ORLANDO, Fla

On September 2nd, 2015, the attention of the Central Florida community became centered on the home of exotic animal fetishist, Mike Kennedy, who admitted one of his three cobras had escaped its confines and was on the loose. Kennedy’s king cobra, an eight-foot venomous snake, has gone rogue somewhere in the Florida wilderness near Clarcona Elementary School where outdoor recess has been suspended indefinitely. Greater Orlando reacted in a panic; it’s flip-flop footed citizenry quickly converting to close-toed shoes. Snake-charmers from Calcutta and serpent-handling Pentecostal preachers from Appalachia descended upon West Orange County in order to seek out the slithering menace, a snake which could lift 1/3rd of its body off the ground in order to deliver a bite poisonous enough to kill an elephant. I snake known to stalk human prey before striking.

Mike Kennedy Central Florida’s panicked reaction was “over-the-top.”

Reality TV Dude Mike Kennedy displays his expertise controlling a cobra... which he eventually loosens upon the Florida citizenry.

Reality TV Dude Mike Kennedy displays his expertise controlling a cobra… a snake he eventually (accidentally) loosens upon the Florida citizenry.

The Florida Fish & Wildlife Commission cited Kennedy for not immediately reporting the missing cobra, but claims the exotic beast was kept legally on Kennedy’s pleasure ranch along with two other cobras, a diamondback rattlesnake, a Florida cottonmouth, a Gaboon viper, four pythons, a spotted leopard, four crocodiles and an alligator. Mike Kennedy is well-known for starring on Discovery Channel’s “Airplane Repo” and made infamous, just recently, for being an asshole.

asshole

asshole

gator attack#OrlandoCobra is only the most recent meme to absorb the collective paranoia of Florida. A month prior to the cobra scandal, a swimming woman had her arm bitten off by a 300-lb alligator just a few miles from Kennedy’s exotic fetish ranch. The incident occurred at the redneck resort, Wekiva Island, where your narrator, Vic Neverman, oft enjoys a morning of paddle-boarding and an afternoon sipping beer with the river folk. In these very waters, the dragon struck. Sentenced to death, the alligator was euthanized. A similar fate may very well be in store for the Orlando Cobra.

The cobra could be anywhere by now, preferably in the gullet of one of the local bald eagles. In anticipation of the worst, however, the peoples of Orlando’s northwestern hinterland (Apopka, Ocoee, Bayou St Basil and Forest City) are armed more than usual. Myself, I keep either my trusty machete or trustier tennis racket within reach at all times. Cyrus Lee Hancock, professional survivalist, prefers heavier artillery. I sought out the advice of the elusive Cyrus Lee, currently hiding out from the IRS in the foothills of Tennessee.

What weaponry would you carry while on walkabout in a place haunted by a king cobra?

IMG_2071A pitchfork should be enough to handle a cobra, but an assault rifle would definitely come in handy if the bastard tried to slither away. An assault rifle with a bayonet for anything in close proximity. Otherwise, a pitchfork would do nicely. Or a sub-assault rifle with flame-thrower. Yeah, that would burn the snake out of the scrub. No place to hide then but in the ground. Perhaps a back-hoe in case the snake did find a hole. A back-hoe with a flame-thrower. That would be optimal.

Having killed your fair share of alligators, what would you have handy whilst admiring the ladies at your favorite swimming hole?

Harpoon for sure. I mean, it looks cool anyway: flexing in front of the chicas in your board-shorts as you slide the harpoon out of your day-pack. ‘Don’t mind me; I’m just the love-child of Neptune and Venus, available for tanning oil rub-downs.’ A harpoon would be enough if one of the lovelies were attacked by a gator, but a bang-stick would be ideal to smash in its skull once it’s been harpooned and tired out.

Caesar Germanicus and Cyrus Lee Hancock prepare for a leisurely stroll through the Smoky Mountains

Caesar Germanicus and Cyrus Lee Hancock prepare for a well-armed leisurely stroll through the Smoky Mountains

You and I have worked for years writing the most authoritative hurricane survival guide ever which has allowed us to study how to handle rabies, deliver babies and out-punch an escaped-from-zoo rabid kangaroo. Through all of your research, what would you say are the most lethal risks in Florida nature? Other than, of course, the weather…

Well, you have the mosquitos. They carry dengue fever, malaria, yellow fever, herpes…

I’m pretty sure mosquitos can’t carry herpes.

Of course they can carry herpes. Don’t be naïve. Mosquitos I would rank #10. #9 I would say is bears. Yeah, Florida bears are small enough for Goldilocks, but they are still ursine monsters. Bears have memories like elephants. Okay, maybe not, but if you piss one off, it will follow you, stalk your house from its tree perch, wait for you to take a nap in a hammock and then – WHAM! – it bites out your jugular and then spreads around acorns to make it look like squirrels did it.

Vic Neverman sips upon an adult beverage at Wekiva Island, site of the redneck revelry and alligator mauling

Vic Neverman sips an adult beverage at Wekiva Island, site of the redneck revelry and alligator mauling

I have never heard of black bears murdering napping humans in Florida. Or anywhere, ever. Heck, Jim Tusk’s pre-school heroic son, Bodhi, in his high-pitched roar, scared-off wayward bears in their Apopka neighborhood. This doesn’t sound like your level of perceived malevolence…

Bears get off easy because their crimes are always blamed on the squirrels. So the eighth worst threat in Florida is the squirrels. And the raccoons. And the feral children. You can lump them all in the same category because they basically all do the same thing: steal your garbage, bite through your brake-lines to sabotage your truck and they carry the bubonic plague in their lice. They do get a bad rap for the jugular biting from the bears, so let’s say bears are #8 and squirrels, raccoons and feral children are #9.

I don’t think that is true, the bit about the Bubonic plague.

If armadillos carry leprosy, then raccoons can carry the plague. So #7 is armadillos. Who wants leprosy, right? The sixth biggest natural risk in Florida is holes.

Holes?

Holes. Half of the missing person cases in North Florida can be attributed to sinkholes. With sinkholes the limestone just gives way and the earth swallows people up quicker than quicksand. Then you have the springs, which are seemingly peaceful passageways to the hollow inner-earth. Seemingly, but not so peaceful. Springs are just a toilet that flushes to Hades or whichever oblivion waits in the center of the earth. Doubt me? Just ask the scuba divers who wander down and are never seen again.

Jim Tusk and I have scuba dived dove diven dived the cave systems of Florida springs and can tell you the deaths are mostly caused by inexperience.

Inexperience and whichever water demons and sirens that lure swimmers and passersby to their doom. So yeah, #6 most lethal is the holes, though I am thinking about promoting this threat as it is pretty fucking hardcore. #5 is lightning. If it doesn’t hit you going down, that shit can then leap up out of the ground and hit you going back up. Ground lightning. I saw a dude once who got struck in the hand by ground lightning and the electricity came out of his fingertips.

Vic Neverman and Tusk after a successful cave dive north Florida

Vic and Tusk after a successful cave dive in North Florida.

You saw this yourself? The electricity coming out of his fingertips?

I didn’t say that. I just saw a dude and that dude once got struck by lightning. You’re not listening to me Vic. You never listen to me. And #5b would be spontaneous combustion. I don’t have any evidence this occurs any more often in Florida or that it is attributable to lightning, but at least three of my fraternity brothers have spontaneously combusted, leaving nothing but ash, a melted cell phone and broken hearts.

Weren’t you questioned in the disappearances of at least two of those three?

Maybe. #4 is sharks. Sharks should be number one, but only based on capability. In fact, sharks never live up to their predatory potential. They could be so much more. Even with the recent summers of frequent shark attacks, shark-on-man violence is less common than being stung-to-death by bees or wasps or Brazilian fire ants, which brings me to number three…

Wait – the statistics for shark bites are low because a vast population of the world is never wading in shark-infested waters. Aren’t the statistics much higher if you actually swim around the sandbars of the Florida coasts?

Whatever, dude. Statistics are for wonks. I am talking nature and nature gave sharks the ability to bite a chunk out of some choice fat-American rump and make a run for the Bahamas. Sharks could do so much more with the right leadership – thigh-bite then high-tail. Sure, eventually no one would go to the beach anymore and/or the sharks would be wiped-out by retributive hunters, but in the meantime, it would be a free buffet – cafeteria style with all the country-gravy they like. But this doesn’t happen. Why? Because sharks are too damn docile. Thusly, they are only #4.

Okay, so what are your top three lethal threats in Florida? Does the chupacabra or the skunk-ape sneak in there?

You are a strange hombre, Victor. Mythological beasts do not enter my top threats because myths aren’t real, like, literally.

Cyrus Lee Hancock helicoptering in the Himalaya

Cyrus Lee Hancock helicoptering in the Himalaya

They are real to the popular collective consciousness – the paranoia of the people – therefore they are a perceived risk.

Delusional risk. In Nepal, I had a Sherpa who kept dreaming about a Yeti fucking his wife, which was somewhat true, but there was no Yeti, no abdominal snowman, no abominable snowman either. The stench was just Kathmandu and the pungent yak-milk moonshine the street urchins vomit in the gutters outside your hostel. His wife’s bastard offspring is far too handsome to resemble my Sherpa, but you cannot blame that on a Neanderthal wandering the Himalaya. Crypto-animals are just the boogeymen we blame when things go wrong. So no, I am not concerned with a skunk-ape stealing children from backyards or your Puerto Rican goat-sucker killing the alpaca livestock.

Okay, so what are your top three threats in Florida?

Well, gators, obvi. And snakes, especially with all of the exotics sneaking into the Everglades. Your king cobra is frightening, but Florida is now a hot-bed of Burmese pythons gulping deer and kitty cats and the occasional wayward child. So gators and snakes are #2 & 3, whichever way you want to cut it. And put bees, wasps and ants in there somewhere. Lie in grass for longer than five minutes and you are risking consumption by Brazilian fire ants. Florida risk #1 is easy – people: the psychopathic meatloaf that makes up Florida’s population. In Orlando alone, you have Casey Anthony, George Zimmerman and Tiger Woods. It is a strange stew of meat here, amigo: too sunburnt, too dehydrated, too crazy from the heat. Everyone from the colder climes wants to live in Florida and those who don’t have a retirement plan come down early to sell drugs or turn gigolo or become real estate agents. Fucking riffraff clogging the drain.

