Last Friday, December 9, 2022, in Detroit, in the midst of a performance by Cyrus Chestnut and the Detroit Symphony Orchestra of selections from the Vince Guaraldi score of the cartoon Christmas special, “A Charlie Brown Christmas,” someone shouted a slur that either was the N-word or included the N-word. None of the news outlets are saying. The orchestra maintained their focus. Audience members interviewed afterwards expressed disgust with whoever shouted the slur. WXYZ, Channel 7 news in Detroit, reported the story, as did the newspaper—whatever newspaper means these days—The Detroit News.
Cyrus Chestnut is black, as are some members of the DSO, as are people who were in the audience that night. Charlie Brown, a fictional figure, is, despite his surname, white. In the Lieber and Stoller song, “Charlie Brown,” written for and recorded by The Coasters, all members of which were black, Charlie Brown was probably black. But the N-word slur-slinger most likely targeted the players rather than the subject of the music.
Vince Guaraldi, the composer, was white, although his mustache was black. Nevertheless, it seems clear that the slur was aimed at the black instrumentalists on Friday.
I should add that I’m only assuming it was the N-word based on the way all the news outlets have skirted around what exactly was shouted. It was definitely an anti-black term of derogation, but it could have been the Coo-word or the Sp-word. Those possibilities seem doubtful, especially the latter, given the reported reaction of the audience.
But it’s odd no one’s reporting that it was the N-word. As a euphemism, it’s the most easily communicated via the press. Maybe there’s an unwritten AP-style rule whereby an outlet is supposed to give the N-word the least amount of publicity possible, even in its euphemistic form.
The article in The Detroit News has a comment section. If you can imagine, the comments section is inhabited by a grotesque menagerie of primates throwing feces. There are comments denying that the occurrence ever took place, despite the vast number of witnesses and the fact that the Orchestra announced on its Facebook page its sadness in regards to the incident.
“The DSO is deeply disappointed by an incident that took place towards the end of Friday night’s concert when an audience member shouted a racial slur. Racism and bigotry have no place in Orchestra Hall, and behavior like this is unacceptable. We are currently investigating and will enact a permanent ban once we identify the ticketholder.
“Live music is a profoundly human experience that taps into our emotions and provides us all with a sacred space for listening. We apologize that this space was violated. We appreciate our audiences so much and hope to see you back at Orchestra Hall soon.”
Still, the naysayers said “nay,” accused The Detroit News of ginning up a racially divisive story, and asserted it was a leftist strategy to draw attention away from all the black-on-black violence in the city.
I have a theory about all that rightwing concern for the black community and how often black people hurt each other. My belief is that there’s a contest going on in the racist imagination between white violence and black violence. The right wants black violence to be seen as proportionally worse than violence by white people. Further, they want leftist violence, which they tellingly lump in with black violence, to be recognized as worse, more erratic, and more incidentally numerous.
There is a widespread rightwing stance that the BLM protests of 2020 and the January 6 white supremacist assault on the election and the Capitol should be compared, and that the BLM protests should be considered the more destructive. Rightwingers whine that not enough black and like-minded non-black protesters were prosecuted, injured, or killed for protesting.
Further, they tend not to detect a pattern of red-pilled mass-murders when tallying up the kills by rightwing gunmen but seem able to detect antifa everywhere a gun goes off or a building burns. They always bring up Steve Scalise, the one verifiably anti-Republican shooting, which didn’t end in any fatalities except for the shooter himself, 66-year-old James Thomas Hodgkinson.
Their oddly lopsided tally of leftwing violence, to which they add incidents in their imagination similar to the Bowling Green Massacre and the adrenochrome-drinking Democratic vampire cabal, becomes all the more cockeyed when they fob off all rightwing rifle-rabid mass-shooter incidents as “false-flag” operations perpetrated by the secret government, which is of course kept alive by consuming child adrenochrome.
It is impossible to have a rational discussion about the subject with a Republican, especially one who leans toward the Trumpian end of the spectrum. I have tried. If you point out that the BLM protests were provoked by police killings of black men and women in situations where killing was not an appropriate option, they will defend the police. Some will tell you that black Americans invite police violence because of their behavior, due to a culture of distrust and disrespect for authority. They basically force the police to kill them. And then when they succeed, they get angry at the police, who are only doing what the black people forced them to do! It’s a Catch-22 for cops! Not only are they violent, black people are irrational and unfair! What makes them loot and burn buildings in their own neighborhoods? Irrationality! Slavery ended over a hundred fifty years ago! They live in America, the greatest country in the world except for all the gay pedophile communist Jews controlling everything.
