Posts Tagged ‘Mayan Calendar’

DOC PHILLIPS, Fla

This is a blog post about food.

Mexican food.

And distrust.

Misology is the distrust of reason. Misologists prefer to be guided by devices other than reason, be those devices televised talking heads, intuitive indigestion or prophetic fortune cookies. While we may not all distrust reason, every one of us people is susceptible to that reptilian irrationality at the core of our lesser evolved brain – the underlying misological urge to lick the flagpole, mail a check to Nigeria or piss on the 3rd rail. This innate yearn for mis-thunk whimsy brings our narrative to the topic of Cinco de Mayo.

Rocco's Taco Skeleton considering the many taco options....

Rocco’s Taco Skeleton considering the many taco options….

To give-in to the faux-holiday propaganda of Cinco de Mayo (or other American Drink First, Ask Questions in the Morning holidays like St Patrick’s, Columbus Day, Boxer’s Rebellion Day, Bastille Day, Valentine’s, etc., etc., et al) and prostrate oneself before the agave altar of free tequila shots!shots!shots.shots.shots.shots!shots! is certainly an act committed with absolute disregard for reason. One might say it is misologetic, even.

Yet, here I was, as I am a professional food blogger. To shun the tacopocalypse occurring in South Orlando would be to discredit every greasy quantitative bit of gastro-journo integrity I might possess. So Southward Ho! to Doctor Phillips, an affluent truck stop off of Interstate Four between and betwixt the monstrous amusement parks. Southward Ho! to here where the well-to-do purchase their organic groceries, have back hair laser-zapped and pursue whichever litigation their enlarged hearts desired. Southward Ho! to Rocco’s Tacos – an eccentric franchise specialized in glamorizing tacos, tequila and the eternal Día de Muertos.

Attending the Cinco de Mayo fiesta at Rocco’s Tacos required some derring-do. The parking lot was engineered by Germans with an appreciation for schadenfreude; the vision of available asphalt was no more yielding than a dream. Beamers and Mercedes hover’d like buzzards in attempt to obtain a vacancy that simply did not exist. Three strip-malls of bourgeois splendor north of Rocco’s Tacos, I found the last available parking spot within a drive-thru ATM. Fact: more people are attacked by bears and/or killed via pedestrian manslaughter in Central Florida every year than all of Connecticut and Rhode Island combined. Attempting to navigate the parking lots back to our destination, dodging the strip-mall luxury sedans, was more threatening than swimming across the serpent-infested sinkhole Rocco’s Tacos looks over (though no dryer in the early summer humidity).

Vic's 4th Grade Class: 1) Lily Kudzu, 2) Cuda

Vic’s 4th Grade Class: 1) Lily Kudzu, 2) Cuda

In these ventures your narrator was accompanied by Cuda: the dastardly, bastardly, feral child scoundrel raised by a pod of disestablishmentarian dolphins off of the shore of the island I grew-up on. You might recall previous Cuda tales when we fought Imperialist Russians in Galway, hid from spy blimps in Key West, swam for our lives in the Marquesas, bartered for our souls in Nassau and fought Cajun girls with lobs of cabbage in the Irish Channel of New Orleans. Yes… that Cuda.

Chicks on Sticks - stilted & un-jilted

Chicks on Sticks – stilted & un-jilted

Rocco’s Tacos: embrace the mystery. Cuda and I were both charmed by the brouhaha over-boiling about us. Chicks on sticks danced from above as booze industry reps pushed their brands with gratuitous helpings. A local band belted-out cover songs no one recognized. A masked wrestler danced from the roof of the building. There were no Mexican girls to be found, only pretty Puerto Ricans dressing (and dancing) the part. Cuban girls were rolling cigars along their virginal thighs as the tradition demands. Gringos – pasty, blushed with apéritif, bloated with digestif, overall outlandishly fantastic – clamored for more of the Apocalypse.

Apocalypto Mas! Si – it is fiestas like these why the Mexicans kicked the French out in the first place.

Amidst the melee emerged a surprise figure, “Hollywood” – a dude from Cuda & mine’s collective past. Gold chained along the loosened collar of his shirt, Hollywood arrived bloodshot and happy, sunburnt and weathered, a ghost from years prior erased from memory by morphine and penicillin.

“And Vic Neverman!” Hollywood clasped me on the shoulder. “Jesus, Vic Neverman! What do you do, man?”

I shrugged, “Conspiracies, conspiracy debunking, pizza delivery…”

Hollywood didn’t seem to be listening, but he handed me his business card nonetheless.

Cuda cut in on the dance to promote my literary achievements, “He’s writing a book, Apocalypse Tao: the Art of Surviving the End.”

“The end of what?” Hollywood squinted.

“The world as you know it.”

“Maya Apocalypse stuff?” Hollywood asked. “That was supposed to be 2012. But it never happened.”

I turned my head ninety degrees in either direction, “Are you certain?”

Hollywood inquired on how many offspring Cuda, then I, had sired, how many wives or ex-wives we have between us. He feigned sympathy for my “unaccomplished life” and invited Cuda and I to join him at his ranch somewhere or something. After Hollywood dispersed into the crowd, Cuda remarked how random the encounter with our old acquaintance was.

“Random?” I doubted. “Sure. If you are someone who still believes in coincidences and places their broken teeth under their pillow hoping for a quarter to appear by morning.”

“What? You think he is a spy?”

“Everything happens for a reason.” I explained. “You and Hollywood both currently reside in the same Gulf of Mexican town. If you by happenstance attend the same event here in Centralist of Florida… this isn’t random, it is causal, it is synchronicity, it is a pattern worth recognizing.”

Of course, Cuda was a spy himself… or at least an activist against Anglo Imperialism as a member of a nonviolent neo-Sinn Fein group. A descendant of men from Northern Ireland’s “Bandit Country”, Cuda is always eager to hone skill and keep abreast of tactics the enemy employs. Which is what brought Cuda here – not to Rocco’s Tacos, mind you!, but rather – to the South Orlando area for a conference. Out over there, yonder, roundabouts the theme park region resides a convention center where a Professional Intelligence Community convention was taking place simultaneous with an Athletic Director’s convention. Having been a coach for the competitive dance team at Catawampus University (“go Feralcats!”), Cuda was able to obtain an invitation to the Athletic Director conference.

“I would pretend I was lost, wandering for the men’s room.” Cuda said as the apocalypse swirled around our ankles. “And then I would shadow some goon into the Intelligence Professionals room. I sat through a strange propaganda class that lectured on recent events, like ‘Spin-Ghazi’ and ‘the Malay Bait-n-Switch’. There were a couple lectures I snuck into where I wasn’t sure if I was in the spook room or the AD room. I mean, either way, the spies and the glorified gym teachers all have buzzed haircuts, potbellies and goatees. When the subject matter is ‘crowd control’ or ‘youth activism’, you have to wait to see if they start talking about Pep Rallies or Arab Spring before you know who you’re dealing with.”

Ultimately, Cuda absorbed enough strategy during his conference sessions to overthrow a small Caribbean island nation while hosting a southeastern regional swim meet. As for the fifth of May? Once the Maya high-priestesses ushered forth with albino pythons to begin the bloodletting, we decided to call it a night. Viva Mexico! Viva Maya Apocalypse!

Alas, the review…

Cinco de Mayo (4)Rocco’s Tacos: a pleasant celebration of death ambiance with an appreciation for the skeletal system, free tequila, taco variety and beautiful Puerto Rican girls promenading as Mexicans. The beer was of an expected Latin American assortment and overpriced, unless considered in proportion to the income strata of the gringos present. The food… well, Rocco’s Tacos was too fucking busy to sit down and eat so we went next door for burritos at Tijuana Flats. 5 out of 5 NeverStars!

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A Postcard from Nepal

“Victor!” began the drafted email message that had been sitting in cyberspace, rotting here, waiting for me like a crow carcass left by a loyal retriever. “My long lost friend, how the hell r ya?”