When we were preparing for the Mayan Apocalypse in 2012, I recall you mentioning your neighbors as a bigger threat than the reversal of magnetic poles, meteorites or tsunamic flooding. At the time, I thought you were concerned with a zombie uprising of neighborly unded, but it appears you just distrust Floridians in general…

Florida is already full of zombies, which is why I am not planning on returning any time soon. It was a mistake for us to weather the Maya Apocalypse in Florida because as soon as shit hit the fan, all of those fucking Nazi neighbors became blood-thirsty warlords. If we spent 2012 in Tennessee, we could have counted on the true neighborly Christians and moonshiners to help us through. If the Maya or the Inca or the Khmer or the Eskimos or the stone-heads of Easter Island predict another apocalypse, I recommend getting the hell out of Florida. Just to get away from the people, let alone the gators and mosquitos and escaped rabid kangaroos.

If there were one animal you wouldn’t want to confront during a hurricane or another Maya apocalypse, which animal would that be?

You know the answer: damn hippopotamuses. You can run down to Colombia all you like to look after Pablo’s hippos, but consider me disinterested. I don’t want anything to do with those buck-toothed beasties.

“What’s this?”
FullSizeRenderHalf-awake and semi-puzzled, I eye-balled the hand-held smart telephony device. Eye-balled in the singular – mind you, dear reader – not plural. Both mine eyes were too dehydrated from Wednesday’s rum to be open simultaneously, so instead I hopped from one eye to the next and back again, scanning the dark & ominous font rising out of the bright illumination of my hand-held smart telephony device as I (or at least the mortal vessel which encompassed I) rose from the coyote’s den in search of a pot to piss in and, subsequently, caffeine. My mind attempted to make sense of the flotsam, jetsam, et al, of loose thoughts at play in the ebbing tide of my morning as I studied the message aboard my hand-held smart telephony device.

“An email from the Illuminati? How unlikely for such an unassuming Thursday.”

illuminati5

Lo! from the Illuminati it was. Not only did the message claim so, but it was attempting to woo me out of the shadows and wed me to the Enlightenment. Yee Gods! what took THEM so long? Obviously, I was a prime candidate – having studied THEM, spied on THEM, spat in THEIR general direction for the majority of what life I have thus far undertook. Not only that, but I had the Renaissance qualities of a well-rounded dude: educated in finance, weathered from love, embalmed in booze, marinaded in the sweat enforced by a dozen jungles, steeped in classical verse of the rock gods, naïve to naught, everybody’s stranger, cynical to a fault and recognized as an expert navigator by the International Guild of Pizza Delivery – one would have thought the Masters of the Universe would have scoped me out by now. Perhaps my bloodline was too watered down for their liking and they have only reached now! in desperation?

Is DISNEY a platform for the Illuminati?

Is DISNEY a platform for the Illuminati?

Just go ahead and gaze upon the wonder of their encouraging solicitation yourself! (NOTE: the below is unadulterated and exists in its original form, for all its grammatically-challenged glory and truly received on an unassuming Thursday)

Do you want to be a member of Illuminati as a brotherhood that will make you rich and famous in the world and have power to control people in the high place in the worldwide .Are you a business man or woman,artist, political, musician, student, do you want to be rich, famous, powerful in life, join the Illuminati brotherhood cult today and get instant rich sum of. 2 million dollars in a week, and a free home.any where you choose to live in this world and also get 3000 U.S dollars monthly as a salary %u2026 BENEFITS GIVEN TO NEW MEMBERS WHO JOIN ILLUMINATI.1 A Cash Reward of USD $50,000 USD 2. A New Sleek Dream CAR valued at USD $30,000 USD 3.A Dream House bought in the country of your own choice 4. One Month holiday (fully paid) to your dream tourist destination. 5.One year Golf Membership package 6.A V.I.P treatment in all Airports in the World 7.A total Lifestyle change 8.Access to Bohemian Grove 9.Monthly payment of $1,000,000 USD into your bank account every month as a member 10.One Month booked Appointment with Top 5 world Leaders and Top 5 Celebrities in the World. If you are interested email mr james at jamesilluminati666@gmail.com or call +2348160153010

Yes, Mr James! Yes I want “power to control people in the high place in the worldwide” because that sounds fan-bloody-fucking-tastic! And tell me more about this “BENEFITS” numbero dos about the “new sleek dream car” valued at $30,000 – is it a Camry with a moon roof? Please tell me “yes”!

Hmm… you & me, dear reader: let us not fool ourselves. The Illuminati does not recruit. Not from amongst us proles, us common torch & pitchfork peasantry. The Illuminati indoctrinates from within. My father, Old Neverman, was not landholding elite. He was U.S. Marine spawned riffraff. And Mum’s old clan had plenty of land in the 1950s, but Disney bought it out from under them for cents on the buck to build something near Orlando, not sure what. I have Gypsy, Cherokee, Irish, Scotch and rum in my veins, not Rockefeller, Rothschild, Reptilian, Windsor or Merovingian. How about you, dear reader? I suspect the Illuminati does not recruit the likes of us. Should THEY find a worthwhile talent outside THEIR genepool, THEY merely mercilessly bribe, extort, kidnap, brainwash, torture or clone a DNA replica of said worthwhile talent. THEY’d never let someone as ill-bred and undereducated as us into their incestuous genepool. I mean, no offense, dear reader…

Truth is: this email is a con.

There once was a Bavarian Illuminati who were anti-religionists and pro-reason, yet were run out of Munich by the powers that then were. Ambrose Bierce, the great American author of “The Devil’s Dictionary” in the 1880s, defined Illuminati as “A sect of Spanish heretics of the latter part of the 16th century; so called because they were light weights – cunctationes illuminati”. In today’s media, “Illuminati” is a broad term used to describe any secret power-brokers – be they regal, capitalist elites, Freemasons, leftists, Lebron James, etc. In recent years, there has been a boon of exposure to the Illuminati through art. I once discussed at great length the use of Illuminati symbolism in contemporary music: in the post-9/11 world, the new generation of Millennial is being brought up on uncertainty and they crave any sort of power structure – even if it is malevolent. Artists, such as Kanye West, Beyonce and Katy Perry, have catered to this desire, declaring themselves – subtly or not – to be the new Illuminati. Wanting to believe in Order over Chaos, the Millennial Generation has bought in, entirely.

The sharks have tasted blood…

Mr. James is a con-man. If you, dear reader, receive the same message I did, I advise you do not respond. Giggle if it is in your nature, chuckle otherwise. Move along.

Yes, but what if you went down the rabbit hole? Is the curiosity tearing at your loins as it oft does mine? Rejoice! dear reader for I have dove into said rabbit hole so you do not have to. What am I, if not a bad man to give good advice? Here it is: don’t go there. It’s dank and smells of closets best unopened.

After initial contact with Mr. James, you could expect a few rounds of email correspondence as he builds up your trust in his scam. It will be apparent Mr. James’s first language is not English as you read his prose, but then this is about world elitism, not merry-old England – right? So you shrug off his improper punctuation and references to the wrong sex when improperly addressing you. Then comes the first questionnaire.

A con-man is patient. Mr. James is not going to ask for your bank account information right off the bat like some Nigerian Prince. No, Mr. James is going to build a rapport. He is going to engage in “phishing” and “social engineering” to stick his greasy fingers down your gullet before he turns you inside-out looking for loose change.

The questionnaire will ask innocent enough things, such as:

  • Do you believe in capital punishment, yes or no?
  • Do you believe Eugenics is the best path towards population control, yes or no?
  • On a scale of 1 – 10, how religious are you with 1 being atheist and 10 being lemming?
  • On a scale of 1 – 10, how amoral are you with 1 being polite and 10 being bestial?
  • Would you be sexually aroused by engaging in congress with a partner who is masked, yes or no?

illuminatiAll fine and good. A week after responding, an email will congratulate you on the Illuminati’s increased interest in bringing you into the fold. Not only are THEY intrigued by you, but you are a candidate to be an apprentice initiated into the Sacred Order of the Dragon. Damn Skippy. The next round of questioning is less about your disposition and more about your preferences.

The second questionnaire will inquire:

  • Any allergens to shellfish or penicillin?
  • Any aversion to lying with an unclean woman?
  • Any aversion to lying with an unclean man?
  • What sort of preference might you have for a partner: Red, Brunette, Blonde? (please prioritize as red-headed virgins are hard to come by)
  • On a scale of 1 – 10, what is your age preference in a partner with 1 being under and 10 being elder?
  • What hat-size do you wear?

You’ve just won the Illuminati Sweepstakes!

Of course, you have spent the better part of a month answering asinine questions and day-dreaming about steam-bathing with power-brokers like the Trump, Beyonce and Kanye, by now, you are chomping at the bit to gain entry. Once the formal invitation arrives, with stipulations, you are overcome with ecstatic joy. All the Illuminati needs, so THEY say in their fanciful embroidery, is a DNA swab taken from the inside of your mouth. THEY just need to ensure you are not related to Obama or Carrot Top. The swab kit is en route courtesy of priority mail! In fact, regardless of your DNA results, THEY would like to send you $50,000 of Good Faith cash. THEY want you to know that if things do not work out, THEY still care about you. So how about $64,500 since you’ve been so patient? Why not? Okay – just provide your checking account number and routing number… a week later… THEY’ve had difficulties accessing your account. Your bank representative has told THEM you need to provide a PIN number before THEY can transfer the Good Faith cash. What is your debit card number and PIN? You should expect to see this transfer on the next business day. And the cotton swabs should be delivered any day now…

There will be transfers, alright. Fuck ’em. Fuck ’em all to hell. You do not need the Illuminati any more than they need you. Yes, it did look good on my LinkedIn resume: Initiate into the Secret Order of the Dragon. Yes, I know you were fantasizing of telling off your boss, “Look here, man! I’m kind of a big deal now. So back off! I know things, man, things I can’t blink out. Things that would give you night terrors and soil your sheets. So back off or I will set my henchmen upon you!” But alas, the Illuminati – whoever they are – are not knocking on your front door. It’s just a scam.

Summer is the season when the closest star to Earth takes a shine to one respective half of the planet. For those people in the applicable hemisphere, who endearingly call this close star “the Sun” in the haphazard manner Earth people endear themselves to anything which burns, the temperature is increased due to the proximity of “the Sun”. This seasonal summer heat promotes madness in all mammals and increases the spread of dirty little things like bacteria and mosquito. How did our ancestors ever survive this heated season prior to the invention of Air Conditioning? Good question, dear reader. The answer is: Summertime Cocktails.