To show they aren’t racist, rightwingers will pivot to blaming white liberals for perpetuating black poverty and stoking black resentment. It’s really the left’s fault. The black population in the USA are really just the poorly-raised children of liberals! This twisted analysis penetrates deep into the resentment of the white male supremacist who believes that liberals are feminizing the men of our society, making them helpless whiners, deferential to the desires of women and minorities but who suppress their own, who only want a handout and are jealous of the real heroes like Donald and Elon.
Not only that, but, according to careful historical analysis by Fox News entertainers, the left itself is stoking the ammo-drunk rightwing backlash. Even though, according to them, rightwing violence isn’t actually happening, during the moments when it’s rhetorically convenient to acknowledge that it is, it’s all the left’s fault. “Another day in Weimar,” squeaks a Fox News smarm excreter, which is their way of saying, “The left is provoking the right to be violent against the left once again.”
The rightwing white male Christian supremacist reaction is comparable to one of Elizabeth Kübler-Ross’s mythical “five stages of grief,” the stage of anger. They’re stuck in the “anger” stage. What are the reactionaries grieving? Something that never existed: a world wherein they could busy themselves through the days without ever being reminded that there were concerns and needs different from their own. A time when nothing stood in the way of their expression. No social considerations blocked the striving for the satisfaction of their wholesome desires.
They resent being reminded that the world isn’t made up only of them, living as they want to live in their parochial ways, and they mourn the time when those reminders didn’t exist. It’s not a good grief. It’s a bad grief, because it is based on the loss of something they never had. They grieve the loss of an imaginary condition, a singularly pure state. A peculiar institution, if you will.
Thus we found ourselves last Friday evening being assaulted by a resentful racist who went to the symphony expecting to enjoy some blue-eyed jazz from one of his beloved childhood holiday cartoons only to lay eyes on a stage filled with players led by a musician of color.
Of course, my interpretation could be entirely wrong from beginning to end. Whatever happened, though, it’s a symptom, and not a symptom of anything good.
This has been the Moment of Truth. Happy holidays!
This is the time of year when my thoughts turn to the dark cave of ancient European winter solstice traditions. I don’t know what all the specifics are, but I know that Yule was a macabre time when the countryside was skulked by goat-headed demons, wooly wildmen brandishing knobby clubs, vengeful ghosts, hammer-wielding butchers, and other pagan shades visiting comeuppance, disproportionate or otherwise, upon the gullible, myth-hectored children of Europe. And from this I derive comfort. I crawl into that dim thought-cave and hibernate till early January.
As I drift off, I ponder. I ponder, ruminate, daydream, and consider. What is the nature of this historical period we’re living in? Is this really the rightwing version of the Age of Aquarius as it’s advertised to be? If so, what shall we call it? The Age of Acquisitus? The Age of Cupiditus? The Age of Non compos mentis? The Age of Nefarious, Precarious, Usurious, You Serious?
It’s clear that the fascist chaos-mongers of today feel themselves to be simultaneously the functional equivalent of, the revenge upon, and the antidote to the radicals of five and six decades ago. Milo Yiannopoulos, James O’Keefe, and Dinesh D’Souza think they’re the Yippies of the new millennium. The nationalist, nativist, and white supremacist militias consider themselves justified by, as they justifiably retaliate against, not just BLM or the Presidency of Obama, but also the Weather Underground, the Black Panthers, and the American Indian Movement from “back in the day.”
And their rank-and-file Paleoconservative fellow travelers in the voting and non-voting-on-principle mass of Americans consider themselves “hip” to the “anti-establishment” message today’s groovy thought-masters are laying down. The execrable Jordan B Peterson has no better analogue in the past zeitgeist than Alan Watts of yore.
Of course, these analogues are not one-to-one. Alan Watts championed the probably mythical founder of Taoism, Laozi, whose work he had some grasp on and whose message he attempted to pass along in relatively good faith, while the bullying Peterson champions a Nietzsche distorted through his own pet peeves and crotchets with, more than likely, an eye to one day setting up a franchise of motivational churches.