Could it possibly be? The picture could be of him… of anyone… Was this a trick – a lure placed before my hiding place to bring me out of my hole?

Greetings from the Himalaya: Cyrus Lee Hancock

Greetings from the Himalaya: Cyrus Lee Hancock

I had already wandered outside my safe confines to be here. There are many hotels in Central Florida and many of these many have courtesy internet lobbies for their guests. Such lobbies also work well for anonymous conspiracy bloggers looking to sign-in to mysterious email accounts and read the saved drafted messages left by fellow paranoids. Consider my Neverman ass planted in one such lobby. Before me on this day was an unexpected message from beyond that my eyes scanned frantically. At my back the sound of faux waterfall urged my bladder unnecessarily as the high-pitched spiel of the front desk girl bounced off the neo-post-modern retro-deco plastic blocks that made up the computer station. Could it be that what I was looking at was an actual message from Cyrus Lee Hancock?

“Enough of the fucking small talk, mi amigo. The time for my vindication is nye neigh nigh here. I may be hovering over a mud hole where thousands of strained shits have been taken and frozen at 20,000 feet, but I am not too drunk on altitude and the smell of vomited beer to miss the current events taking place back home. That bitch at the IRS is toast. Or as we say in Himalaya, ‘she’ll make a nice addition to a Yeti’s quilt’. Just like a couple of fucking South Africans I buried yesterday. I buried them, Yeti will fucking dig them up, sew them in, just like Sherpa Jerry says. And Sherpa Jerry don’t lie.

“You need to put the word out. Tell my story, hombre. It is time to negotiate; I am ready to come home. But I am not going to acquiesce until I get some guarantees.”

And so it was clear: Cyrus Lee Hancock had re-emerged onto the grid to take-on the vulnerable IRS that had pursued him to the ends and the heights of the Earth.

He listed his demands to reclaim citizenship of the United States:

  1. I want a full apology hand-written by whoever new is in charge at the IRS.
  2. I want the apology framed. A nice frame. No Target bullshit.
  3. I want the next 10 years off from being taxed by the Federales.
  4. I want my bro-in-law pardoned. Actually, I don’t give two shits, but the wife does.
  5. I want February 29th to just be a day that exists every year. I just got my first gray hair and I have only had seven birthdays – leap day blows.
  6. When kids study the constitution and they read about the 2nd Amendment, under ‘Regulated Militia’, I want there to be a picture of me, my guns, my dog and my Chinese stars.
  7. I want the IRS abolished, once and for all. I might be able to compromise on this one. Exile is okay too.

Cyrus Lee finally concluded, “OASIS and the Hancocks have long endured oppression of the Internet Revenue Service the IRS and if our Kenyan leader in the White House does not step down and allow the rule of the people, then it is time that we rise up like 1776 all over again and stop paying the tea taxes and start taking back our rights as Christian human beings. Or, I guess, just ‘Christians’. Isn’t ‘human’ implied? Unless they baptized Yeti. Fuck if I know. Sherpa Jerry would be pissed if he found out, he’s one of them Hindi Buddhists. Anyway, peace bro, CLH out!”

Prelude: the Emergence of Bucky Swoon

No story just exists in a tightly-packaged 26 month vacuum. How did we get here? What was the fallout? How did I, Vic Neverman, become entangled within the paranoid realm of the survivalist apocalyptist, Cyrus Lee Hancock, and the collection of his minions that were the group known as OASIS?

Circa 2011 of the Common Era: I had a fresh sunburn after relocating from Portland, Oregon, to the cheap plastic wilderness of Central Florida. Without the Dude Collective, my Oregonian commune of drunken philosophers, I quickly found myself lost within the twisted façade of civilization that is this tourism mecca. Parallel to the Arabic Mecca, the space rock that landed here that has fanatics circling like vultures is Space Mountain, or more specifically, Disney and the theme parked madness that followed.

A stranger in A Small World After All, I reached and struggled to find genuine intrigue and conflict in a place where it was all manufactured for consumer consumption. I developed a new alter-ego, Bucky Swoon, and infiltrated the Florida Secessionist Tea Party Movement. I spent a lot of time in North Florida. I wore a ball-cap I had to run over with my car several times to create its perfect shape. I drank cheap swill and allowed myself – err, my alter-ego – to be videoed riding a mechanic bull. I grinned and bore it as they made fun of manatees and manatee wake zones.

And then the Arab Spring arrived.

The Occupy Movement would follow.

Prepping for the Inevitable END: Neverman and Cyrus Lee

Prepping for the Inevitable END: Neverman and Cyrus Lee

Bucky Swoon volunteered to infiltrate the Occupiers as another alter-ego (name since forgotten, hard to keep track). I infiltrated. I returned to tell the Tea Party Secessionists about how ridiculous the Occupiers were and how they were led by a lovely dread-locked girl in a Guy Fawkes mask. Meanwhile, I told the lovely dread-locked girl in a Guy Fawkes mask about how I had infiltrated the Tea Party and how ridiculous they were. I was a double-agent. Or triple, since I was really just working for myself.

Bucky Swoon, who is praised for going undercover as an Occupy Orlando activist by growing a beard, wearing torn blue jeans and not washing his hair (ironically, the same way I infiltrated the Florida Secessionists), was presented with a flier to attend an “Anti-United Nations Paintball Rally sponsored by Cyrus Lee Hancock.”

The rest is history. Or at least some of the rest is in the next paragraph.

OASIS and the IRS

Cyrus Lee Hancock and I became fast friends. He saw through the mirage of Bucky Swoon and we came to grips about our antithetical co-existence. We were Spy Vs Spy, White Hat/Black Hat, Jekyll and Hyde… quasi-Canadian gun-enthusiast paranoid (him) and the neo-beatnik pacifist paranoid (me). I furthered my connection by bringing him whiskey on the rare Leap Day of 2012 and by being respectful of his wife, the beautiful enigma that is Layla Santana Crow. Well, I was respectful outside of the debates she and I endured in regards to the existence of dinosaurs. I was, clearly, in favor of the existence of dinosaurs. She, sweet Layla, was not. She, as always, was persuasive, though.

Cyrus Lee Hancock was the purveyor of Hancock Ranch, a survivalist compound where he held corporate retreats preparing suits for the end of the world, or, at least, another Democratic President. Cyrus Lee was also the founder and president of OASIS: the Oviedo Army of Survival, Intelligence and Security. It was a tight-knit suburban commando unit that met every Tuesday night to whatever surprise casserole dish the wives presented. Wine was drunk as preparations for The End were made.

The Future for Cyrus Lee Hancock and OASIS was clearly rooted in The End. Apocalyptoism was all the rage in 2012, especially with an election pending and the hysterical misinterpretation of the Mayan Calendar ending on December 21st. Donations and applications began to pour in from those who wished to join OASIS and have a front row seat to Armageddon from the safety of Hancock Ranch. Cyrus Lee Hancock was to reinvest those funds by increasing his arsenal and packing away enough foodstuffs to feed the loyal survivalist army. OASIS officially filed as a not-for-profit with the IRS as a means to reduce tax payout. Cyrus Lee even, at one point, insisted OASIS was a cult that followed the dinosaur-denying high priestess, Layla Santana Crow, and that the Freedom of Religion should exempt them from having to pay taxes.

Then the Maya Apocalypse occurred.

Post-apocalypse, everyone was pretty much left standing. Everyone pretty much had to go back to work. Everyone pretty much wanted their refund, or at least their share of Cyrus Lee’s arsenal and refried bean collection. Yet, Cyrus Lee Hancock was nowhere to be found. Hancock Ranch had been sold to some Vegan collective from Ohio. OASIS was no more, the Army disbanded with their post-apocalyptic hangover. The IRS arrived, but arrived too late.

The last I saw of Cyrus Lee and Layla was in an Olive Garden. We shared some cold calamari and a lot of salad. It would not be long before these mysterious two evaporated into the mystery dust of the cosmos.