Allow me to elaborate…

A Cure for Lycanthropy

“I just can’t be with someone who I am not sure who they are from one moment to the next.” She told me, her tiger claws still clutching the beating heart she ripped out through my ass. It was my mistake. It was a season of the summer variety and I had been living in the jungles of the Amazon when I fell into the tiger trap belonging to this Peace Corps Volunteer. But she had a point! I was at the time suffering from MPLS aka Multiple Personality Lycanthrope Syndrome. Not only was I delusional in thinking I was gradually becoming a wolf, I was also confused on which werewolf I was shifting into. One moment I was a hairy-faced Provençal boy of the Napoleonic Period, the next I was a hunch-backed grandmother stalking rabbits along Wisconsin’s Bray Road. Clearly the jungle had muddied my sense of self.

I returned from South America to Florida requiring a close shave and a chemical bath to distance myself from a louse epidemic. It was in Orlando where I renewed my acquaintance with Doc Kelly, a local snake-oil salesman whose notoriety in elixirs and ointments made him the crown prince in hair-growth tonics and libido-enhancers. Fearing my Lycanthropy might endanger further romantic endeavors, I consulted Doc on the matter. He prescribed a cocktail which not only ridded me of my wolf-warging dreams, but cleared up a rash I had had since the Peace Corps conflagration.

The cocktail was a simple one, as Doc explained, “Lycanthropy is often a byproduct of the human psyche desiring a return to nature. In your case, you were likely getting nature overload by living in the Amazon. You basically felt yourself regressing into an animal. So my Lycanthrope cocktail is meant to balance out those natural cravings. It is five parts gin, three parts Italian Bellini peach soda, a lamb’s shake of a squeezed lime, a snort of orange marmalade and a money shot of Sriracha to exorcise the nasal cavity and balance out the sweetness.”

Cure for the Common Lycanthrope

Cure for the Common Lycanthrope

A Cure for Scurvy

I entered the medicine man’s abode, finding a lone bastard child learning to become bipedal whilst her father was busy in the kitchen. What’s cooking, Doc? “A cure for scurvy” he responded. Please do explain…

The cure, as suggested by Doc, “You take a liter of Zing-Zang Bloody-Mary mix and marinade a pound of grapefruit slices along with a quart of Bermudan dark rum for good measure. Make sure it is Bermudan. Bermuda is renown as the Atlantic half-way house; if you are going to trust a rum to cure scurvy, you must trust the Bermudans who’ve been curing scurvy since the Atlantaens setup shop in whichever prehistory you want to engage.” Nevertheless? “Nevertheless, combine it with a liter of white Cuban rum and let it sit in a dark refrigerator for a week. But don’t just let it sit, pepper it with a cup of sugar every day to increase its alcohol and keep the concoction fermenting. By the end of the week, the grapefruit will have jelled into the booze and you will be able to serve this over ice.”

“So it takes a week? This is not for the ‘scurvy & in a hurry’ crowd?”

“Well, no!” Doc Kelly was appalled. “This is for those proactive enough to anticipate scurvy.”

Foot-in-Mouth Disease

Do you mean “Foot & Mouth Disease”?

“Yes, of course, that too.” Doc Kelly ensured. “Modern physicians would prescribe cold liquids and pain killers. Sounds a lot like what I would prescribe to menstrual or menopausal women: chilled vodka.”

Chiggers

Chiggers.

Chiggers. Fucking chiggers. They look like this {            } the sneaky bastards.

Doc Kelly 3I was once a child when my mother told me, “Do not pay any heed to your father’s words, dear son, for your father is afflicted with chiggers.” Little did I know. Until I knew.

“Same thing I prescribe for Fidgety Leg Syndrome.” Doc Kelly said. “The chigger parasites have already departed your body; they just left some pollution behind in their wake. The little tubes they used to suck your blood are irritating your skin and will continue to do so for the next three or fourth months.”

I was told meat-tenderizer helps eradicate the parasitic suck tubes…

“How did that work out for you?”

It didn’t.

“Then I would prescribe this: 5 fingers of gin, 3 swallows of a virgin girl’s spit (it shan’t be tainted by seed, y’know?), 3 ounces of fresh squeezed Key Lime juice, fresh basil and black sea salt, swirled around until well-mixed. Swish-swallow-repeat until fidgety leg is not so fidgety.”

My legs ain’t so fidgety. What of chiggers?

“That too.”

Fire & Ice Relationship Therapy

Doc Kelly had a faraway thousand-yard stare and I could tell he was perplexed by a lady. Indeed, he confided as much. Between he & she it was pure energetic passion one moment and distant indifference the next. Doc, a normally consistent dude, was brought to his knees, willing to offer his neck to the chopping block just to end the cycle of fire & ice. That is until he developed a charm to wear around his throat much like my Neverman neckbeard of invincibility. Doc’s charm was a simple elixir meant to paralyze the fight or flight instinct…

“Six parts Kirkland bulk vodka from Cost-Co, my own special herb-blend of galenicals, fresh-squeezed agave putty, a crushed Xanax consumed along with any meal plan from Taco-Bell. It really doesn’t matter which, just make sure there is a Yankee Candle blueberry scent aflame. The body will spend the next three days in a blissful digestive conundrum, you will not have time to think about the seductress and her fire & ice display.”

After the three days?

“If she is still there, playing her alternative hot & cold affections, just repeat part one until indifference sets in.”

Doc Kelly, in house physician at the Copper Rocket

Doc Kelly, in house physician at the Copper Rocket

Bronyism and Coulrophobia

“I hypothesize,” hypothesized Doc Kelly, “Broynism and Coulrophobia both result from a disruptions in the womb pre-birth.”

Broynism, of course, is the male obsession with the MATTEL toy figurines My Little Pony.

Coulrophobia is a fear of clowns.

While the former occurs in 1 out of every 80 American men, the latter occurs in 80 out of every one man. Perhaps my maths is wrong; nevertheless there is a societal problem when 1 out of every 80 dudes is fixated on My Little Pony. The fact that the cure is so readily available and suggested for clown-haters leads one to believe this is a copacetic universe after all.

The solution is simple: recreate the womb experience, just in a more pleasurable manner.

“If you do not have a hyperbolic chamber available, just find a Jacuzzi, a snorkel and an underwater radio to play human heart rhythms.” Doc Kelly suggested. “Before you take the dip, be sure to drink a cocktail made of six parts Kirkland bulk vodka from Cost-Co, my own special herb-blend of galenicals, fresh-squeezed agave putty, a crushed Xanax consumed along with any meal plan from Taco-Bell.”

Keep dipping into the hot-tub until cured.

Cure for Pareidoila

Pareidoila is the delusional reaction of finding meaning where there is none. It is a common feature in paranoiacs who tend to draw their own constellations of the stars based on their preset fears and anxieties. What was once Gemini is now Cerberus 3-headed-hound o’ Hell. What were formerly Mars abnormalities is now a face of a forgotten god. What was formerly a burnt piece of toast is now the face of Christ.

Fortunately, Doc Kelly had a cure for me, a cure for all paranoiacs….

“Fermented cabbage juice is easy enough to find at German restaurants. Just ask for their sauerkraut runoff. Or go to a Korean restaurant and ask for their kim-chi drippings. Then you just need 3 ounces of raw ginger to be taken rectally.”

“Rectally?”

“Have you ever chewed on raw ginger?” Doc asked. “I didn’t think so. A slice of SPAM muddled with mint, half a cup of fish oil and three ounces of unfiltered tap-water. Most importantly, we need three tablespoons of ‘white Sazon’.”

What was white Sazon?

“It’s like regular Sazon, just crystal white. It is a mystical spice in the Caribbean.”

Of course.

“Mix it all together and let it sit until you see a Moonbow.”

A moonbow? Yes, of course a moonbow. It is like a rainbow but occurs when the moon’s light reflects off the atmosphere in such a way that it creates a strange bow of light. Pretty much something you and I have never seen. And this white Sazon-flavored SPAM must be consumed during a moonbow in order to cure my paranoia?

“Ideally, yes.” Doc Kelly shrugged. “Otherwise, there is Xanax and Ambien.”

Doc Kelly & Vic Neverman searching for the elusive and mystical 'White Sazon' in Ybor City...

Doc Kelly & Vic Neverman searching for the elusive and mystical ‘White Sazon’ in Ybor City…

PutinOne might imagine a scene on the floor of the United Nations where diplomats representing combatants of either side of the Russo-Yank rivalry have their words interpreted for the French Delegation who hear the tits for tats of “Ta Gueule!” responded with a “Casse-toi!” before being trumped with “Nique ta mere!” Putting all of the buggering of mother suggestions aside, the gloves have come off between rival empires in the wake of the FIFA corruption investigation.

It all began when the United States decided to uncover how the hell Qatar, a fossil-fuel enriched sandbox existing along the Persian Gulf as a mole in the back of Saudi Arabia, was granted the rights to host the 2022 World Cup. Qatar is such a literal hell-scape, the preparations for the World Cup games have claimed the lives of thousands of migrant workers (aka Nepalese slave labor) from the brutal desert conditions with thousands of more to come leading up to 2022. How did Qatar, a non-entity in the soccer world until it began buying English Premier teams, win the right to host the games? This was the question America’s Federal Bureau of bullshit sought to answer. What the FBI learned was that FIFA, the soccer plutocracy, is as shifty as a Chicago Alderman learning to drive. What the FBI also learned is FIFA had soiled bedmates with similar corrupt blood running through their villainous veins: mainly Russian Oligarchs and the Qatari Royals, each of whom bribed their way to claiming their rights to host the games. As the investigation proceeds, all is primordial dew-level CHAOS in soccer (aka “football” outside North America) as the rights to host the 2018 and 2022 World Cup are suddenly in question, which means billions of dollars could slip through the fingers of the respective host nations, Russia and Qatar.

Sepp Blatter, "that's the ticket!"

Sepp Blatter, “that’s the ticket!”

Russia, to say the least, is pissed. You can imagine Vlad Putin recalling the zillions of rubles he shoved up FIFA President Sepp Blatter’s ass and shrugging to the international press, “Hey Brah, what happens in Zurich stays in Zurich.” Bribery in soccer, after all, is as natural as a bonobo monkey masturbating seven times a day. WTF FBI? Step off my dick! Vlad Putin has gone on the passive-aggressive offensive and activated his crony, Vladimir Markin, the spokesman for Russia’s own investigative bureau, who is teasing the possibility of launching an investigation into American claims of landing on the moon sometime 45 years ago. Tits for Tats: America questions Russia’s scruples in sports bribery and now Russia is asking America for moon receipts in a lunar audit.