The ambition of the Abby Hoffman-wannabes is protracted fame as conservative celebrities. The militias want long-term White Christian Heterosexual Male political domination, the acknowledgement of which they would demand via a hefty investiture in cultural energy, producing a vast menu they could watch on TV every night, to replace the decadence we’re currently exposed to. And Jordan Peterson won’t be happy until he’s the center of the intellectual and spiritual universe. That’s a recipe for despair, and one can detect it in his public relations flailings as he drowns in the ocean of zeitgeisty narcissism.
It’s not merely the analogies that fail to correspond completely. This is simply a different era. The revolutionary era the right wants to ape has already happened, its changes folded into the current timeline along the way.
The right was never silenced. William F. Buckley was more a household name than Gore Vidal, despite Vidal’s superiority as a writer and his appearance in Gattaca. Tom Wolfe and Joan Didion long ago proved to be cultural touchstones. They outlasted Ayn Rand because of her lack of comparative talent, yet the right won’t let her die; they need her to be their Apostle Paul of megalomania, though organic rightwing offerings have already informed the discourse as they’ve been absorbed into it.
Intellectualism has transformed, and as morose as it might have rendered Harold Bloom, the appetite of post-modernism was already well on the way to consummation before prophylaxis against it had time to organize itself into viable opposition, which it still hasn’t accomplished. Culture has always devoured, digested, and incorporated even its stillborn antagonists. Some might point here to Hegel. I’m not saying. I have no dog in that fight. At least, not one named Hegel.
Further, the nature of ideas bruited about on the left as opposed to the right are qualitatively different. One cannot substitute one for another as if a growth-capitalist or free-market pillar could be swapped out for a communitarian or sustainable one and support the same roof. Jordan Peterson isn’t Alan Watts and never will be. The reason Alan Watts and the playful genius of quantum electrodynamics, Richard Fineman, share spiritual DNA is because they are cooking with similarly joyous, loving flavors. If there is a scientist Jordan Peterson shares DNA with, it’s the dour, censorious Richard Dawkins. Who wants to be the spiritual reflection of that mopey dude? And if Peterson resembles anyone in humor, PR, or argumentative strategy, it’s the poisonous Dinesh D’Souza. Even writing that down, even knowing how true it rings, I can’t help pitying them both.
History’s resemblance to a pendulum, swinging now left, now right, belies its nature as an amalgam of continuous, intertwining discourses. Its arc most likely doesn’t bend toward either justice or injustice. It may be a runaway train heading toward the destruction of civilization or perhaps its redemption. Most likely, though, it will not wind up anywhere we can pinpoint, certainly not now, nor when it eventually arrives. The direction of history itself is an illusory narrative with a Christian eschatological map unconsciously, or super-consciously, imposed on it by centuries of philosophical habit.
We may not be going anywhere. History may be spreading and thinning like an oil spill. Metaphors can only do so much heavy lifting and no more. A thing is what it is, and one never knows its nature in the moment of its being.
It’s like an election: you have to wait to know what happened, and even then its significance must be explored. It takes time to peel away the layers of an onion and analyze their nature.
Back in the days of the old, dark Yule, there was a figure named Bloody Thomas. He carried an enormously heavy hammer, bloody from bludgeoning anything or anyone luckless enough to cross his path. If you look up Bloody Thomas in the online Urban Dictionary today, though, you will see it defined, and I paraphrase, as “the act of drenching your penis in Tobasco sauce, then penetrating a partner’s anus while singing the KFC theme song.”
This is what I’m talking about. You can’t compare the Bloody Thomas of old with the current one and expect them to resemble each other in any meaningful way. Imagine what had to go on throughout the intervening centuries in order to effect that transformation. That’s the mysterious process we inhabit.
When the Titanic sank, it would have been a blot on the record of the ocean voyage industry, except for one thing: the incident never occurred.
There never was one of three Olympic class ocean-going vessels operated by White Star Lines called the Titanic. It was never designed by Thomas Andrews, who was not the chief naval architect of the non-existent Harland and Wolff shipyard in Belfast where it was not built, and who didn’t himself die in the disaster that didn’t befall the ship. It was not 882 feet 9 inches long, 92-and-a-half feet wide at its widest point. It was never under the command of Captain Edward Smith, who never went down with the ship, which didn’t sink after hitting an iceberg in the North Atlantic and in any case never manifested in this material realm.