Cyrus Lee Hancock buried his guns away in some rent-a-shed and sent his bride to some Costa Rican nunnery where she could forage with the orphans. His whereabouts were a mystery. A mystery until the downfall of the IRS finally brought him out of hiding and seeking his due justice. Now he wanted his vindication… and a framed apology.

Cyrus Lee Hancock and some Sherpa Dudes in the Himalaya

Cyrus Lee Hancock and Sherpa Jerry and Sherpa She-Bop in the Himalaya

The belief in a supernatural source of evil is not necessary; men alone are quite capable of every wickedness.

– Joseph Conrad

Fear ye not, dear reader. I, Victor Ulysses Neverman, continue to exist.

A fortnight ago, I entered into an abyssal pit of chigger-infested scrub brush with my greatest nemesis. It was Florida back-country as thick as Poseidon’s dreadlocked & barnacled crotch-beard; wilderness so untamed the feral children living beneath my back-porch eating corncobs would quiver in fear at the sight (and little ever quakes the nerves of those cob-thieving bastards). I entered this brutal landscape as a part of my training regimen for my future jungle exploration and it was my survivalist trainer, Cyrus Lee Hancock, who I feared more than the rabid bobcats fornicating in the palmetto. What did I have to fear? Read my previous blog detailing Cyrus Lee’s 27 motives for wanting a quick end to all things Neverman. Why would I train with a man who wanted to buy my farm, kick my bucket, shuffle off my mortal coil? Because Cyrus Lee Hancock is the best and if I wanted to survive the cannibals and piranha of the Amazon this summer, I needed to train with the best.

Canadian Duplicity meets American Paranoia: Cyrus Lee Hancock and Vic Neverman

Canadian Duplicity meets American Paranoia: Cyrus Lee Hancock and Vic Neverman

In this post-apocalyptic world, the letdown of the anticlimactic Maya Conclusion on 12/21/2012 put a lot of us doomsday survivalists into a bit of a funk. Cyrus Lee Hancock, whose primary source of income is as a Life Coach to the Paranoid would have been out of business post-Maya Apocalypse if not for Obama proposing gun control legislation and thus fueling the hysteria of right-wing gun hoarders. Despite the increase in revenue from consultation fees, Cyrus Lee still felt the post-apocalyptic funk and in a moment of wanderlust spontaneity decided a trip to the rooftop of the world was in order. Cyrus Lee Hancock began preparing his search for Shangri-La in Nepal. Across town, a rival adventurer was dusting off his maps of South America and planning his own search for El Dorado. Despite the animosity between Cyrus Lee Hancock and Vic Neverman, a truce was settled and we decided to train together for our separate endeavors.

Bygones were to be damned. After all, Cyrus Lee suggested, there were better places to bury the hatchet than between my shoulder-blades. “Probably” he added with his trademark smug smirk. On this trek he had brought along his wife, Layla Santana Crow. She was a mysterious creature with Miccosukee blood who denied the existence of dinosaurs and believed the sun was the cruel prank of celestial beings to parody humankind by illuminating our failures and weaknesses. Having her on the trip offered no more safety than it did sanity as her eyes were just as menacing as her husband’s. Layla’s presence did strengthen my resolve, however, as I do make it a rule to not cry in the presence of women.

It was near a gator-hole an hour into our trek before I began to feel threatened. It wasn’t the presence of alligators, mind you – both Cyrus Lee and I were experienced with the reptiles (though while I had captured crocodiles for science, he hunted gators for sport: a clear indication of who the madman amongst us was) – no, it was actually a conversation about granola that perked my paranoia. Call me coward if you will, but when Cyrus Lee Hancock mentioned he had a granola bar in his pocket and after rummaging around in said pocket only to withdraw a 9 mm pistol, I about shat my spine. His face bore a mask of bewilderment as he held the gun, “Wow, forgot I had this in there! Glad I didn’t wear these shorts to the airport.” Needless to say, I was not comforted by his feigned attempt at jest. When it came to fight or flight, the former was not an option against an armed maniac and the only place to flee to was the gator-hole. Diplomacy was my only choice, so I complimented his wife on her snazzy sneakers. We continued our trek deeper into the woods.

Either that is not granola in your pocket or you are happy to see me

Either that is not granola in your pocket or you are happy to see me

We were prepared for anything. Beyond Cyrus Lee’s guns and phantom granola, I was carrying:

Supplies: ginger beer, rum, water, tin foil , binoculars, camo-condoms, dowsing rods, compass and pocket knife

Supplies: ginger beer, rum, water, tin foil , condoms, dowsing rods, compass and pocket knife

  • Water (hydration)
  • A compass (navigation)
  • Bronze dowsing rods (to find water or to navigate with)
  • Binoculars (the better to see you with)
  • A pocket knife (the better to prick you with)
  • Camouflage condoms (the better to prick you with)
  • Tin foil and duct tape (conspiracy theorist must-haves)
  • Bermudan rum and ginger beer (to make dark ‘n’ stormy should I require some “Dutch courage”)

There were few souls to be found along on our path. Should you or the spy blimp hovering above spotted us, you would have been able to tell us apart by looking for Cyrus Lee in his Crips blue bandana, Layla Santana Crow wearing her jazzercise outfit and Vic in his Magnum Pi shirt (yes, a π disguised as Tom Selleck in 1986). The beasts in the wood were less obvious, though they were certainly audible. A suspected puma ended up being a pair of birds bouncing through dry palmetto. The typical wild hogs and turkey were distant, but certainly present. The skunk apes* were not to be smelled, but I had smelt them in these parts before.

*Some argue the Florida skunk ape is a derivative of the Sasquatch beast that wanders much of North America. I and other historians instead chalk-up the skunk ape to be an ancestor of the many movie monkeys let loose in Central Florida during the filming of Tarzan and other jungle-theme moving pictures in the silver screen era. Either way, should you see what appears to be a deranged chimp masturbating in your backyard you should probably alert animal control (or Cyrus Lee Hancock, should you be on good terms). You would likely smell the skunk ape first: imagine mayonnaise infused sushi left under your car seat for a week before being eaten by your gangrenous neighbor whose stomach (while attempting to digest the fishy snack) exploded into the compost heap you just fertilized with your infant bastard’s diaper residue… this is the scent of the skunk ape.

While in the wetlands, I made sure to always stay a couple paces ahead of Cyrus Lee

While in the wetlands, I made sure to always stay a couple paces ahead of Cyrus Lee

Our trek became a bit sketchy once again when we entered the wetlands. While Layla Santana Crow refused to cross the swamp waters of this moccasin hot-tub orgy (her past in Chokoloskee held enough water-snake muck for one lifetime), Cyrus Lee and I ventured as far into the aqua-terrain as we dared without becoming gator bait. Layla stomped her foot impatiently from higher ground, consumed with her desire for a late afternoon shopping trip to Kohls and yet captive to waiting for us to fulfill our fool’s dare. With a little luck, we returned mostly dry and unscathed (though with scabies).

At last, after dozens of miles and what surely must have been days off of the grid, we emerged from the bush. Cy and Layla said their goodbyes and there was no shovel involved – not swinging at my head or digging my bed. They even invited me to a dinner party and, of course, my being a sociophobic loner I declined. I returned home to the bungalow on Bayou St Bas and promptly deloused.

Two weeks have passed since I returned to safety. Without a single blog posting, many in the cyber community began to conjecture on what frightful end Vic Neverman had met. Having disappeared into the ether with final words prophesizing my demise at the hands of Cyrus Lee Hancock, many of you loyal readers took to sending your angry comments to his Hurricane Survival website. Others who figured Cyrus Lee was innocent hypothesized Vic must have been going like Hell’s delight chasing after cheap perfume when he fell into a cougar trap. This too, while a reasonable assumption, was sadly not so.

