Posts Tagged ‘Genetic Engineering’

Who were these people? It was pageantry, sure: societal pomp and circumstance. The pomp being a celebratory environ in a hoity (which is Latin for “hot shit” I do believe) toity (which is Greek for ticklish) lounge of a Gulf of Mexican Ritz Carleton. The circumstance being my presence, a strange clash of the unfurled (that is I) placed in proximity to the neatly pressed (which was they). Oh, if only my mother could have seen me in such drab and pale apparel prior to Memorial Day! A misfit miscreant indeed, was I, Vic Neverman. Amidst this upper echelon of society, I must have appeared as a chimpanzee outfitted for an afternoon at the county fair. I bore a fearsome –daresay menacing – beard, which was only countered by the friendly display of sockless loafers upon my heathen hooves. My attire was unworthy of such confines, but its lackluster undid centuries of antagonism against the bearded prejudice wrought by the less hairy upon the harried ever since the Turkish corsair menace Barbarosa raced his horses atop the heads of Christians buried in the sand (and he even hemp-dyed his beard red). Yes, while my beard may have been frightening, I dare you find me a jihadist that goes sans socks. I may have looked as a Yeti occupying Wall Street, but the socklessness surely minimized the perception of threat to the fair hatted ladies slurping their minted juleps.

But alas, I ramble. And it was mother who did see me now. It was she, the NeverMum, who brought me to the lofty confines of the rich and/or indebted (observation: the wealthiest are often those in greatest debt). Perhaps the greatest circumstance beside such pomp was the random presence of I along these Gulf shores where I had joined a kayaky* expedition along the mangrove cays in search of the elusive suburban legend “Skunk Ape” with SASI (Skunk-Ape Society of Investigators). My ventures to west Florida put me in proximity to the NeverMum and by extension, her high society cohorts.

*“kayaky” having the essence of kayak, along with being canoe-ish and paddle board-esque

Here I was, in the Ritz Carlton, amongst my mother and her people. NeverMum, you see, is quite the philanthropist. Ever since the rumors Old Man Neverman having been D.B. Cooper arose, the NeverMum has tried to repay society through charitability, which has brought out a flock of vultures, jackals, carrion eaters of any order. Such is the nature of having disposable income – it attracts the snakest-of-oil salesmen from “not-for-profit” organizations. And for my money, the stratospherically rich who fund these agencies are really only preoccupied with population control and how to keep the masses off of their loot. Take, for instance, Ted Turner’s rant on over-population and how we will all be eating each other by 2040 (“too many people are using too much stuff”). There used to be a popular topic, Eugenics, before the Nazis were associated with it. Eugenics involved gene manipulation, which formerly had to be done via Nazish “weed-out” methodology, but can now be achieved through creative procreation engineering. And, of course, sterilizing the rest of the populace which is where all of the goddamn corn-syrup comes into play. This is what the ultra-rich speak of in their circles, though I’d be damned if I could get anyone to comment on it this day.
Here’s Ted…

Lo! We are here to celebrate the horses, or at least discuss them. It was my trusted ally who told me, “horse racing is NASCAR for the rich.” I can only disagree with Bo Lynn on one point, that being I cannot watch two straight minutes of NASCAR.

I find myself here amongst Kentucky Derby enthusiasts as the nationally broadcast pre-race is shown on the widescreen televisions. Fortunately, I, Vic Neverman, haven belly-crawled more subterranean miles in Kentucky caves than the typical tourist to the state will ever walk topside, am equipped with a profound knowledge of Bourbon. And so, I, your bearded narrator, stood proudly astride, like the salami betwixt and between the high-bred of this un-kosher deli sandwich, drinking Basil Hayden (neat) and speaking profoundly upon the virtues of such an elixir.