In boxing, we would call this a shot below the belt. I mean, you’re punching at something sacred.

Regardless of America’s current position in the World’s Psyche as “Earth Police” and playing “The Game of Drones”, the United States of America does hold historic relevance as the only society in recorded* history to ever put a boot-print on the moon.

NOTE: history is as legit as its records and it is very possible there have been prior Earth-based peoples who have visited the moon and that this information has been buried, either literally or figuratively.

For Russia to challenge the lunar landings now is suspect, given the Soviets didn’t push the “Moon Landing was a Hoax” theory during the Cold War when such propaganda was worth the weight of a dozen Caucasus wet nurses. Why now? Internet. Russia feels scorned and on the internet there exists a plethora, nay! a fucking avalanche of bullshit about everything. Especially Moon Landing Hoaxes.

We are not contending that [the United States] did not fly [to the moon], and simply made a film about it. But all of these scientific — or perhaps cultural — artifacts are part of the legacy of humanity, and their disappearance without a trace is our common loss. An investigation will reveal what happened. – Vladimir Markin

Vlad Markin’s investigative teaser isn’t necessarily going to challenge history insomuch as ask “where are all the fucking moon rocks?” Good question. NASA? Where are all the moon rocks? Stolen by disenfranchised janitors who made a profit over the internet? Yeah, maybe.

Location of the moon rocks may be the second curiosity voiced by the public in this latest slate of questioning. With the conspiracy status set to red, the world will take a second glance at the possibility the United States did hoax the whole “Giant step for mankind.” As a conspiracy theorist (aka conspiracist as I am being told to call myself by the web-savvy public), I have conducted my own floccinaucinihilipilification by meandering through yesterday’s rejectamenta of alternate hypotheses. I have found a few things worthy of note…

In the Hoax discussion, the first question is what would be the point in NASA/America faking the moon landings? First – as propaganda against the Soviets during the Cold War. Second – NASA wanted to justify its own existence. Third – JFK guaranteed it would happen within the decade.

Okay, fine.

But why would anyone doubt American claims, generally? Foremost – no one else has managed to do it, including the United States, in decades. Putting people on rockets is a bad idea, just look at Apollo 1, Challenger or Columbia missions. China and Europe have space programs, but all they have gotten on our sacred satellite is robots.

My conclusion as a skeptic of historic record is still in process; however I am leaning towards “nailed it!” I believe the risk/reward for getting humans on the moon is so great it has not been worth our continued efforts to go all the damn way to the moon to observe what happens when you drop a feather and hammer at the same time. So yes, I believe Armstrong walked on the moon. We can see from Earth erect flags and astronaut tracks, basically enough evidence to suggest contact.

However, I also believe the filming of the moon landings was faked. This is an entirely different conversation, however, and one I do acknowledge I now owe the public. In due time, I will elaborate.

IN SUMMATION

It is clear Russia is on a public relations tear and it will be interesting to see what they come up with next. If their goal is to make their FIFA scandal seem commonplace, who knows what sort of KGB archives they might open up to discredit the West or what sort of secrets they might coerce out of Ed Snowden? It could be an entertaining summer.

Be on the watch… If the FBI does not strong-arm FIFA into naming a 2018 replacement as host of the World Cup, then we can rest assured that Russia does have a secret they are blackmailing Washington on. One could only imagine what that might be!!! JFK assassination details, 9/11 intelligence, UFO technology, the retirement home of Elvis?

Jim Tusk is a hard man. His stoic features joylessly flaunt a scowl earned from a life of hardship and digestive discomfort. During his youth, Jim could have settled down in his North Florida hometown and been put to stud for his family pedigree and prize-winning wrestling acumen, but Jim had more grandiose visions for the future. He would leave his home at the river town’s end and move to the closest bit of “civilization” to be found: Orlando. Today, Jim manufactures television antennas for Algeria.

“Where I grew up, there was the urban legend of ‘The Bardon Booger’. It was a Bigfoot creature. You’d hear your garbage cans crash in the middle of the night and run outside with a baseball bat thinking you’d find r’coons or feral kids, but you’d just see the hairy back of this beast running down the dirt road. For a while, we thought it was Old Man Grayson… the dude had a hairy back, y’know. Of course, Palatka Joe had this ghost story about hanging around the pioneer cemetery at 3 am when the Bardon Booger would appear and grant you three wishes, but it ended up being some crack dealer from Crescent Beach and the wishes granted were never what you bargained for. I never personally saw the Bardon Booger, but I heard stories. The smell is the common denominator. There would be high school parties in the woods interrupted by the stench and pine cones; a stench like someone set their septic tank afire and then tried to put it out with potpourri aerosol instead of a fire extinguisher… and pine cones tossed through the air at keg party partiers as if they were flung by Brett Favre. There were homecoming stories about football stands emptying because the Bardon Booger could be smelled from under the bleachers where he was belching up girl’s skirts. There was even a rumor my cousin —- is the bastardized off-spring of the Booger. I mean, my Aunt —- is known to get a little nuts, especially when you let her close to the Wild Turkey, but that she would lay with the Booger in the river scrub, that she could give birth to a half-Booger spawn? I mean, don’t get me wrong, Cousin —- was born 18 lbs and has won prizes for his beard. Still, I cannot… I just think the father must be one of those crusty hippie white Rastafari guys from Gainesville easily confused with an ape. It was the ‘70s, after all.” Jim rationalized. “The Bardon Booger, though… that sum-bitch is real.”

In Late 2014, Jim’s brother John-Boy took a picture of what may be the Bardon Booger.

Skunk Apes over Palatka

“It ain’t exactly the Myakka Skunk Ape, but there is something there up in the trees, amongst the Spanish moss. Hey, do you know what the Spanish call ‘Spanish moss’? ‘English moss’. Weird, right?”

Right, weird.

Layla Santana Crow grew up in South Florida with a bit of Miccosukee blood in her veins, giving her an authenticity most of us born in America lack. Layla Santana Crow currently resides in Nashville where she hounds Russian spies who have infiltrated the Country Music scene, but her background includes up-close-and-personal research of Costa Rican new-world monkeys. She has also collaborated with me in the past with the writing of Cyrus Lee Hancock’s Complete Authority on Hurricane Sur-Thrival, driving the subject matter of the ‘what happens when zoo animals escape’ and ‘upholding fashion standards when there is no running water’ chapters.

Infamous picture of the Myakka Skunk-Ape which terrorized Sarasota County

Infamous picture of the Myakka Skunk-Ape which terrorized Sarasota County

“As far as primates in Florida,” Layla responded to my questions through intricately texted emoji. “You have your zoo escapees after hurricanes, runaway exotic pets and then the left behind silver screen legacy animals. In the 1930s, they were shooting ‘Son of Tarzan’ in Silver Springs, Florida. The primates they brought in still have legacy throughout Florida. For example, the Skunk-Ape of Myakka, which terrorized the Sarasota suburbs a few years ago, is likely the great-great-grandson of a Silver Springs television chimpanzee. Not the Abominable Snowman on spring-break.”

But wouldn’t we have more evidence of these chimp generations roaming Florida; evidence by way of Interstate roadkill or poor golf course sand trap etiquette or strip-mall mauling?

“Would we have more evidence of chimp dynasties and escaped gorillas?” Layla Santana Crow considered. “If you’d prefer to believe Skunk-Ape is a mystical cousin of Big Foot roaming Florida, wouldn’t there be more evidence of him? But there isn’t; all we have is second-hand gossip and blurred pictures.”

Touché, monkey lady.

While Layla Santana Crow had her suspicions, Jim Tusk was determined to know the truth. He and I have wandered the Florida pine scrub and rivers in search of the elusive Skunk-Ape for the better part of two decades. While I came close on a few occasions deep in the Florida wilderness when the stench of something ungodly abhorrent crossed my olfactory, seizing me from the spleen and shredding through my well-being as a hot comb moves through buttered grits, I never actually saw my antagonist. I would sit, undeterred, unmoved, waiting in the forest, assuming every plume of palmetto sparrow put to sky was a sign of primate presence; I would sit, watching as the mosquitos feasted on me and were similarly devoured by prehistoric dragon flies through the day & acrobatic bats by dusk; I would sit and emerge with nothing but four months of chigger tenants living up the low-income housing of my thighs.

Vic Neverman on the hunt with Jim Tusk in the Florida backwaters...

Vic Neverman on the hunt for Skunk-Ape with Jim Tusk in the Florida backwaters…

Stitch is a theologian in Oregon. Years ago in Portland, I was initiated into a secret society of brothers where I met and quickly became the pupil of the well-versed hierophant, Stitch. While his hermetic studies are largely theological, ontological, teleological, cosmological, soteriological, eschatological, ecclesiological, and on rainy days epistemological, somewhere within or along the peripheral fringe exists Stitch’s passion project: Big Foot.

“The Old Man of the Forest is a finicky dick.” I once read on a bathroom stall door of an old poet’s tavern in Portland, Oregon. It was a reference to Big Foot and his enigmatic nature. Stitch would elaborate, “What we have is two indistinct possibilities. One: you have a cryptid beast whose existence has been uncharted by recognized science. In this scenario, you have an incredibly coy primate – we assume, but without taxonomy efforts can only assume it is a primate – who has managed to evade modern science for centuries. In fact, the only evidence exists in strictly anecdotal folklore, which brings me to the second possibility. Two: there exists something in the human psyche, something archetypal and shared amongst different peoples, which begs for the existence of a primitive cousin, perhaps even a primitive elder, especially under the threat of ecological decay. What is even more intriguing is if you search the world for such folklore, you have the Sasquatch phenomena of North America and the Yeti of Central Asia. What is the commonality? The indigenous peoples of America are the descendants of Asians who crossed the Bering Straits land bridge long before the ‘discovery’ of the Americas by Vikings and Irish monks.”

So either Sasquatch is an unknown species of ape hiding very well or Sasquatch is an archetypal delusion necessary for our psyche inherited from the first peoples of America. But what about the third option Stitch discredits?

“Oh sure, there are those who believe Big Foot is an entity that can crawl through dimensions, arriving just in time to steal the marshmallows you were saving for s’mores only to fade back into a vortex before you finish squirting enough lighter fluid onto your barbeque pit to light a log pyramid. And those same people are likely to also believe Big Foot is piloting Unidentified Flying Objects, or at least being picked up by flying saucers as if UFOs were some intergalactic Uber-driver service. Yes, those beliefs, those believers, do exist.”