The truth is that I became ill between then and now. For years I have denied the Center for Disease Control’s suggested inoculations, realizing these “flu shots” were “tyranny bullets” meant to control the masses by neutering our sense of reason and tracking us with the GPS-tracked nanobots injected into our bloodstream. By rejecting these flu shots, I knowingly made myself susceptible to the flu du jour and all I can say about today’s influenza special, “Bravo, CDC, bravo!” They really cooked up a gonad-blistering plague this time. I was as congested as the last goat ass at a buggery petting zoo and my fevered delusions haven’t been that rigorously fucked since I watched Led Zeppelin’s Song Remains the Same during a bout of delirium tremens. All-in-all, a grand nasty sick, yet I survived without the damned nanobots leaching my brain proteins for battery juice. A pyrrhic victory, aye… but a victory for Vic Neverman, nevertheless.

Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.

― Søren Kierkegaard

Friends, Paranoids, Countrymen, lend me your ear… I come to bury 2012, not to praise it. I speak to you now not to relish this year’s numerous personal victories or weep over dearly departed milk, spilt from the cereal bowl of the disenchanted dreamer. No! I am here, at the twilight of this year, for one purpose only – to review my 2012 predictions. I do so ascending from the embers of Hades as my own Devil’s Advocate with a callous and critical forked tongue. As a trend-analyzing futurist, I am held accountable for my predictions; I am not some haphazard weather man pointing the direction of the wind like an iron rooster atop your barn. You, dear reader, deserve to have my words tested over the hot coals of hindsight. Well, the grades are in… And the truth is: I fucking nailed it!

Here it is, my 2012 predictions regurgitated from my 12/18/2011 blog post. Also included, on a scale of 0-10 is how hard I nailed this particular prophecy.

1 – “The Mayan Calendar date that is approximately 12/21/2012 …will not bring the end of the world.”

On an accuracy scale of 0-10, I scored a perfect 10. The Maya date of significance came and went. The world continues to turn without so much as a wobble. The Apocalypto aftermath, however, did draw an end to my social calendar. As you, fellow traveler, likely already know I became something of a celebrity in the latter half of this year thanks to a local magazine’s article on adventure racing featuring non-other than Vic Neverman. My social status brought some fame amongst Central Florida’s doomsday prep crowd and I spent many nights at speaking engagements, feasting on free meals prepared by my host/hostess. At a 12/22/2012 post-apocalypse party, my Gratis status soon became Non Grata due to my possessing an anti-social behavior more befitting a baboon than a privileged member of civilization. I have now returned to being shunned by society. Which is fine, I am more comfortable here anyhow.

2 – “…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.”

Score of 9. “Monsanto is the devil”  My agricultural industry insider, M. Von Love told me. Our ability to feed the world has grown leaps and bounds thanks to innovation in the science of managing fields and the technology of machines. Monsanto’s monopoly on seeds and proliferation of pesticide, however, is crippling all gains by slowly killing the world’s populace. Monsanto is not out to cure hunger, It is out to control the world’s food supply. This prediction would have been a perfect score, but the Washington Post never went public with their exposé.

3 – “Occupy the Democratic National Convention’ will be infiltrated by agent provocateurs”

Score of 10. Sometimes predictions can be so powerful, they undermine the very event they attempt to forecast. In this case, instead of risk being ripped apart by agents provocateur, the Occupy Movement simply agreed to become bored with it all and disintegrate. The thing about revolution is that it is a bitch.

4 – “2011 was the year of the drone… 2012 will be the year of the spy blimp.”

Score of 10. Drones were still prevalent in 2012, sure. And stealth helicopters stole headlines after the bin Laden raid in Pakistan, but who can deny the sudden omnipresence of blimps watching us all from above? To quote an anonymous bathroom stall poet, “Privacy is dead. And death is the only chance for quality alone time.”

5 – “Vlad Putin will win the Presidency of Russia”

Score of 10. I wish I were wrong on this one. If I had been wrong, Russia wouldn’t have cock-blocked us in Syria and Pussy Riot would still have their freedom and obscurity.

6 – “By 2020, 80% of our fastfood nutrition will be hidden inside of an egg roll.”

Score of 10. Not only are egg rolls, and their tasteless spring cousins, now a fixture in Americana cuisine, the Chinese have secured all the rare mineral rights in Africa and Australia, ensuring only they and Monsanto will be the global super powers in 2050.

7 – “Illegal phone applications will utilize facial recognition software”

Score of 10. Again, sometimes predictions can have such an impact on the future as to dismantle it. My paranoid ravings about cell phone applications have started petitions against social networking sites to ensure this new technology will not be released onto the public. By my being so goddamned accurate, I prevented this horrid future from actually occurring. Yet.

8 – Robots will take the place of TSA agents, romantic companions, line cooks and pets.

Score of 10. While I haven’t necessarily had my cavities explored by a metallic TSA agent or robo-gyrl, it is really just a question of expense. Think about it – 20 years ago, we could have all had mobile phones and home computers, but it was cost prohibitive. In another 3 or 4 years of cost-reducing innovation, most of my carnal delights will likely be provided by the delicate skill of my pocket automaton, Lucy.

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.”

Score of 9. I do not necessarily hear anyone claiming this to not be true. The deduction of the one point, like the Buffalo Wild Wing prediction, is simply due to the failure of the 4th Estate to reveal this truth.

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.”

Score of 10. Of course…

For a final tally of 98! That’s an A+ in my book. Good job, Vic, and a Happy New Year to All!

BONUS ROUND:

Interesting 2010 predictions made by Vic Neverman for 2011

-The NeverBrother-in-Law will attempt to frame Vic. This actually did happen in 2012.

https://vicneverman.wordpress.com/2012/04/15/transamericana-the-shamrock-shakedown-or-why-florida-is-psycho-meatloaf/

-Osama bin Laden will be found in New Jersey. In 2012, he was actually found in Pakistan.

-China will use its weather devices to send more hurricanes to make landfall in unexpected American locations. This didn’t occur in 2011, because as I said at the time, the United States countered with our own weather manipulation technology. In 2012, however, Super Storm Sandy hit New York City just prior to the Presidential Election.

A fire broke out backstage in a theatre. The clown came out to warn the public; they thought it was a joke and applauded. He repeated it; the acclaim was even greater. I think that’s just how the world will come to an end: to general applause from wits who believe it’s a joke.

― Søren Kierkegaard

Black Friday

I awoke to the sound of helicopters. This is not the norm. Normally, if helicopters are disturbing my sleep, it is the silent kind of helicopter – you know the type – those diabolical stealth machines seen (not heard) at the scene of cattle mutilations and Occupy protests. If anything keeps me up at night, it is the deafeningly mad silence of those damned black helicopters and their muffled drafts as they hover nearby, quietly watching my heat patterns with their Predator-infrared goggles as I eat my cereal and watch reruns of The New Girl. But on this morning… this morning the whirly birds were chirping.

Black Helicopters and their relation to dead cows and NATO, courtesy of zapatopi.net

The noise, or lack of silence, in this pre-dawn did not keep me from leaping out of bed to grab my nearby trusty tennis racket and assume a defensive (albeit naked) position at the door. I listened to the helicopters overhead. They didn’t possess that incessant thwack-thwack chop of the airborne cop, no, no, no, this was more of the thwip-thwip-thwip of the local eye-in-the-sky paparazzi, hovering, likely, over some nearby mall, zooming their lens in upon some slapdash blitzkrieg of consumption-obsessed, pie-bloated, meat puppets seeking out holiday sales. There are, you see, as many damn malls here in Central Florida as there are sinkholes, as many sinkholes as there are check-cashing loan-shark kiosks and there is at least one check-cashing loan-shark kiosk across the street from every mall, of which there are many. Realizing the benign source of the sound of the buzzards abuzz, I returned to bed. The couch, however, I left firmly braced against the front door. That could leave until daylight.