All the while, and there was much while to be had, I did not forget what Hunter said of these horse people. H.S. Thompson once wrote, “ I went to one Derby party where two teenage girls were deliberately set on fire and tortured by drunken rich people, who then hurled their bodies off a cliff above the Ohio River & laughed about it later… Things like that happen every year when the Derby comes to town. People ‘go out to the track,’ as they like to say in Louisville, and simply disappear into thin air… Omerta is the code of the South, especially after weird crimes are committed by rich people… Horse people have very short attention spans for anything involving humans.” Yes, I had to be on guard.

Of course, there was the hypothetical gambling that occurred. All the IRS needs to know is Vic Neverman only gambles with where to bury the rainy day loot (in case of end-of-world emergency) and how much information to insert into the blog (how many of you readers are Them and how much do I want You to know about what I know about You?). Hypothetically, however, I may have participated in the traditional horse gambling that accompanies these races like plague fleas on a rat. Hypothetically, I may have put a vast sum of my disposable pocket cash on horse 19 while hypothetically making a hedge bet on the odds-on favorite. As the odds-on favorite, “Bodemeister”, bolted to the lead on this day I hooted at my shrewd hypothetical investment until at the very last leg a phantom horse swooped in like a harpy after cheesecake and beat the favorite. Fortunately, this phantom horse was #19, “I’ll Have Another.” I, hypothetically Vic Neverman, had won.

Waving all the cash that was hypothetically mine had a strange alchemical effect on myself and those within the lavish lounge. My sudden rise in testosterone thickened my beard, billowed my chest and increased the volume and immodesty of my bourbon-infused rants. Likewise, the fair hatted ladies who had once scoffed me, now looked my way and found me almost… charming, in a near-drowned-rat-clutching-to-Titantic-flotsam kind-of-way. What rationalization must have taken place beneath their feathered peacock caps? Oh, he is a winner, he has cash, he must be one of us!

But I was not one of them. I was Vic Neverman. And as soon as I paid my weekend bar bill, my hypothetical winnings were spent and I was no different than before. Unscathed and ever-bearded.

NeverMum and Vic, waving around the Washingtons hypothetically won

They say history is cyclical. Certainly music, film, and television sitcoms seem to be the second-hand cigarette of yesteryear’s stamped-out tobacco, so why wouldn’t history be similarly recycled? If ‘they’ be right about the cyclicality, then all one must do in order to predict the future sequence of events is be able to discern the path with which the coincidental foci of the ellipse travels. Ha! To quote Euclids, ‘easier said than done, you little sycophantic Pythagoran hustler’. I daren’t even try to unweave the riddled cycle… or… dare I?

Alas, I, Vic Neverman, futurist to the stars, am coming forward to provide you, dear reader, my forecast for 2012. Using my knowledge of passed past, my insight into the present and my irritable bowel syndrome for the future, I have come up with a set of predictions I feel Edgar Cayce could only dream about*!

*An inside joke amongst us futurists, Drowsy-Ed was also known as ‘the sleeping prophet’

So, without any more build-up outside the thudding drumroll of my fingertips upon the keyboard, I present my predictions:

1 – The Mayan Calendar date that is approximately 12/21/2012 signifies a new age, but it will not bring the end of the world. Of course, any sensical conspiracy theorist knows that promoting gold gets you endorsements from the hawkers and that substantiating doomsday rumors increases your readership, but that does not mean these activities are morally justified? The Mayans do not believe the end of the world is coming, so why should Vic? Better yet, why should you?

2 – An expose piece by the Washington Post will reveal that the spiced fowl appendages we have all been eating at Buffalo Wild Wings come from the genetic freak of a six-winged chicken engineered by those Frankensteinian mad scientists at Mansanto, evil motherfuckers they are.

3 – ‘Occupy the Democratic National Convention’ will be infiltrated by agent provocateurs who will turn to violence, which will incite some random circumstantial police brutality. The resulting outrage will taint Obama’s chances of re-election.

4 – 2011 was the year of the drone as our remote control assassins and spies were busy in East Africa, North Africa, Afghanistan, Pakistan, and gods know where else. Even back inside the domestic borders, Miami and Houston police have contracted for ‘flying lawn mowers’ to patrol overhead. 2012 will be different, though. 2012 will be the year… of the spy blimp.

