

take your pick, red or blue, it doesn’t fucking matter.

Meanwhile a white teenager, his hair in dreadlocks,

takes a brow beating from a black girl, her hair in dreadlocks,

both look hip as shit, but accusing him of

“Cultural Appropriation.”

What the fuck?

Who starts all this confrontational interpretation?

In my time, and I know that’s irrelevant,

it was that imitation was the sincerest form of flattery.

No more, now it’s a personal affront.

Another goddamn wedge forced between people

pretending to fight for social justice,

while they rob liquor stores and steal TVs

from their own neighborhood establishments.

And nobody realizes they’re being played to the hilt,

by an elite who’s dead-set on destroying us all for a trillion bucks,

and the power to match.

…they say I’ve changed.

Fear Sells

They say sex sells.

Perhaps, a trifle.

However, nothing outsells fear, and each fear has something significant to sell, tangible and otherwise.

The fear of war.
The fear of peace.
The fear of death.
The fear of hell.
The fear of gods.
The fear of devils.
The fear of jail.
The fear of disease.
The fear of growing old.
The fear of going bald.
The fear of growing fat.
The fear of ridicule.
The fear of loneliness.
The fear of terrorism.
The fear of the weather.
The fear of loss.
The fear of failure.
The fear of success.
The fear of sexual impotence.
The fear of the future.
The fear of foreigners.
The fear of gays.
The fear of blacks.
The fear of yellows.
The fear of reds.
The fear of browns.
The fear of whites.
The fear of men.
The fear of women.
The fear of insects.
The fear of animals.
The fear of protein deficiency.
The fear of calcium deficiency.
The fear of vitamin deficiency.
The fear of Veganism.

We live in a world predicated on fear.

As for me? I’m fearless.

Peter the Vegan and the Orphaned Urchin

Chapter 3

<< Chapter 2- Peter the Vegan – The Burning

“Where is he then?”

“He’s gone missing, Your Honorable Honor.”

“Missing?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve dispatched my most capable guards to find and recover his corpse.”

“His corpse?”

“With all due respect, Your Honorable Honor, it stands to reason, the flames were moments from closing in before the downpour and–”

“And I suspect your men won’t have any difficulty tracking a dead man, eh, Executioner.”

“We’re searching throughout the village, Your Honorable Honor.”

“Do you think who stole the body is foolish enough to keep it in the village?”

“Well, Your Honor…”

“And what use has one of a corpse, Executioner, unless their desire is such as your own depraved manner. No, I believe Peter the Vegan is very much alive, though I suspect not feeling well. Nonetheless, when he does recover and manages to show himself again, and I believe he will for I’ve little confidence that your goons are even capable of finding their own penises — unless it used for some debauchery — much less tracking a dead man fleeing his execution. And whose survival may well be perceived by those simpletons who had witnessed your botched performance with this immoral, a miracle of God he survived. And that Executioner, need I tell you, will cast us both in a dim and challenging light.”

Continue reading “Peter the Vegan and the Orphaned Urchin”

The Hypocritical Oaf

The hypocritical oaf

Squeamish at the sight of blood

shudders at the stench of death

cringes at the sight of suffering

shits himself on the thought of pain

And yet . . .

yet bloody death, suffering, and pain

is his everyday repertoire –

(lock, stock, and barrel)

In every bite,

piled high on his plate

woven in the fabrics he sports

tested on the products he selects

epidemic in the government he elects

rampant in the brands his shallow ego protects –

He is microcosm, self-entitled mini-capitalist-warmonger-tyrant

this squealing potbellied armchair aspirant

Tho’ he’s easily spooked by nightly news

where the on-scene reporter,

her mock expression to match,

tells of gangsta/terrorist/calamity just past

As he swaddles in blanket sipping whiskey ‘n ice

cozy by the fire he offers his advice

But first, the obligation of sympathy

(a bowed head and a blessing)

for this all-too-soon forgotten tragedy

and its hapless faceless victims

(whom he only pretends to care for)

He’s happy to be the one secure at home,

safe behind his bolted door

(where he has 911 on speed dial)

“What’s the world coming to!” he decries aloud

(shaking his fist to an imaginary crowd)

though he never considers (not for a moment) the disavowed

And so he advocates, pontificates

for more authority,

more police,

more security,

more goddamn gun control,

more prisons,

more laws,

But never,

never, does he consider the underlying cause –

this hypocritical oaf