Ye shoppers beware! the NeverRant

This last weekend, Doc Kelly and I were served at a local watering hole by a smarmy beer wench who claimed to be double-majoring in psychology and marketing. “Another young girl who thinks she is going to rule the world…” Doc sighed for the 2nd time that day, his eyes thin slits from the alcohol exhaustion after a long week. Our server, to my keen perception, represented more than Doc’s American Dream pre-Spoilage, it was the ravenous Millennial appetite for capitalizing on the feeble minds of the consuming public. Portends ill tidings…

I dabble, as you reader may indeed know, in counter-intelligence. This involves preparing my vulnerable mind against subtle manipulations of these psyche-marketers, like the beer wench. As you may imagine, counter-intelligence maneuverings could seem counter-intuitive. Counter-productive, even… Yet such maneuvers prove essential. EXAMPLE: beware those BOGO programs. They are subversive acts by those ad wizards who are already injecting subliminal pipe dreams into your sports highlights, emasculating you until you begin purchasing boner pills and convertibles. My advice: if you see “buy one, get one free” you should buy the one and not accept the free. When the “well-intentioned” sales associate insists you “get one free”, this is when you know the dirty bitch is fucking with your mind. Tell her to stop. Stop fucking with it. This is America, we should have free minds, right? Tell her so. She will get the picture.

So my counter-espionage tactics keep me doubling-back, taking absurd routes and sometimes walking in reverse in order to throw-off pursuit. A time-consuming process? Yes. Yet, a process necessary if They are out to get me. And if They are not out to get me? All the better! This is the win/win scenario of the contemporary paranoid.

Back to Capitalism and Maya Fever…

As usual, this holiday season I look to capitalize on the hungry bellies of the Golden Horde. This year, my endeavor is to sell t-shirts that read, “my mom went to Rio and all I got was this stupid t-shirt from off the back of an impoverished drug trafficker the Brazilian government murdered in the woods as a part of their occupation/cleansing of the slums prior to the 2016 Olympics.” I expect them to sell like hot-cakes.

Perhaps I would be the better capitalist if I were to cash-in on Maya Fever, the media hysteria surrounding the end date of the Mayan Calendar: December 21st, 2012. AUTHOR’S NOTE: the Maya do not believe the end of the world is nigh, but damn does it sell paperbacks! The Maya Calendar is set to end (by some accounts) in twenty-something days, give or take something. This is the end date for a cycle that will leave the Earth (<- you are here), the Sun and the center of the Milky Way Galaxy aligned in a line as straight as a Texan dance hall, give or take some straight. This sort of thing doesn’t occur except for every 26,000 years or so, give or take some so, which happens to be about as long as the Calendar of the Maya. If that does not creep you out, both the Maya and Astrologers call this center of the galaxy “the Deep Rift” and both understand that gravity will be strongest upon the Earth (our planet) when we exist within this alignment.

If you are not prone to worry about high gravity (which is likely already deepening the wave lengths of your mental thought), then think on this: such a passage through the Dark Rift might just rip our magnetic poles asunder. That is to say, your compass is screwed. Your GPS is defunct. Toilet flushes will stop swirling and maybe, just maybe, you will suffer amnesia. It has been proven (by quacks mostly, in their pseudo-sciences) that memory is deeply affected by magnetism. If you pass strong enough magnetics across your hard-drive, it will be left corrupted. Similarly, if you run your brain between some pretty intense magnetic fields, your entire memory could be wiped clean. Unsurprisingly, the best quacks in the field point to the Atlanteans (of Atlantis) as proof that the last magnetic pole dance 26,000 years ago completely destabilized a highly technical civilization and brought mankind back into the Stone Age.

Of course, the non-quack docs would disagree. But do they understand how the human brain stores memory? Nope. Do the non-quack docs know how magnetism affects memory? Nope. Could there be some truth to this Maya Pole Theory?

Dunno. I forget.

 

Appendix:the lovely site where the Black Helicopter diagram is displayed

http://zapatopi.net/blackhelicopters/

 

 

We all see only that which we are trained to see.

― Robert Anton Wilson

Some people think there’s a conspiracy making our airport the center of a New World Order. Rest assured the story is definitely a myth.

– the official website of DIA, http://flydenver.com/doyouknowdia

Demonic Bronco

Paranoia is in the eye of the beholder. Behold: Denver International Airport, a seemingly innocent gateway to the Rocky Mountains, until, that is, you peel back layers of an ominous onion of such pungency your resulting tears could melt barnacles off a fishwife. A most sinister layover, if you know where to look. That is where I, Vic Neverman come in. I not only know where to look, I have looked, scratched and sniffed. Look, for example, at the mascot of DIA: the bloodthirsty blue bronco with the diabolical glowing orange eyes. This beast is pure apocalypse without the need of three other horses, let alone their horsemen. This beast is what greets visitors arriving at DIA. Should you leave… if you leave… you will be treated with a glimpse at the bucking bronco’s strained bollocs & arse regions. “Come back and see us some time” isn’t quite the message provided by the horse ass.

Backside of the Demonic Bronco

The thin mountain air reeks of more than constipated horse – the 52 square mile area occupies a stretch of land which may be cursed dirt given the high amount of plane-struck wildlife. The groundhog carnage alone must be appalling with the poor, little, curious buggers getting their fur jammed up in the landing gear. Then you have the buildings, themselves: the structures of Denver International Airport are littered with so much occult symbolism it has fueled a modern urban mythology so dark, so vexxing, so goddamn disturbing, I could not resist a vist.

Driving to the airport from Denver, there are a few things you will notice… First, are we in Kansas? The airport is 25 miles from the city, 19 miles further from the previous airport Stapleton (which had more gates and terminals than DIA when the latter was built in the mid-1990s). Second, what’s with all the dirt? The airport has been around for twenty-five years, but there are still massive dig sites underway. During the construction of DIA, 110 million cubic yards of earth was moved – approximately 1/3rd of the amount dug to create the Panama Canal – leading many to conjecture about the subteranean city that may be waiting under mountain. Third, rumors abound that different construction companies were hired for each part of the project and subsequently fired upon completion. In the 13th Century, the slaves that built the tomb of Genghis Khan were killed and then the soldiers that killed them were killed along with the caterers, the latrine hand washer valets, everyone involved in order to keep the location of the tomb secret. What secrets hide underneath the circus tent of Denver International Airport?

Denver International Airport

Jesse Ventura, the ex-Governor/Navy Seal/wrestler, is so paranoid he now lives in Mexico (a natural choice for the Vitamin D deficient sociophobic conspiracy crowd) waiting to be invited onto the cast of The Expendables 3. Ventura’s Conspiracy Theory program suggests Denver International Airport is full of clues pointing to its role-to-be as a bunker for the world’s elite during the 2012 Maya Calendar end date. This suggestion seems to me to be fear-monger trailer-hitching to Maya Fever (the ever-popular 2012 end of world hysteria) in order to sell books/programming. Still… a bunker built into the mile high plains east of Denver would prove substantial for riding out the end of days.

The Children of the World Dream of Peace

Enter Cyrus Lee Hancock, a doomsday theory connoisseur, a bunker lifestyle aficionado and the world’s foremost hurricane survival expert. At my insistence, Cyrus Lee arrived in Denver to scope out the bunkerscape. I met him at the DIA arrivals gate with my research assistant, Bo Lynn Bell. After brief debate with CLH over whether Denver fornications qualified one for the esteemed “Mile High Club” and then after the Bo Lynn scolded us for discussing such matters in the presence of children (ignorant though they may be), we three found ourselves before the spookily colorful murals painted by artist Leo Tanguma when the airport was built 25 years ago.

“Artwork featuring dead children, nice.” Cyrus Lee admired the art with his cynicism. “Welcome to Denver.”

“The children are not dead. They are sleeping.” Bo Lynn Bell countered.

“Sure, I guess you can see them breathing. I can’t.” Cyrus Lee held firm.

“Call it a hunch.” Bo Lynn retorted. “The title of the art is ‘the Children of the World Dream of Peace’. Dreaming typically entails sleep.”