5 – Vlad Putin will win the Presidency of Russia after a brief hiatus as Prime Minister. Of course, the only way this victory will come is through bribery, extortion, and beatings. Many beatings. All courtesy of the KGB school of electioneering.

6 – I remember in the past when futurists told me I would be eating more tacos than hamburgers and using more hot sauce than ketchup. Those predictions seemed silly at the time. Lo and behold, I just had Korean BBQ Tacos out of a mobile restaurant in a gas station parking lot. So what is next in gastro-predictions? By 2020, 80% of our fastfood nutrition will be hidden inside of an egg roll. Forget children, egg rolls are our future. In 2012, the stock price for Hot Pockets will sky-rocket.

7 – Illegal phone applications will utilize facial recognition software, allowing its piratical users to identify strangers on a plane, shoppers in line, patrons at a bar, all by taking a quick snapshot via camera phone. Do not be surprised when you receive a facebook message in 2012 from a complete stranger, “hey, saw you on the opposite sidewalk and couldn’t get your attention, but wanted to say ‘hi’. So HI there… :)”

8 – Robo-Talk!!! Vic Neverman loves to think where robotics will be in the next year. I especially can’t wait until it is socially acceptable to tell the NeverMum I have been married all along to a Japanese automaton who is programmed to cook me crepes and perform other ‘jobs’ around the house. Until then, I foresee:
8.a) robo-hands will be used by TSA for frisking passengers at the airport
8.b) online dating sites will hopefully begin including a new group for robotic companions, which will also be available for purchase.
8.c) pizza and burritos will still require the delicacy of the animated hand, but robots will soon be flipping our burgers and frying our potato sticks.
8.d) living pets will become less relevant as furry robots will be able to reproduce their animalistic charm without the odorous byproduct.

9 – WikiLeaks will reveal President Eisenhower met with the Emperor of the Greys (those almond-eyed, naked, grey-skinned aliens) and made a peace treaty stipulating an allowance for alien harvesting and testing of human subjects and livestock. Considering Ike’s other options, we will call this the greatest presidential bargain since Seward’s Folly.

10 – It will be learned the Vic Neverman blog was nothing more than a Stuxnet cyber-worm burrowing into your computer and creating random gibberish upon your screen in order to keep you from creating your own nuclear weapon arsenal.

The Post Party

Amidst the eclectic bedlam, Johnny Depp (the renown Gonzo impressionist) entertained the cream of the Texas cream with his kitschy Francophilia and outrageously bored persona. They – these throngs of champagne guzzling celebrity celebrators – bowed before the flamboyantly expressed apathy of their tattooed man-child demigod. Depp’s ennui lifted with utmost brevity as a smirk perked from the results of a spontaneous poll: five out of six of those in attendance would gladly forgo alcohol for a year before allowing their liver to be sawn out of their mortal frame to be transplanted within the immortal vessel of Depp or his father figure, Keith Richards. Lee Leffingwell, the Mayor of Austin, gave Depp every key on his chain and – salivating – proposed the city change its mantra from “Keep Austin Weird” to “Keep Austin Depp”. This made the movie star shudder with discomfort. His nicotine-stained fingertips put down the glass of wine made of grapes smashed beneath the feet of cross-eyed virgins as he walked out of the room and out onto the balcony where the Driskill Hotel looked down upon the rest of the world. Depp slurped on an oyster and spit a pearl onto the street far below…

Despite the likely accuracy of this account, your narrator, Vic Neverman, was not actually at this party. Nope… No, I was further east along 6th Street at a different movie screening post-party. Yes, both I, Vic Neverman, and the sensationally insatiable Johnny Depp were both in Texas attending the Austin Film Festival where our respective films were screening (NOTE: Depp acted in “The Rum Diary” while I was a minor patron of the Tetris Documentary “Ecstasy of Order”). I wasn’t at Depp’s screening, and subsequently his party, because the bastard scheduled his movie to show at the same time as my own at this festival. Now, if you are prone to believe in coincidences, you might chalk this up to rather poor luck for Vic. Should you count yourself amongst the naive, you might not see through this veil of treachery. As one who has looked behind the curtain, I can tell you, there are no coincidences here. This is just the next slight in the age-old division between the pirate-savvy actor and the retro-gaming underworld. The latter, of which, I belong to.