Rufus Holdsworth claims to have trained NASA astronauts on how to practice procreation at zero gravity, “Hint: a lot of Velcro.” I caught Rufus at a bad time as he was scratching Florida lotto tickets like a mangy mongrel with creditors and collection agents at his back instead of fleas. “Dude…” Rufus took a break from desperation to sip on the cracked can o’ beer I presented to him. “First one today, I promise. So if Big Foot exists simply as undiscovered primates, I am sure the fucking rednecks would have cannibalized them all by now. You have to think bigger. Sasquatch could be interdimensional beings who can slip-in quick enough to mutilate cattle and slip back out before the black helicopters show up. Or maybe they just shape-shift into ordinary ornery humans and blend in with Wal-Mart camouflage.”

Connecting the Regional Mythologies

On the Hunt: to discourage panthers, Jim leaves his mark on a tree to claim this territory.

On the Hunt: to discourage panthers, Jim leaves his mark on a tree to claim this territory.

In Oregon, I came across the ‘finicky dick’ comment regarding the Sasquatch/Big Foot legends of the Pacific Northwest, yet the same could be applied to the Skunk-Ape tradition of the American South. Beyond ‘the Bardon Booger’, there are accounts of cryptids known as ‘the Sandman’ in Georgia, ‘the Honey Island Swamp Monster’ outside New Orleans, ‘the Fouke Monster’ aka ‘the Jonesville Monster’ of the Boggy Creek region of Arkansas, ‘MoMo’ the Missouri Monster, ‘the Green Chimp’ which is likely an escaped chimpanzee overcome with moss and algae, ‘the Holopaw Gorilla’, ‘the Abominable Swamp Slob’ and ‘the Everglades Ape’. Specific to Central Florida are stories of ‘the Deland Dune-Man’, ‘the Bithlo Bogger’, ‘the Pine Hills Perp’, ‘the Lakeland It’, ‘the Oviedo Green Orang’, ‘the Sanlando Devil’, ‘the Apopka Poon-Hound’ (note to self: fact-check that one), ‘the Winter Park Wookie’ and ‘the New Smyrna Dream-Snatcher’. Given the commonality of these strange beasties: all mostly three-toed (unlike common apes), possessing a revolting stank and a nocturnal presence, we can assume Stich was right – either there is a separate species of primate or these legends are a common figment of the human imagination projected upon the darkness of night as transference of our anxieties.

Other commonalities among these regional Skunk-Apes could be attributed to behavior of other animals. Skunk-Apes are said to be aggressive towards dogs, much as bears are. They eat small livestock, such as goats and chickens, but this could just as easily be blamed on coyotes, feral cats, foxes or chupacabra. Skunk-Apes are said to be bi-pedal, but will on occasion run on all fours when frightened: well sure, who wouldn’t?

The tangled waterways are the only way to get into the interior of the jungle, but often it is difficult to tell up from down...

As Above, So Below. The tangled waterways are the only way to get into the interior of the jungle, but often it is difficult to tell up from down… Jim Tusk waits ahead.

The strangest commonality amongst Skunk-Apes, from the Mims Monster to the Zephyrhills Zeke, from the Bardon Booger to the Frostproof Freak, from the Inverness Sketchy-Guy to the Eustis Stink, and well beyond the Florida ape-fright, all over North America, there is an odd pattern that may be attributable to anxiety or pranks & hoaxes or just a carnal perversity: each of the traditions of Skunk-Ape mention the beast’s voyeuristic pleasure derived from watching homo sapiens fornicate within cars in remote locations. In the legends, there is little to none as far as complaints regarding sexual intercourse being interrupted by Skunk-Apes in other settings, e.g. tents in the wilderness or outdoor hot-tubs or skinny-dipping. No, this category of encounter ‘coitus interuptus’ tends to only occur when the steamy acts are held within parked automobiles. But why?

Ultimately, we return to the psychological manifestation of the elder of the forest. I, notable SCIENTIST Vic Neverman, believe Stitch is somewhat correct. There is a drive within the misfired synopses of our mind to relate to the earth through an anthropomorphic deity such as Big Foot. For example, there exists a set of psycho-analytic film critics which maintain Chewbacca only exists as an extension of Han Solo’s sub-conscious. Your garbage cans may have been kicked over by a hairy-backed neighbor, but your social disenfranchisement yearns for the wisdom of a primitive ancestor embodied by Skunk-Ape. What if your aunt wasn’t knocked-up by some counter-culture Pinko-Commie, but rather by some mystical beast-man? Anxieties are heightened within an automobile during sex because the act is both confined and broadcasted through a transparent windshield! Sexual acts engaged in nature outside of the automobile either appreciate privacy (e.g. tent, cave, log-cabin, igloo) or lack confinement (e.g. lake sex, ocean sex, beach sex, up-against-a-tree sex, on-top-of-a-mountain sex,  middle-of-desert sex), which frees anxieties otherwise capable of projecting archetypal ape-man fantasies. I mean, just a hunch…

Jim and I are never going to find the Skunk-Ape paddle-boarding into the Florida jungle. What we need are some volunteers* willing to drive into the wilderness to bait the Old Man of the Forest. Who knows who might show up – a wayward chimp, an undiscovered species of ape or an inter-dimensional spectator? I’ve got my audio video equipment; any takers?

*Volunteers can apply for a role in the experiment by contacting Vic at VicNeverman@gmail.com

AUSTIN, Tex

“Bat City”, they call it. I’ve been waiting under this Congress Street Bridge for so long my undershirt is tie-dyed a variety of tequila-infused sweat-stains. There is so much bat-shit dripping along this bike trail from the humming bridge above I fear I will develop Spelunker’s Lung. Yet, there is a payoff. His name is Abel Archer. Or so he calls himself. He is a veteran of the First Persian Gulf War and his business card reads of career choices your high school guidance counselor never bothered to mention. On the back of the business card are GPS coordinates and a time written military style (p.m. be damned!). What isn’t on the card is the whispered instruction from Colonel Archer “less three” before he disappeared amidst a haze of guano fumes. Less three… so if anyone happens upon his business card they will arrive at GPS coordinates 3 degrees too far that way and 3 degrees too far this way, not-to-mention 3 hours too late.

I, Drunk Robot, came here to Austin to meet with the elusive Abel Archer, who was in town for a birding watching convention. Had I not been vetted by Erasmus of Otter Dam Military Academy, chances are Colonel Archer would not have given me the time of day (or he would, just three hours askew). My mission was to interview this outspoken futurist for his take on the Artificial Intelligence, robots and clones. I came away bloated on borscht and an increased sense of existential dread.

Able Archer

X minus 3 = the Russia House

Why the Russia House?

“They’d never think I would come here.” Colonel Archer responded as his eyes peered from our table within towards the entrance, flicking on occasion to the window beside our table. His was the furrowed forehead of a proper paranoid, always fifteen or sixteen ladder rungs between his arched eyebrows and his crew-cut widow’s peak.

Fair enough. So, bird-watching?

naZdorovye Russia House in Austin, Texas

naZdorovye Russian House in Austin, Texas

His eyes focused on mine, darted away, returned back to squint then resumed their stance guarding the doorway. He spoke with what was formerly a southern drawl before the rest of the world rolled it flat, “Bird-watching is a built-in alibi. If the secret police nab you in La Paz and attempt to torture you to find out why you traveled to Bolivia with surveillance equipment, you just keep to your story that you came to track down the elusive Andean Peckerwood. Sooner or later, they will let you go. But you can’t just claim to be a birdwatcher, you need to walk the walk, squawk the squawk, if you will.”

Fair enough. We supped on borscht, which was a lot tastier than I imagined beet soup would be. You’ve been very critical of “the Fermi Paradox” which speaks to how the universe is so large and yet we’ve never been visited by aliens. What’s your beef, dude?

“It’s a joke, the Fermi’s Paradox says we haven’t been visited. Imagine spending your life in Plato’s Cave, watching the shadows of fire and saying ‘there is no greater light than the light upon this wall’ when you have never emerged from the cave to experience sunlight. It is ignorant to say we have never been visited by aliens when any alien race who could visit would come equipped with vastly superior cloaking skills, so vast we’d never even know they were beside us.”

Beside us? My paranoia arrived with gooseflesh and spine shivers. I shifted in my seat, turning my 180 degrees to spot an an elder Muscovite indulging in duck. I continued my interview, Cloaked like Predator?

“Better than Predator. Through anti-gravity, they could bend the light spectrum so any observers looking their way can see past them. Notice, I did not say ‘look right through them’ because that would be almost impossible. Instead, I said ‘see past them’ because the light they project will bend around their bodies so your perception is just taking a detour.”

You call yourself an Exo-Genealogist. What is that?

Russian Bear

“You have genealogists who look at your birth certificate and try to track down where your grandparents were born. I am an Exo-Genealogist and an Exo-Geneticist, which means I am not worried about the migration patterns of your Earth-bound ancestors, but rather the aliens who bred your ancestors. Some of us are born with more alien genes than others and this is what I measure. If I had a sample of all the geniuses in this world, I would reason to bet they all have highly enriched alien blood.”

If you could guess, how much alien do you think I have?

“Probably not much. Your ancestors were likely monkeys who began mimicking the apes who were fucked by aliens in order to create humans.”

Fair enough. So you believe the “Missing Link” in the evolution chain is the sabotage of ape-fucking extraterrestrial beings?

“To put it politely. Earth is just a meat-puppet farm for our galactic overlords.

Why would they, these faraway, nearly invisible aliens, come here to start a hybrid? And what does this have to do with your “Tom Brady Clone Syndrome”?

Two-Faced Tom Brady and the dangers of genetic manipulation.

Two-Faced Tom Brady and the dangers of genetic manipulation.

“The extra-terrestrials experienced their own TBSC (Tom Brady Clone Syndrome) which is what brought them here, y’know, Earth. Putting the ETs aside for the time being, imagine, for the sake of this argument, we are the first and the only intelligent & self-aware being to ever reside in this ever-expanding universe. Eventually, we will master genetic-manipulation of the human race and when we do, we will realize it is wiser to not give birth naturally. There is just too much chance involved if you let Nature roll the dice. Instead, we will just clone ourselves. Or in my case, I would clone my wife because twice amazing is something special indeed.”

Not to mention creepy.

“Eventually, you will want to not just clone yourself, but add a few minor adjustments. Artificial Intelligence so you are never stumped at trivia again. Then, next thing you know, everyone is cloning Tom Brady to be their surrogate child and implanting their own consciousness within Tom Brady’s head.”

Could my Tom Brady clone play for the Miami Dolphins? What if I say “please”?