“Yea, well the title should be ‘the Children of the World Dream of Dead Children which is really Fucking Creepy’.” Cyrus Lee critiqued.

Elsewhere in Denver International Airport exists the Great Hall, where throngs of tourists and professional travelers are scoped, radiated, man-handled, pan-handled and searched by agents of the Transportation Security Administration. It is within this migratory passageway there exists the DIA capstone which seems to feature the square and compass of the Freemasons along with a reference to a “New World Airport Commission.” Could this be the hint of some Masonic conspiracy? To answer the enigma, I turned to the smart-assed lass, Bo Lynn Bell. She was not only my research assistant (on an unaccredited internship) , she also happened to be a descendant of a Texas Masonic legacy. It is also a matter-of-fact that the Bell Family, ever wise they may be, have forbidden their heir, Bo Lynn, from any further association with with yours truly, Vic Neverman: conspiracy theorist extraordinaire. Indeed. It bears repetition: Bo Lynn is forbidden to see me. In order to join me in Colorado, Bo Lynn’s twin sister agreed (via system of bribery) to pose as Bo Lynn’s doppelgänger back in Dallas in order to ensure no one suspected her absence. Even conspiracy theorists must conspire sometimes.

Masonic Capstone of the New World Airport Commission

Bringing my Masonic expert into the Great Hall, I asked Bo Lynn, “Can you identify this as a Masonic capstone?”

“Well, that is what it says it is.” She pointed out. “I bought my dad matching cufflinks.”

There you have it – Masonic ties to the construction of Denver International Airport. Could there exist some grandiose scheme to what lies hidden beneath our feet? Cyrus Lee Hancock belived so…

“New World Airport Commission.” Cyrus Lee read off the capstone. “Sounds a lot like ‘New World Order’, à la the commie assholes who are trying to take my guns, take my country and make me pay for someone else’s condoms.”

“New World monkeys can hang by their tail while Old World monkeys cannot.” I mentioned. “What conspiracy can you drawl from that?”

“That communist monkeys are bastards too.” Cyrus Lee diseffectedly surmised, his eyes scanning the horizon for a purveyor of some cognac or pinot grigio to dull out the pain from the mangling his legs took during whichever godforsaken mountain scaling he endured the week prior.

To complete Cyrus Lee Hancock’s introduction to Denver, we departed the airport via freeway and amidst a sandstorm. It was a fitting tempest, given the devilish nature of the place and the ungodly amount of loose dirt lying around. The following morning I somberly returned to DIA to drop-off  Bo Lynn Bell so she might return to Texas before anyone there became the wiser. A whiskey blur of two days and several mountains underfoot later, Cyrus Lee and myself returned to Denver International Airport in order to make our own departure. We made one last turn around the murals and then it was on to security screening where, to no surprise, I received some extra treatment.

Cyrus Lee Hancock, waiting near the security gates

“Is this your bag?” a garden variety TSA agent inquired. I agreed to allow her to check through my carry-on as Cyrus Lee watched from the perimeter. I, Vic Neverman, am a well-seasoned traveler: before I turned twenty-four years of age I had downed a pint of Guinness on four different continents. I knew how to pack a carry-on. Unless… Ye Gods! Could I have been setup? It was my foul-minded government-contracted spook of a brother-in-law who had dropped me off at the airport – might he have sabotaged my baggage, planting some contraband upon my belongings to undermine my passage homeward? Or could this be an agent of the airport itself, scorned by my scrutiny and determined to have my cavities fully searched? I desperately awaited to find what false flag the TSA agent might find.

Lo! Behold: the found contraband was indeed my own. Definitely mine. I, uh, failed to pack a certain tube into my checked luggage. Said tube was of a variety, err… affiliated with enhancement of certain carnal pursuits. In my carry-on, there was, if you will, what you might call a “pleasure pocket” full of latex apparati and this tube of petroleum jelly. A tube much grander in scale than the maximum liquid volumes allowed, courtesy of Homeland Security.

Garden variety TSA agent eyed the tube and having not seen the accompanying apparati which would provide some context, she was, perhaps, unsure what exactly it was that she held. Until she read the directions on the back of said tube. Her TSA comrades, standing aside, snickered as they immediately recognized what she had found. I remained silent, awaiting my punishment. Just beyond the security lines I catch sight of Cyrus Lee appearing perturbed at my hold-up. Ay dios mio! I jerk my head at him, “leave!” I jerk my thumb, “go on!” This was the least opportune time for he to associate with me. But no, pretty-boy stands there hands-on-hips, glaring at the Transportation Security Administrators. Garden variety TSA agent’s comrades note the contraband and my handsome companion and, drawing conclusions entirely outlandishly im-fucking-possible, they resort to a level of snickering beyond what is generally accepted as casual. I was doomed.

Vic puts the contraband back into place after finally passing through security

Garden variety TSA agent appeared forlorn. She had a moment of hesitation before she announced the inevitable, “I have to test it.” Her co-workers, at least those “supervising”, danced with glee as they watched her uncomfortably take the tube of petroleum-based jelly wonderfulness and squirt a dollop of lubricant onto litmus paper, or so I assume the stick represented, to test what sort of chemicals might be contained within the gelatinous goo and whether they might have some drug or explosive compounds. Cyrus Lee stamped impatiently from the sideline.

“You’re okay.” Garden variety TSA agent announces without a sign of relief as the litmus test confirmed she was dealing with exactly what she did not want to be dealing with. She repacked my bag, told me I may go on and immediately disposed of her gloves. I calmly took the backpack and advanced out of the security check-point to where I could hiss at Cyrus Lee, “Just keep moving, but don’t walk next to me until we are out of sight of security?”

“What was that all about?” Cyrus Lee asked.

My face was contorting into a smile, my chest shook with laugter, “Why didn’t you just move along! They found my bottle of lube and had to test to see if it was an illegal substance.”

Cyrus Lee cackled with laughter.

Denver International Airport. This place is definitely cursed.

This is a mournful discovery.
1)Those who agree with you are insane
2)Those who do not agree with you are in power.

― Philip K. Dick, VALIS

Have I gone too far?

Vic Neverman

Having spent a day being chased by paintballs in an effort to win the confidence of a doomsday survivalist, I am left with many a welt. There are wounds in addition to the welts: tens of dozens of miniature gashes brought on by the insectual hordes feasting upon me in the Florida scrub over the last month. I am beaten, dehydrated, cramped and I itch like a sailor leaving port.

You might think paranoids have it easy. After all, when you’re prone to expect exaggerated worst case scenarios, you are also frequently relieved with the more likely and less severe outcome of events. Optimism is for fools, pessimism is the true key to happiness. To expect catastrophe and receive the mediocrity of the status quo – it is rather the delightful surprise. It is all in the math. Yet, life as a paranoid is not all that it is cut out to be. It certainly is not for everyone. The weak of bowels, for example, should not follow this path.

Oft times, the paranoid, especially those who have their toes testing the temperature of open dissent against established authority, need to bug-out and get off the Grid. The Grid is the common machinations of society – mass transit, automated teller machines, liquor stores, internet pornography, air conditioning, fast food, social networking sites and/or the constant surveillance of the Police State – all the trappings of first world comfort. In Florida, the Grid is everywhere. Nearly. To be off the Grid down here, you must succumb to the wilderness.

When I relocated back to Florida, I was leaving Oregon where the autumn, winter and spring seasons were varying shades of temperate gray with the heat of summer coming and going like a five-day hybrid-car sales-event at the local farmer’s market. There was no long cruel summer. Oregon just happens to be a paranoid utopia. You could be in Portland city limits and still exist completely off the Grid. There is a barter economy and no one thinks twice if you arrive in a bar wearing a Sasquatch mask. Privacy is guaranteed.