Tetris Extravaganza at Buffalo Billiards


A few mere blocks away from Depp’s pouty grandstanding, the greatest Tetris players of all-time congregated, mingled, sipped domestic swill, and competed against each other on stationed televisions within Buffalo Billiards. Shunned by Johnny’s Depp’s antagonist behavior, were we? Perhaps. But this group would have it no other way. We were the greatest spatial reasoning wizards this world had to offer… at least we were on average… We didn’t need Depp any more than Hunter S Thompson.

At my party, I plotted my sweet revenge upon the 21 Jump Streeter with the unlikely company of a local film critic, Robyn. I call her a critic, though the only critiques I heard from her were on the letter “i” and the Tetris documentary, “Man… it’s all blocks”, which wasn’t as much a criticism as it was a profound observation – or so I said amidst my Neverman patented sweet-talk. I won Robyn over to our side by buying her tequila drinks and she helped me realize my plan: I would help Depp atone for his grievous sin by convincing him to buy-in on my David Koresh romantic comedy script.

Those familiar with my story of script peddling will recount how I have long claimed Matthew McConaughy as the rightful heir to the role of David Koresh (especially given the rom-com nature), but since McConaughy turned down my invitation to join us in Austin, I decided to think outside of the box a little. Imagine… Johnny Depp as David Koresh.

see my blog of casting McConaughy as Koresh here:
https://vicneverman.wordpress.com/2011/02/13/neverman-film-concepts-a-david-koresh-romantic-comedy/

Vic with the Director and one of the stars of the Tetris Documentary, "The Ecstacy of Order"


Despite the savage brilliance of our plan, Robyn and I never made it to the after-post-party where we were to abduct Johnny Depp, find a dark van to throw him into, and then de-program his brainwashed mind in order to incorporate him onto our team. Instead, I found myself lost in the beauty that is Austin, rambling through the early morning streets at the pied piper cacophony of competing blues bands. I found a bar and wiled away my consciousness as some gimp jumped out of a box and played the harmonica with such steam it could have powered the Union Pacific. I love this town.

A Conspiracy of Chicken Wings

Saturday morning (1pm-ish) saw a breakfast of bloody mary (sponsored by Tito’s Vodka) between myself and the director of Ecstasy of Order who was pitching me on a conspiracy film idea. I won’t mention his working title as it is so mind-blowing, so preposterous, that it, in itself, could inspire an entire trilogy of films on the making of the very film he proposed. One of the central concepts of his idea revolved around the genetic engineering of multi-national food corporations and the mysterious myth of the six-winged chicken. The story starts in the 1990s with the sharp uprise in popularity of buffalo wings. A demand for wings over other chicken parts forced America to import the plucked appendages from Canada and Mexico, thus paving the way for the NAFTA trade agreement (I understand “TA” already means “trade agreement”, but I think the redundancy helpful to the layperson). American neighbors thus prospered, until now, with the birth of race of chimerical six-winged chickens, raising the buffalo winging effectiveness of every bird by 300%! All we need to do now was get on the trail of this great conspiracy and find some facts. Could the American buffalo wing consumer be eating genetically engineered meat? Talk about fowling with nature…

Return to the Night

Flash Mob of Paleophiliac Johnny Depp Fanatics


In the streets of Austin, I encountered a flash mob birthed from the womb of Johnny Depp hysteria. The hysterical collective went vast lengths to make Depp aware of their presence, going as far as inciting an entire parade of Mexican skeletons complete with paper mache giant priests. I grabbed a skull mask and followed the procession to Sixth Street and stopped at the foot of the historical Driskill Hotel. Guised as Death, I snuck into the hotel lounge where large sums of the film carnies congregated.