“Over time, you will have half of the world’s population resembling Tom Brady and Gisele Bundchen. Or Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. Over time, with the shrinking of the genetic pool…”

What does the genetic pool matter if no one is procreating the old fashioned way (by earning it)?

the borscht man

the borscht man

“The Law of Diminishing Returns. If you keep a steady output of Tom Bradys, your culture is going to wither and dry up. Sport would become redundant. Trivia night, redundant. Everything would be superfluous. Society would freeze into static apathy. A homogeneous goo of sameness. We could attempt to alter genetics through technology, but ultimately it would be too late, it would fail and we would be nothing more than drunken robots like you, wishing we weren’t Tom Brady.”

Story of my life. How does this relate, then, to our concept of extra-terrestrials who are present among us?

“Because they reached the Type 1 Civilization we aspire to be millions, if not billions, of years ago. And over that time, they cloned a bunch of Tom Bradys.”

For real? WTF?

Abel Archer put up a hand suggesting calm… “They cloned the Tom Brady equivalent of their civilization. He may, or may not, be a different entity altogether. Nevertheless…”

He’s a dirty cheat and a liar. I mean, a decent quarterback of course…

“Nevertheless, the aliens around us found they were living in that static genetic dead-end and sought catharsis via manipulating their genes with another alien species: us. Or the apes we used to be. To this day, they experiment on us with chemicals and ultraviolet radiation. And our cattle.

And our Puerto Rican goat-suckers!

They, the aliens… though they may be less foreign to Earth than we are, hard to say… but they spray or inject their chemicals and they come back to harvest and experiment because, who is going to stop them? Anyway, this is how you have these cow mutilations and these trailer-park abductions by UFOs. They are continually splicing our DNA to see what the best combination might be to bring back to their home worlds and inject into their own peoples.”

So Earth is just a petri dish for aliens to calibrate their future race of Tom Bradys?

“More or less, yes. Earth is a theater of meat puppetry.”

Purists of George Miller’s Mad Max Trilogy often insist on the superiority of the second installment, Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior. It is this devotion to Road Warrior which has the orthodox purists (Thunderdome deniers) so enthused over the arrival of George Miller’s 4th installment to the franchise Mad Max: Fury Road. When watching Fury Road trailers, it is clear this movie harps back to the simpler mad-dash formula of Road Warrior – Max in a truck being chased on a harrowing ninety minute drive through apocalyptic wasteland.

In the movie Road Warrior, Mel Gibson’s second turn as Max Rockatansky, the titular character manages to save a village of oil hording people against the marauding band of Lord Humungus’s beserkers. What shan’t be unnoticed, however, is the great unsung hero of Road Warrior: “the Feral Child”, a wild mute with a mullet and a refined boomeranging skill, who sees in Max a worthwhile Armageddon father figure.

In the closing moments of the film, this Road Warrior sequel to Mad Max, Max Rockatansky hobbles down the highway as Feral Child flies off into the sunset with the other survivors to rebuild civilization. The narration, we learn, is from the Feral Child himself in the far distant future after he learned to speak the English language.

As for me, I grew to manhood, and in the fullness of time, I became the leader… the Chief of the Great Northern Tribe. And the Road Warrior? That was the last we ever saw of him. He lives now… only in my memories.

But whatever happened to Feral Child between the climax of Road Warrior and the beginnings of the next civilization? The answer of this question is the premise of the story.

I present to you: Feral Kid, Grunt! a television concept collaboration between Vic Neverman and Reverend Chette.

In this spin-off from Road Warrior, Feral Kid has aged into a fetching Feral Teenager, who still grunts bestially whenever he requires more salt on his snake-on-a-stick supper. In fact, he has been endearingly handed the moniker of “Grunt” by his fellow travelers. Grunt is not short of intelligence, he just hasn’t quite gotten used to utilizng his tongue for anything other than polishing his cherished boomerang. While the world is still an absolute shit-storm, Grunt is faced with typical questions posed to any teenager coming into manhood, such as how does he get his own set of wheels so he can pick up chicks.

The boys from Mud should be old enough. Cast whichever one looks best in a mullet.

The boys from Mud should be old enough. Cast whichever one looks best in a mullet.

We’ll present it to NetFlix and Yahoo or any of the other streaming services popping up like zits on Blaster’s back (sorry Mad Max purists for my Thunderdome reference, but I love me some Master-Blaster). We’ll cast some kid who looks good in a mullet. Maybe the kid from Mud. Or even better, the other kid from Mud.  Now here is the gimmick that is going to make this work… As Grunt grunts to teenage girls he is sweet on, captions are provided to the audience at home interpreting the illegible sound into sweet poetry and Outback pseudo-science.

Below are some sample scenes from the conceptual romantic comedy sitcom Feral Kid, Grunt! using shots of the original actor along with scripted dialogue and the accompanying interpretation:

Scene 1: Grunt confesses his love…

grunt solemn

“Mnnh. Mnnfh!”

{Oh Sweet Warrior Girl with your feathery earrings, I would gaze into the sun until it blinded me if only it would bring your cool lips to my face in an act of angelic mercy}

Scene Two: Feral Kid, Grunt makes a little money grooming wayward travelers.

Grunt shave

“Mrrryah? Mrrrylll?”

{a little more off the top, Mister Pappagallo?}

Scene Three: our hero, Grunt, tells a joke.

Grunt smile

“Urrrngh. Uh-Urgggg.”

{So the Bishop says to the Actress, ‘you must have had asparagus lately’.}

grunt hungrier

“Ngyaaaah? Gaaaaah!”

{Get it? Asparagus? Because her pee smells funny!}

Scene Four: Grunt gets philosophical…

grunt inquistive

“Mnnrrrr.”

{What is beauty without man to observe it? What is love without man to possess it? Animals do not comprehend these things, only man. And it is man which has destroyed it all to shit.}

Scene Five: Feral Kid, Grunt calls his mobile phone company’s customer service.

grun hungry

“Oyyyahghgh? Hnh-Hnh-Daaaaaah!”

{Charge me for what? I haven’t had reception since before the ‘Poxyclipse’! It figures the only things still alive in the world after the nuclear holocaust are cockroaches and your fucked manners!}

BAYOU SAINT BASIL, Fla

It was called the greatest sporting day in decades.

Vic down by the Bayou, investigating the latest raccoon atrocity.

Vic down by the Bayou, investigating the latest raccoon atrocity.

Cocktail hour comes early on Derby Day. Across the bog that moistens my doorstep, on the opposite shore, is Odin’s Spit, a filthy stretch of black-dirt beach spilling forth from the shade of pine trees like a fold of abdominal flesh overcoming a waistband. On any common weekday, the pontoon boats and jet-skis start to lineup around 6pm as the local swamp-folk finish toiling at the outlet shopping mall kiosks and return to Bayou St Basil to unwind with a good many cocktail and country music crooning in bathing attire that hasn’t looked good on them in 27 years, nearly half of their life ago. This, however, isn’t any common weekday; this day in question is a Saturday. Derby Day, no less.

It wasn’t half passed 7am before the droning buzz of jet-skis woke me from my recuperative slumber. Fell asleep outside again, holding onto a glass formerly containing what was likely a flavorful elixir of botanicals bathed in rum or gin. Whatever may had spilled on my Van Halen reunion tour shirt would have evaporated in the night to the din of the screeching sister-fucking raccoons clawing after Manchurian flavored Styrofoam containers thieved from nearby refuse containers. By 9am, Odin’s Spit is aflame with sunburnt bog people, brunching on cheap cinnamon candied-whiskies and fellatio-by-proximity.

I wouldn’t say there is a Derby Day tradition here at St Bas Trailer Park. For a while, the ruling matriarch Queen Georgia (God rest her blaspheming soul), set a standard with flamboyant hats and mint-julip inspired cocktails, which were little more than Bacardi & Sprite with green food coloring. Nonetheless, you’d hear Queen Georgia’s smoky-throated catcalls to the pontoon boat captains, “I feel like such a slutty debutante and I am as stoned as Mary-fucking-Magdalene!” I shouldn’t speak poorly of Queen Georgia. I still feel guilty about the words overheard by her widower’d boyfriend who collected her remains while in his sandals, jean shorts and prison-tattooed sleeves… prison tattooed arms despite his never spending more than weekends in jail for illegal possession or soliciting a minor.

One of the feral kids came by with a tin can full of pennies and started speaking the clicks and hoots of the language of birds he and the other feral bastards speak to each other. I tossed a disposed corn cob at the child and despite the projectile’s lack of edible kernels, the feral bastard was content to gnaw on the rind with his eerie shark teeth and leave me to my freshly brewed coffee.

“Derby Day, Boss.” One of the Jamaicans from next door happened by. He wanted to bet on horseflesh, as did I; but I don’t piss in my backyard, as it were. He hung around to share a cigarette, which I didn’t want, and to chat. All was bombocloth and other fuckery I didn’t understand. I asked him if he ‘Rasta’ with all dem dreads and he just shine a smile, laugh and ebb like slack tide.

derby dayLONGWOOD, Fla

I took the county bus towards Casselberry – hopping on the metro three stops further east than I needed to, hopping off two stops earlier than necessary, all to disassociate myself from a regular travelling pattern – and then walked the rest of the way towards the Jai Lai arena. There’s a Cuban sandwich joint I go to when I need to spend money to get money. I used to do the majority of my gambling in the back room at The Copper Rocket, but since the Governor shut them down, I have been something of a gambling vagabond having brief, illicit, one-night affairs with various bookies of varying degrees of sketchy aftershave. Manulito is a cool fucking cat. He’s old enough to have ears like satellite dishes. They say the ears and the nose keep growing the older you get and this Manulito must have more tree rings than half the oaks in Seminole County. The white fluffy hair sprouting out of those elephantine ears is almost reminiscent of Spanish moss, completing the oak tree analogy.

Doc Kelly showed up. I had Manulito place a call and sure enough, the dude showed… the nerve. Manulito pressed a couple breakfast sandwiches as Doc and I sat down to pretend to read Spanish newspapers and sip café con leche as if we weren’t already both over-caffeinated. Doc was getting over the flu, as was I, both of us independently suffering this last week. We hadn’t seen each other in two weeks, which made me think Doc was kissing on my girl again. Not that she was my girl and maybe he even tipped her better, but nevertheless, I have been drinking more NyQuil than beer this week and I blamed Doc for these ills one way or another.