In the Portlandian Utopia: dress like an ape-man and everyone loves you

And in Portland, there are no bugs. Not like here in the Florida scrub, where I nurse all sort of bite. I’ve had tick, chigger, brown recluse… I once killed eleven mosquitos with a single slap of the palm against my blood-let shoulder. There is DEET as a repellent option, which is a sort of preventative chemotherapy for mosquito affliction: No fucking thank you. My wind-weathered, sun-leathered, salt-lathered skin is beginning to callus thick enough to keep the mozzies from penetrating my hide with their prickish proboscis. Even vampires aren’t asshole enough to regurgitate toxins back into your body when they are through with supper. Mosquitos are.

Welcome to Florida

brought to you by the Chamber of Commerce.

I lead with such notes about my continued hunkered-down existence in my palmetto bunker in order to fully disclose that my words arrive on this page already dripped in antagonism fueled by the Brazilian fire ant bites between my toes. When the insects speak Portugese, you know you are in trouble and right now my toes can’t help but forbidden dance against each other in a strange ecstatic agony both emotionally satisfying and physiologically detrimental.

I wonder, do the wounds of insect parasitism fuel the paranoia or does the paranoia feed the itch? What isn’t psychotic about clawing yourself into non-existence, one finger nail of flesh at a time?

Spring to Summer, What Happened to Winter?

Tropically Depressed at the crawfish festival

It was a brutal start to the summer. The last weeks of spring brought a tropical depression to Florida, drenching the dehydrated phallus of a state with violent storms twice, sometimes thrice, daily. I returned back to the Grid to find that the world had revolved beyond where I had last left it. My NeverKin had left for the higher ground of Colorado. My old ally Raz Kelly had gone on walkabout, uncertain if she was ever to return back this way again. Raz’ brother, Doc Kelly, gave me the once over and prescribed fish oil to cure my mental ills (I now take two spoonfuls before bed and burp up cod in my sleep). I found a girl I once knew, but she didn’t know me anymore. I saw her again at a crawfish festival, a bad idea, a terrible event, on a day the heavens opened-up and drenched the crustacean enthusiasts with the tropical depression. The girl I once knew smiled teasingly, “you’re soaked.” I replied, eagerly, that she was not much better (but she was; the rain suited her well). She explained how she would be interested in my invitation, accompanying me to the beer tent, however, “I didn’t hear from you, and…” Yes, yes, I had left the Grid and she, she did not hear from me and promptly found a replacement. A replacement for me. How does one, being a full-fledged paranoid, explain to the uninitiated “the Grid” and the necessity of occasionally leaving it behind? I, Vic Neverman, need not bother you, dear reader, with the further details. Alright, maybe a little bother… My replacement was a full head over my six foot stature and was run-of-the-mill Florida Jetski-Douche with an armband tattoo of rollicking waves symbolizing his spiritual passion for hot-tub fellatio. Judging by his clownish shoe size, he was replacing more than I could have filled. Beyond him, this replacement of mine, at this crawfish festival, were thousands more typical run-of-the-mill Jetski-Douche, falling off the conveyor belt faster than Lucille Ball could stuff them down her blouse. If it was not to be him, it could have been any of them. Jetski Douche is Legion and I… I had missed the boat.

The tropical depression passed. A couple days later, the sun came out and burnt everything back to a crisp.

The Quickening

Glynis McCants, the Numerologist, said 2012 was to be a fast year and I’ll be damned if it isn’t almost half over. This was to be the year leading up to the great END OF WORLD: Mexico Edition event, yet the months have passed so quickly the Mayan Calendar will be flipped to the next era before we ever realize it.

Should the END be more noticeable, I will likely be more prepared. I am, as it happens, affiliated with a local small-town political movement of doomsday prepper survivalists. I am sure I will have more on this story as the group practices and prepares for the hurricane season. The group is OASIS (Oviedo Army of Security, Intelligence and Survival) and while it might have its origins in Florida militia secessionism (I found them while posing as my alter-ego, Tea Partier Bucky Swoon), it is really a community organization that meets to play paintball and drink Dark ‘n’ Stormys (actually, I introduced OASIS to the Gosling’s sponsored rum drink, which was, in turn, introduced to me by my government contracted spook of a brother-in-law – a conspiracy unto itself) while discussing various SHTF (shit hit the fan) scenarios. As the resident conspiracy theorist, I was named the official archivist of the organization, mostly because my apocalyptic library is the entirety of the group’s archives.

Have I gone too far? Now is the winter of our discontent, made glorious by the sun of York goes the Shakespearean line from Henry III. I consider this season as the summer of my discontent, soon to be behind me as we are hurtled ever faster into tomorrow. Forget the impending Maya Apocalypse (just another excuse for rum drinks); my spirit is plagued by the current ineffectiveness of democracy in this country. My last blog was a rant on the subject. This current blog details what wear and tear a paranoid suffers as he hides in the shadows of his own fear.

Good Luck and Godspeed America.

Vic Neverman and Cyrus Lee as the alpha-dog Apex Apocalyptics of OASIS (Oviedo Army of Security, Intelligence and Survival)

Tusc and I became friends the old-fashioned way: in a drunken punch-up over a girl. I don’t remember much about the girl… and Tusc doesn’t recall anything at all. Fortunately, there is enough urban legend lingering around (search any library for “epic poetry of late 21st century”) to remind us all of the auspicious beginnings of the Tusc & Vic alliance without need of any further nose bloodying.

Years ago - Vic and Tusc prepare to dive to the center of the earth as the menacing waters of a sinkhole await

In the days that have since transpired, Tusc and I explored the labyrinthine submarine/subterranean Florida aquifer, we’ve chased rogue moose atop cross-country skies in Wyoming, and we’ve blessed countless football tailgates with our denim’d asses. Tusc even named his little lion man of an offspring “Kohvic” which on the surface seems like he just made up some random bullshit, but once you understand our history, the name of his son is obviously a homage to I, Vic Neverman (with “koh” resembling the prefix “co-“, as in “fellow of Vic”, similar to co-worker, co-pilot, etc.). If not obviously a homage, then arguably and if not arguably then coincidentally

With all of this history behind us, it was difficult to believe we had never faced quite the challenge as what lay ahead of us on this day. The day of the Armagedd-Run! One would not think this field trip into our own backyard would be so intimidating, yet I couldn’t help but feel an ominous rumbling in my suspicious gut (they say the gut is the most intuitive organ, which is why any properly paranoid conspiracy theorist almost always has irritable bowels).

“Tusc, we’ve seen a lot of shit together.” I spoke from the gut to my comrade. “A lot of shit, man. But I have got a bad feeling about this. A real bad fucking feeling.”

“Dude-bro, shut-up.” Tusc cursed me from behind the wheel of his family wagon as we journeyed through the orange groved valleys of middlest Florida. “You better stop saying that before you mess with my mojo.”

“Real bad.”

Tusc and I were wandering into this central territory of the state, far from the reaches of snow-bird tourism, to engage in a doomsday festival. Gathered by the tens of dozens of dozens in a stretch of Florida pine scrub were Revelations fanatics, Millenialists, survivalists, Maya Apocalyptophiles, and a miscellany of just over-all gloomy people. The purpose of this event was to simulate the “left-behind” apocalyptic scenario. If you believe nuclear war is imminent, or that Jesus will rapture the saved and leave the rest of us for the anti-Christ, or that genetically modified corn is going to create a zombie super-virus, or that a resource shortage will result in a global socio-economic meltdown, or that the Mayans predicted a complete polar shift in 2012, or that aliens will want to eradicate the human species before resettling Earth – this is your party! Welcome to Armagedd-RUN!

Pre-race, Neverman is caught on camera by the paparazzi


Rather than risk being identified as the renown Conspiracy Theorist, Vic Neverman, I decided to disguise myself as the right-wing extremist, Bucky Swoon. A bandana and feline tank top later and I had become Bucky: a proponent of state secession and anything related to the American Revolution (“Betsy Ross wouldn’t stand for this bullshit!”) or random American history in general (“Don’t tread on me you Benedict Arnold motherfucker or I will Aaron Burr your ass!”). As my alter-ego, “Bucky”, I tended to have a lot of popularity amongst the Daytona 500 Book of Revelations crowd, making Armagedd-RUN! a great networking opportunity.