Giant creepy paper mache puppets adoring the streets of Austin


I toiled over gin-and-tonics while surveying the film festivity scene from behind my mask. I overheard one strong-legged beaut in Dorothy red heels even suggest the masked-man might be the elusive Depp until her jealous companion remarked on the over-sized nature of my head. I sprang from my seat, waited for my gin-soaked mind to catch-up to my suddenly upright body, and supposed, “Did you ever think that my large head is a part of the mask?” Dorothy’s chest heaved in swoon as I huskily whispered into her ear, “there’s no place like home” and pranced away.

The Driskill was a dead-end. Back in the streets, I met up with the producers of Ecstasy of Order and they happened to have a spare producer badge. This golden badge was a symbol of either film esteem or a willingness to buy your way into the the upper echelons of the festival. The owner of this badge, one Dan Billups, had given up the right to bear this cross of a badge on this evening… allowing for an opportunity. It was decided that I, Vic Neverman, was to pose as Billups and gain access to the VIP open bar at a local steakhouse completely occupied by other golden badgers – like the elusive Johnny Depp.

I didn’t quite resemble the picture of Billups that adorned the face of the badge, so I had to make up for it by becoming Billups-esque in every conceivable manner. His longtime friends taught me his mannerisms, his card tricks, his gait, his method for choosing the freshest of candy bars. Ironically, this stranger Billups and I unknowingly shared the home city of Chicago some years ago… back when I was really paranoid. After a 90 second tutorial on all things Billups, Vic Neverman did not walk along the velvet rope. Nay. No, it was Dan Billups with a slightly larger head who walked to the front of the line.

“You’re Dan Billups?” The hostess looked at my badge with a cocked brow of suspicion. “The Dan Billups?”

“The trick…” I smiled at her. “To grabbing the freshest candy bar from a newly opened package at the store is to not grab the bars at the top. These are just the leftovers from the previous box. What you want is to grab from the bottom of the box.”

The hostess, either satisfied, perplexed, vaguely aroused, or a strange concoction of all three, allowed me to pass the threshold, out of the street of insignificance and into the halls of celebrity. I was the Dan Billups. If only for a couple hours of free Dos Equis.

Vic at the Driskill Hotel


The steakhouse social was another bust. Apparently, the damned elusive Johnny Depp had been forewarned of my presence, despite the guise I had arrived under. It was not apparent at the time, but the following day, after putting myself through the process of self-hypnotization (please, children, do not try this at home – Vic Neverman is a trained professional) I was able to recall moments from the Friday night party previously washed clean by the Hornitos and Shiner Bock. Those recollections recalled two suspicious characters within Robyn’s company. Satellites of her, really. She largely ignored these young men during our conversation, but when I would sally forth to the bar for refilled refreshments, I would see these orbital crafts converge on their mothership, only to disperse upon my return. At the time, I accounted their strange behavior as that of hangers on. They were the lampreys to the shark that was Robyn, using her momentum to propel them into the highly esteemed Tetris extravaganza going on at Buffalo Billiards. I never thought them spies…

Now I realize the truth. One and/or both or neither of these young men were either Johnny Depp in disguise or a puppet of scissor-hands himself. Or perhaps, even sweet, innocent, Robyn, herself, was Depp in disguise. Once my intentions were learned, JD would have all the reasoning to stay three skips ahead of my path.

I was the Man Who Was Thursday*, or so I left Austin on Sunday, unsure of who I or you or anyone really was. I love this town, but I will be damned if I don’t always lose my concept of north** in Austin and with it all my bearings on reality…

*The Man Who Was Thursday is a spy novel over a century old by GK Chesterton that deals with false identity before dragging out into something of a metaphysical Christian parable

**Absolutely true, Austin is the only place in Texas, the US, or anywhere of memory where the usually apt Neverman sense of navigation confuses North for South and ironically, vice versa…