Boxing Floyd Manny

A Place (To Place Bets)

There is a thing called “the Gambler’s Fallacy” which is the belief that after so many strokes of a certain type of luck, that luck must turn. For example, if you flip a coin and it lands “heads” three times in a row, you might think the next flip has to be “tails” because chance would suggest so… and that would be false. Fallacy. The flip you make is still a 50% chance of “tails” regardless of whichever shit occurred prior.

Similarly, you could keep betting that a crooked sport is eventually going to go straight-arrow and this too would be fallacy. This Manny Pacquiao versus Floyd Mayweather fight has generated such an ungodly amount of money it should be seen in the same lens as a MARVEL: AVENGERS movie. There are too many parties involved, the stakes are too high; you must make one with the promise of another, regardless of how it cheapens the event. Even if there is moral outrage in the streets of the world on Sunday over the scripted nature of this fight, it has to be fixed and those who fix it will become all the more profitable regardless of the shame cast upon them. So dig this: in December, when this ‘greatest fight of the fucking millennium’ was announced, there were 24:1 odds of a draw. Those odds are currently 10:1 for the stalemate. I don’t think Floyd or Manny will take a fall, but I do believe they will be in on the ruse and fight for a stalemate, which would insist on a sequel. For all the money they may be worth, they would be worth a lot more if they could fight this match again.

Politics, Boxing and Horseflesh will never be fair game as long as the power and control are in the hands of the financiers.

I put a few paychecks on a Pacquiao/Mayweather draw and I spilt my pizza delivery tip jar in the direction of American Pharaoh to win the Kentucky Derby. I put a Bitcoin down on the San Antonio Spurs plus 2 in Game 7, for the sake of nostalgia if nothing else. Nothing I can’t lose.

Doc Kelly asked if I could clean myself up by the afternoon. Did I have a smoking jacket and a pair of slacks? He finagled our names onto the invite list for a Derby Day/Fight-Night gala with the Lake Osceola Yacht and Leisure Club and I needed to present myself as a decent Florida gentleman. I stopped by the backdoor of the Bosniak-run dry-cleaners and bought someone’s tuxedo off the meat rack for $20 and my favorite pair of flip-flops. All I need now are the cufflinks.

The Good Money’s on Floyd/Manny Draw…. Shake it and roll! Yahtzee!

THE OUTCOME: vic breaks even

Mayweather vs Pacquiao: Vic bet on the draw and Floyd Mayweather won convincingly.

Kentucky Derby: Vic bet on American Pharaoh and American Pharaoh won!

NBA: Vic bet Spurs +2 and the Clippers won by 2 – it’s a push.

Vic and Doc at the Derby party...

Vic and Doc at the Derby party…

Encountering your double can be a harrowing event

Encountering your double can be a harrowing event

Encountering your exact double can be a harrowing event. Whether your Doppelgänger is a flesh & blood equal, a factory-produced cyborg or some sort of astral projection acting as a harbinger of death, meeting with your double can be debilitating, let alone frightening. How would you react if you encountered a replica you in line at the DMV or coming out of the massage parlor? Shock, violence, affection? Even more importantly – how would you react to their reaction of seeing & realizing you? No one can be sure how the hypotheticals would play out, but this lack of foresight shan’t prevent anyone from preparing for such an existential crisis. Preparation is where I, Vic Neverman, may be of assistance. Living something of a duplicitous life, I have turned myself inside-out enough times I once woke from a night of drinking to find my liver in a coat pocket. Years ago, I witnessed my Trippelgänger pissing on the 3rd rail from a North Chicago elevated train platform and, despite popular opinion, the dude was not electrocuted as a result. My years of experience in these strange matters grant me the knowledge to guide You, dear reader, on how to not just protect your Self, but preserve your sense of self, when confronted with the existence of Another You.

Running into your own doppelganger is more than a simple case of déjà vu and may require a complex series of social interactions I like to call ‘Shadow Dancing’. The Shadow Dance begins with Identification – are you certain this is your double? The second stage is Reaction – what are the social protocols involved when confronting your other? The final stage, if needed, is Subjugation – if you determine you cannot coexist with your double, how do you contain or exterminate someone who might have the same subjugation in mind for you?

Do it light, taking me through the night
Shadow dancing, baby you do it right
Give me more, drag me across the floor
Shadow dancing, all this and nothing more

– Andy “the other” Gibb

Shadow Dancing: How to Properly Handle an Encounter with your Doppelgänger

IDENTIFICATION

IMG_1418Are you sure it is You you are looking at? Head-Shrinkers describe a Syndrome of Subjective Doubles, which occurs in schizophrenics and/or anyone ingesting hallucinogens. Let’s be honest, if you are reading my blog, chances are you fit into this category one way or another. Syndrome of Subject Doubles means it is possible the likeness you are encountering is a figment of your imagination being transferred onto the face of another. Basically, your perception skills a little sketchy. Given this likelihood when encountering doppelgangers, I recommend applying the Neverman Rule of Paranoia: is it safer to be paranoid when there is no danger or aloof when there is danger? In the case of Doppelgangry, we cannot assume your duplicate represents danger… yet. Duplication does not always add up to a negative, so I urge skepticism when considering similarities perceived in this Other. Do not act violently when encountering your double because the problem may be you, not them.

How to determine if this person really is your double?

  1. How does the doppelganger react to encountering you? Do they appear quizzical at your existence? Remember – you might actually be their uninvited Doppelganger. This happened to me once at a potluck in Oregon and it was quite embarrassing.
  2. How are others in the room reacting? Are they laughing with irony as they point, look at the twins!? Are there pets in the room, belonging to you or the Other, which are whimpering in confusion? Is there an off-spring of your double who is attempting to suckle at your teat? If yes to any of the above, then you are not hallucinating – you are faced with a double.
  3. Are you in Ybor City? For my experience, doppelgangry runs ramped in this West Florida community. Same too with Vancouver, with the difference being doppelgangers in British Columbia wear mullets.
  4. Subtly check for distinguishing birthmarks or tattoos. Is there anything that matches your own trademarks? If it comes off when you rub it with a little spit, then chances are this person is an imposter, not a doppelganger. Remember –act subtly.
  5. When engaging your double in conversation, do not try to quiz it on life questions. Note: doppelgangers may not share your life history. Your face, name, personality and goat-like reflexes might all be the same, sure… but their life experience may be some laboratory until this night in question (or vice-versa).
how do you contain or exterminate someone who might have the same subjugation in mind for you?

how do you contain or exterminate someone who might have the same subjugation in mind for you?

REACTION

I was just minding my own business....

I was just minding my own business….

Okay. So you’ve concluded this is another You. You (you-you, not them-you) should still hold the cards tightly to your vest (especially if you are literally playing a card game and are literally wearing a vest, but really, who does that anymore?). Stick with the poker-face, give your reflected Other the same shit-eating grin and courtesy laugh you have on display for the rest of the schmucks in the room. Shake hands, rub ankles, do whatever is customary amongst the natives of this region, but do not be the first to acknowledge the commonality. Remain objective, unconvinced.

Whether your doppelganger is a threat to your existence or not, it is best to keep him/her disarmed with your aloofness. Your disinterest will foment doubt and temper their action. You must keep in mind: action will be guided by fear. Eco once described the ‘fear of the double’ having to do with redundancy and a sense of meaninglessness. This is the prevailing theme in Dostoevsky’s novel The Double where the anxious protagonist has his life stolen from and then improved upon by a more charismatic doppelgänger. You must tread lightly as this Other may consider you a threat to their sense of self, if not their very existence.

A couple of notes on interacting with your doppelganger:

...then she came into my life.

…when she came into my life.

  1. If your doppelganger seems to be aware of or share your entire life history, this could be one of two things:
    1. They are a harbinger of death. Best case scenario, it is breakfast time and they are the ‘fetch’ of Irish folklore, a spiritual double when seen in the morning means good news, evening bad. If there is an ethereal quality to their voice or flesh, then this is likely some sort of spiritual omen. Be sure to take a cab home, use protection and double-lock the front door (not necessarily in that order).
    2. They are a cyborg – part clone, part artificial intelligence robot implanted with a memory built from your “imprint” upon social media. Some mad scientist must have thought you important enough to recreate. Hopefully you are a comedian or very good looking, otherwise, you have likely become expendable. If the otherwise – Run!

(the rest of the notes in this section assume your doppelganger has a different life history)

  1. If they (your doppelganger) are present with a spouse, try at all costs to not seduce or become seduced by your double’s partner. This is bad manners.
  2. If they (your doppelganger) are present with a companion who they have not yet married, feel free to express yourself as a better version of the man/woman they are currently with – but at your own risk. While it may be easy to persuade your double’s partner, Joan or John Doe, you have the aesthetic likeness along with better breeding and/or education than your double, pointing out such things may incite fracas (#incitefracas).
  3. If you are present with a companion or spouse when you encounter your doppelganger, you should immediately neutralize the threat (i.e. maim, lock in lavatory, set afire, ridicule, file for a restraining order, surprise head-butt, switch their aftershave with chloroform, put laxatives in their meatloaf, snitch on them to the IRS, have your Gypsy mother-in-law stink-eye them) in case they are the aesthetic equal of you, but of better breeding and/or education.
  4. If you are present with a companion or spouse when you encounter your doppelganger and they too are present with a companion or spouse whom is quite fetching, perhaps you wait and see what happens?
  5. If the only visual difference between you and your doppelganger is facial hair, chances are the more radically groomed double is the evil twin of the Other. Regardless of which one you are, begin the act of subjugation.
  6. Likewise, if you or the Other is named Garth(e), begin the act of subjugation as this is not going to end well.
Michael Knight vs. Garthe Knight

Michael Knight vs. evil twin Garthe Knight

SUBJUGATION

Everyone has a right to free will, to live as the person they are (as long as their pursuit of happiness does not infringe on others, of course). If you are called onto a daytime talk show to learn the life you thought you had was fabricated and you are no more than a clone of the unique snowflake you formerly thought yourself to be, your right to exist as “you” is no less true. Similarly, if you are the original “you” and you learn someone has become your clone without your consent; your right to retain your identity is valid. Negotiation between doubles is not always an option. Each entity has the right to live as their self and neither may be at peace with self-exile or the redundancy of living with a double.

It’s you or them. If you do not act, they will. But how do you defeat your Doppelganger if they are likely out to defeat you? True – not all doppelgangers are created equally and your double may lack your life experience or moral ambiguity or the reflexes of fainting goat – but chances are they know exactly what you are going to do right about the same time you realize you are going to do it. How do you get the better of someone who isn’t just in your head, but has your head?