My team may have had less colorful tank tops, but certainly were not without character. We were captained by Mrs Tusc, a lady so crazed she once jumped on the bare-backed wild mustang that was (long ago) young Tusc and tamed him into a bewildered domestication. The rest of the crew was a hodgepodge of misfitted adventurer. Together we were unstoppable, or so they said. My gut spake otherwise…

“Tusc, man… I just got a real bad feeling about this.”

And why wouldn’t I? What lay before us was a treacherous course of mud and obstacles, fire pits and wind tunnels. The four horsemen stood chuckling on the sidelines as these ever-eager doomsdayers did the apocalyptic labor for them.

“We’ve seen a lot of shit, man. But this…”

Ozzie Osborne was playing at the starting line as the hundreds of dreadful racers stretched, prayed, and gave their last confessions about cousin-fucking and whatever impure beastly thoughts that ran ramped through their faulty-wired minds.

MadMaxian Nightmare: a muddied Vic runs with Tusc and Mrs Tusc close behind
I tightened the bandana over my head, “I’ve got a real bad feeling about this. I wish you would have let me drink that bloody mary.”

“There are no bloody marys at the end of the world.” Tusc mentioned. “If you hadn’t been out boozing with Raz Kelly last night, maybe you wouldn’t need a bloody mary to get rid of your bad feeling.”

“Well…” I conjectured, speaking in my southern-fried Bucky Swoon accent, “I done figure the end of the world ain’t likely to announce itself a day in advance and even if it did, I probably be just as hungover. If we are simulating the last days, I might as well assume the hangover position.”

“You can assume my foot up your ass if you keep up your mojo-fucking-with.”

The race began and the doomsdayers jockeyed for position, hurrying in half-step through the gates and onto the dirt path. The runners screamed ecstatically about imminent death as they dashed along the trail. Those screams would quickly fade as the front sprinters crashed into a giant mud pit. A sucking wet mass of black earth swallowed limbs and spirits as the “survivors” struggled through. My beautiful white tank-top soon turned to midnight as I wallowed atop the mud, reaching for a lost shoe and attempting to not be trampled by the runners who realized it easier to run on the backs of the fallen than to try their footfall within the muck.

In the future, there will be lots of inconvenient campfires... (or "how Blue-eyes burnt his whiskers")


As I breast-stroked atop the quick-sand agony, I pondered if the fight against the end of the world would even be worth it. Schopenhauer’s “will to live” certainly would give way to a sense of pragmatism and a stronger “will to eat chocolate-covered bacon” as death beckoned at the door. If this was a simulation of the end of days, I should be on the sidelines with a beer. At least, Vic Neverman would be on the sidelines with a beer. Bucky Swoon would kick like hell… though still with a beer.

Tusc pulled me out of the pit, which was no easy feat as the thick layer of mud added 15 pounds to my overall weight. My feet plodded heavily as the caked soil enlarged my footprint. Fortunately, the next obstacle a half mile ahead was a swim within icy black waters of the winter swampland. The cold water took my breath away along with the mud. I swam to a platform that simulated either the Titanic or the iceberg, climbed over it, and swam further until land was underfoot once again.

Our team raced through a junkyard, envisioning the lost souls trapped in the twisted metal beneath our feet. We helped each other over a wall, imagining the grasp of zombie and/or cannibal scavengers at our heel. We spider climbed across a web of net, sprinted up a dirt mountain, and distanced ourselves from certain demise. We leapt over pits of fire as hell reached up from below. We crawled through more mud as barbed wire teased our scalps from above. Finally, we reached the finish lines. We had survived. At least we survived this… the practice round to what may someday be the last day.

At last, I had my victory beer. My fingernail dug some mud out of my ear as I turned towards my friend, “You know, Tusc… you and I, we’ve seen a lot of shit together. A lot of shit… and I have a real bad feeling about what we just did.”

Crossing the Finish. Vic was charging the final mud pit full of steam before spectators screamed at him to slow-down. The pit is lined with barbed wire, forcing racers to swim/crawl beneath. Just another near-disembowelment in a day of the life of Neverman...

I have developed a new word to describe mankind’s obsession with doom. The root is fatum, Latin for doom. And fittingly, it may also be used to refer to fate or destiny or even to describe something weird. The suffix -philia, of course, is used to demonstrate an abnormal appetite. So ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce to you for the first time ever: fatumphilia!

Some would argue ‘fatum-phobia‘ would better describe the doomsday hysterics that will accompany the Mayan Calendar apocalypse theory (which is a false interpretation, by the way). I disagree. Doomsday hysteria isn’t a fear, but rather a psychological disorder tied to a sadistic, ego-centric, end-of-the-world fetish. There is fear involved, sure. A fear of death will drive anyone to madness. Fatumphilia, though, actually alleviates this fear in potentially two ways… which I will get to… all in good time (don’t worry, it isn’t running out).

The first way involves religious rapture theories. Mainly: when the end comes, so will a savior with a pocket full of salvation and some cornbread for the trip back. Thankfully, the majority of religiously-based fatumphiliacs do not openly announce their fetish for the end (or at least do so looking glum), because praying for mass extinction could be seen as socially amoral. Truly, though, these monotheistic radicals (always the single-deity religions for whatever reason) wishing to immanentize the eschaton (or in layman’s terms, create heaven here on earth by effectively destroying humanity) see their fatumphilia as a testament to their faith that Judgment Day will actually come and prove their morality, resulting in their salvation.

I am not calling all monotheists (pick your poison/cure) fatumphiliacs, only those that obsess with the apocryphal good news their faith suggests (for example, the Book of Revelations, written by the bored exile, John, in his sulphuric hideaway). Anyone who wishes to see their savior return in their lifetime is, in fact, a fatumphiliac given the circumstances surrounding the prophetic return. Hell, anyone who would blow themselves up to become a martyr certainly qualifies as possessing an abnormal appetite for a weird doom.

The second way fatumphilia may stave off the fear of death will work for any ego-maniacal atheists out there (though theists may apply). If you have to leave the party, might as well be at the end of the night. If you have to die, why not bring the rest of mankind with you? No one dies alone if no one gets out alive. For those spurned by society, what would be better than to say “Fuck you, World!” as the lights go out? Yes, fucking the world even brings a sexual edge to fatumphilia… especially with those with their dick stuck in a chicken when all becomes null. Beast-buggery? Why not?

Certainly, the Maya – removed from the bloody sacrificial rites of their ancestors – must be sitting back and laughing at the gringo infatuation with mass extinction. The biggest theme of 2012, drawing-in more international interest than the presidential election or the Summer Olympics, is the Mayan Calendar date of 12/21/2012 when the world will pass through the dark rift and enter into a new age. The misinterpretation is that the end of the calendar means the end of time. This is not so. But there is a demand to believe so…

Fatumphilia creates a demand for doomsdayishness!

Fear-mongery satisfies that lust, but at a cost.

Fear-mongery is a device used to manipulate the public. It could be used in a government context (‘WMD’, anyone?), but is most frequently used by the media (“we’ll tell you if what you are eating right now is killing you, tonight at 11!”). 2012’s Mayan speculation has been a boon to book publishers and cable production companies alike. In fact, I, Vic Neverman, am in the process of negotiating a contract to publish my cookbook, “Vic Neverman’s 2,012 Last Suppers”.

1st note: In the introduction, I mention there are only 300 days left which is why I only included 47 recipes.

2nd note: the cookbook is just the plagiarizing of a Mexican cuisine manifesto I checked out in the library, but I did use a real spooky font.

This is Doomsday Economics: fatumphilia is the demand, the fear mongers create the supply. The machine is fed, everyone is happy. But the world won’t end. Bank on it. Literally. Drink yourself into a holiday oblivion all you want this next December, but keep just enough cash buried in the back yard for 2013. Now that year… that year is going to be a helluva ride.

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.