Captain Kirk vs. Garth from Izar - Let Spock Decide!

Captain Kirk vs. Garth from Izar – Let Spock Decide!

  1. Don’t try to out-think your double. They will anticipate that.
  2. Hire a professional to eradicate the nuisance resembling you. Just make sure the professional knows which of you is you and which is not paying the bounty.
  3. Do the exact opposite of whatever your impulse is. No, wait… the Other will anticipate that too.
  4. Build up a tolerance for poisons, invite your doppelganger over for dinner and poison only your plate using a different poison you have never built up a tolerance for. No, they’d think of that too.
  5. Let Spock decide.
  6. Build a decision engine akin to a Magic 8-Ball which will make random decisions you could act upon in order to best your opponent. Your doppelganger will be unable to predict which tactic you might take in subjugating them. Do this before they do the same to you.
  7. If all else fails, shave the goatee, grow a mullet and move to British Columbia. Hopefully, your doppelganger is not already there.

IF THEY SURVIVE, WILL WE?

the-boys-from-brazil-1If there was a general tagline to apply to any paranoid film poster, the question, “Will We Survive Them?” would do just as good as any. Rule #1 in paranoid propaganda is “we should fear them and survival, itself, is as good of a reason as any to fear our dastardly Other: be they the birds, a rogue shark, fucking Nazis, the undead, our own doppelganger, aliens or some combination thereof. In the case of 1978’s The Boys from Brazil, the tagline is altered just a bit to “If They Survive, Will We?” This is a different hypothesis in that there is a hint of dominion over the Other. If they survive, as in, should we allow them to survive? This changes the narrative of the common paranoid theme from the repressed Orwellian interloper to a perspective of power: should we allow them to survive? should we not deport them? should we not seize their possessions and send them to prison camps? What are we going to do with these Boys from Brazil?

Without spoiling the plot, “the Boys” are the remnants of the German Third Reich, or Nazis: the Next Generation. The protagonist and we, the spectators, are not the downtrodden and suppressed in this allegory. Nay – the tables have turned and it is the fucking Nazis on the run – They are the fugitives hiding amongst the populace like palmetto bugs under margarita-sticky lotto tickets, as thick as thieves. What this new tagline IF THEY SURVIVE, WILL WE? is granting us (We: protagonist and spectator) is control over Their survival. What should our “Final Solution” be to rid the planet of Nazi Evil? And if extermination is in the works, are we no better than the Evil we wish to perish?

Spectatorship

I rented a copy of The Boys from Brazil from a Hillsborough County Library under the name of Pedro Parker. The Visigoth librarian arched one of her pierced brows at the title. Sarcasm was the sore broad’s sword, even now, easily a decade past her forgivable teen angst. “Boys from Brazil?” The bull-ring holding her nostrils together jumped at her snarky snort. “What is this, the third installment of Dirty Dancing?” I told her if she wanted to watch it together, I would throw in corn chips and warm coconut oil. I spoke without thought of what I would have done if she agreed, merely haphazardly hypothesizing out of curiosity of how the chain connecting her wallet to her jeans would sound rattled.

Greg Peck wants you to watch this movie

Greg Peck wants you to watch this movie

I watched The Boys from Brazil from a misplaced motel in Ybor City with a VHS player obtained at a West Tampa pawnshop in exchange for a windmill I made out of crushed beer cans. I paid cash for the room and used forged traveler’s checks for the corn chips and coconut oil. The sink was full of ice and cans of local beer, so I had to wash my hands and feet in the tub, which startled the shit out of the palmetto bugs copulating in the drain like star-crossed lovers from Dirty Dancing 2: Havana Nights. I set the air conditioner to full blast until the temperature dipped beneath 60 degrees, which it never did, hovering around a humid 83. 83 degrees was good. 83 was fine, I needed to sweat. I was convalescing after a terrible bout with existentialism, of which I will not bore you, but needless to say the meds were lacking (though I was not beyond trying).

The Movie

Carey Mahoney makes a phone call from Paraguay.

Carey Mahoney makes a phone call from Paraguay.

The Boys from Brazil begins in Paraguay, naturally, as Mahoney from Police Academy (Steve Guttenberg) plays an American Nazi-Hunter and stumbles upon a slew, nay – a veritable stew of Nazis, headed by “Angel of Death” Doc Josef Mengele. It is creepily worth noting Mengele’s non-fictional death occurred several months after The Boys from Brazil hit theaters. I have written about Mengele in my blog post All That Glitters in South America is not Nazi Gold, but a lot of it is. Non-Fiction Mengele was a madman and a huge douchebag, young enough of a fucking Nazi to live through the disco era, yet old enough to have the fucking Nazi esteem to perform carte blanche science experiments on concentration camp prisoners. Mengele’s fictional self was just as much of a fucking asshole, ever-exasperated in an unholy performance by the saintly Gregory Peck.

The Boys from Brazil would have you believe Mengele was ***SPOILER ALERT*** cloning Hitlers in the jungle (thus the evil little boys, get it?) but let me just mention this so my sister doesn’t freak out: Mengele lacked the proper education of contemporary genetics necessary to outleap the rest of the geneticist field in bounds. The possibility Mengele would figure out how to clone Hitlers in the jungle are nil. Unless you have read my other blogs and understand the pipeline of gold out of the 3rd Reich in preparation of the 4th in which case you might have reason to believe contemporary scientific methods and theory made their way to the mad doctor’s labs. Okay, fine – so the movie premise of cloning a bunch of baby Hitlers in the early ‘60s in the backwater jungles of Brazil and shipping them via stork-mail to waiting adopters throughout the Northern Hemisphere is unlikely, but… plausible.

Boysfrombrazil5Back to the movie: Mengele, played by Gregory Peck (famous as Atticus Finch, Ahab, other worthwhile vociferous characters), has the young American Police Academy cadet stabbed to death. This alerts Mahoney’s Nazi-Hunting mentor in Switzerland, played by Lawrence Olivier (not to be confused with Lawrence of Arabia, which was Peter O’Toole). What follows: the old Nazi-Hunter Ezra Lieberman tracks down the conspiracy uncovered by Mahoney to learn 14 years prior ninety-four Hitler clones were distributed across the world. Ezra Lieberman learns Mengele’s conspiracy involved creating the same nurture to go along with the cloning nature: ensuring the boy Hitlers lose their 94 fathers while in their teens via accidental assassination courtesy of goons.

This movie may be farfetched science-fiction, but the acting between Peck and Olivier is phenomenal. You buy Peck as a brilliant, yet mad, doctor and Olivier as the bumbling, yet brilliant, pursuant Ezra Lieberman. Who doesn’t get any proper mentioning with this film is Jeremy Black, who plays every Hitler “boy” from “brazil”: Jack Curry, Simon Harrington, Erich Doring and Bobby Wheelock. Jeremy has a knack for playing a fantastic little shit. You can see Hitler taking root from his eerie little eyes. Poor bastard never acted again (according to THE INTERNET)

IN SUMMATION

Lawrence Olivier as Ezra Lieberman

Lawrence Olivier as Ezra Lieberman

The acting alone warrants five out of five stars for this conspiracy theory jewel of the late seventies. Lawrence Olivier is particularly disarming as the feeble Ezra Lieberman responsible for hunting down Nazis. Larry was even ill with kidney stones while filming this movie, which made his final confrontation with Greg Peck’s Mengele all the more difficult. It is the final scene, however, where Olivier’s subtlety in acting is a testament to the craft. It is a predictable scene, as is any popular movie scene from the ‘70s since we, spectator, have seen every great scene plagiarized hence; yet it is a scene charming, nonetheless. The old Nazi Hunter Ezra is bed-ridden after his confrontation with Josef Mengele. The old Jew is confronted by a young American Jew who wants to hunt down the rest of the young Hitlers and systemically kill them off. Only Ezra Lieberman has the list, which he lights afire while making a kindly remark about a favorable nurse.

You know, there was a nurse here, an angel of mercy called Miss Hannah, who actually gives me cigarettes. You know what she said to me the other day? She said, Mr. Lieberman, if you can escape Buchenwald, and you can escape those bullets, then a few cigarettes will not hurt you. Isn’t that a nice thing to say?

Herein is the underlying beauty of the film. Lieberman had escaped Nazis in his youth and here he spends his last days hunting down the guilty. Does he give the list of Hitler clones her procured to the next generation of Nazi hunters who will murder the children to prevent another holocaust? No. Ezra burns the list to prevent further atrocities against the innocent.

What Would You Do?

Ezra Liebermen is obviously a sucker for justice with faith in humanity. Predestination means naught to him. He is an honorable man who still lives with his spinster sister in Switzerland, neither of whom seem able to pay rent on time. When confronted with the knowledge the world is populated by 94 Hitler clones, Ezra allowed those young bastards to live on unscathed, unlike the list he burned. IF THEY SURVIVE, WILL WE?

I adore the Ezra Lieberman character just as much as I loved Ned Stark in his feeble attempt to play the game of thrones. I, myself, as a cynic and a believer in the fact there are already far too many people on this planet, I think Billy Hitler can go fuck himself. To quote Bob Marley’s Sheriff John Brown, prior to being shot by Bob, “Kill the seed before it grow.” Yes, if I were Ezra, I’d be less than half the man and allow the systematic execution of ninety-four still-innocent children. Does my Nazi hate make me Nazi-ish? Perhaps, but then as Colonel Chesterbridge (unrelated Danger 5 films) always says before parting, “As always, Kill Hitler.”

Favorite Lines from the Movie:

When Ezra Lieberman finally confronts Mengele in Pennsylvania, he asks if Joe Mengele killed Mister Wheelock, the father of Bobby (Hitler clone). Gregory Peck’s Mengele responds in a manner to undermine the built-up tension.

No, he’s in the kitchen mixing us some cocktails!

When Mengele tells young Bobby Wheelock, “You are the living duplicate of the greatest man in history: Adolf Hitler”, the little Hitler clone responds with American spite,

Oh man, you’re weird.

When Sidney Beynon (actor Denholm Elliot, aka Marcus Brody from Indiana Jones movies) considers the conspiracy of Mengele of killing the fathers of 94 Hitler clones, he is aghast at how random the search for potential suspects could be. He asks Ezra if Ezra realizes how many men in their mid-60s dies every day. Ezra responds,

I try not to think about it.

Professor Bruckner gives a lecture to Ezra about cloning and how he could take a scrape of skin from Ezra’s finger to make an Ezra Lieberman, Ezra responds

I would tell you not to waste your time on my finger.