The unsinkable Titanic and its ironic fate of sinking was entirely the invention of filmmaker and noted hoaxster, James Cameron. Cameron himself never existed. He was a hoax perpetrated by Hollywood Jews like me. We can’t believe you all fell for that crap. Cameron did not begin his career running a three-card Monte scam on Astor Place in New York City, which was not named after American millionaire John Jacob Astor IV, who also did not die in the mythical sinking of the ironically unsinkable non-existent Titanic.
None of the movies Cameron is supposed to have made have ever existed, not even the abysmally non-existent The Abyss, nor True Lies, evidence of which has been grossly exaggerated.
But the biggest and least believable hoax to crawl from this tangled nexus of falsehoods was the crisis actor known as The Unsinkable Molly Brown. The idea that the bones of her skeleton were made from French-milled soap has never been disproven, because such a claim has never been made. Margaret “Molly” Brown, of course, never didn’t go down with the Titanic because the Titanic was never a real thing. After her murder by the mythical murderer Michael Myers whose impossible crimes were chronicled in the Halloween films, a slasher-movie franchise that itself only barely existed, Molly Brown herself was discovered to have been a portly, dyspeptic crisis actor named Alex Jones.
Under the pseudonym, “Brown,” Jones has portrayed numerous victims of false-flag catastrophes. In one of them, tentatively titled The OJ Simpson Murders, Jones was paid to portray the luckless Nicole Brown Simpson, no pseudo-relation. Jones won the role thanks to his ability to live for many days without a head.
Among Jones’s other crisis portrayals is the role of up to 500 unarmed Vietnamese civilian non-combatants in the Sơn Tịnh District of South Vietnam, in the village of Mỹ Lai, massacred by US soldiers during the long occupation of the country by the US military and its commercial subsidiaries. The false flag operation known in the US as the Vietnam War was actually an attack by movie-making Jews meant to cover up their attack in 1921 on a town in close proximity to Tulsa, Oklahoma populated by about 1,200 Alex Jones clones and one original Alex Jones, a town known colloquially as Fat Wall Street. The Joneses of Fat Wall Street were recently compensated in secret reparations amounting to somewhere in the millions of dollars.
Many such Jones Towns, as they’re called, have existed throughout history. The first Jones Town was the twin cities of Sodom and Gomora, which was supposedly destroyed by the mythical demolition firm, Fire and Brimstone and Co., as punishment for the unpleasant personalities of the towns’ inhabitants. Jones reportedly reaped an undisclosed amount of shekels from that operation, possibly hundreds of thousands. His uncanny ability to imitate a population of innocent people of anywhere from a few dozen to many millions has since served him as a lucrative source of the common currency of whatever realm he finds it to his advantage to serve.
His talent as a mimic truly came into play when he was hired by giants to play all the creatures of the world not taken aboard Noah’s famous ark. Every cubit of the ark, of course, was mythical. There was no such thing, nor was there any flood, great or small, of the type described in the legends of various cultures throughout the world. The Great Deluge, or Great Flood, was a cover story created by the mixed offspring of angels and humans, the Nephilim, who wished humanity to believe they no longer existed when in fact it is they, or maybe others with a similarly nefarious agenda, who are pulling the strings of those who seek to keep us under their yokey and shacklish domination.
The more curious among you might find yourselves asking, “Are all famous massacres the work of Alex Jones?”
The answer, of course, if you want an answer and want to believe an answer, is yes.
“Even the ones claimed to be hoaxes by Alex Jones himself?”
“Yes, it’s a tactic of misdirection and hiding in plain sight.”
“Really?” you might find yourselves asking, and the response is, “Yes, really.”
“Even the massacre of Jews in Palestine by the invading Greeks as reported by Flavius Joseph in his book, Jewish Antiquities?” Yes, all the victims were Alex Jones wearing Jewface.
“Even the massacre of the first born by Pharoah’s order in ancient Egypt?” Yes, every baby was played by Alex Jones, and subsequently, each baby killed by the hand of the angel of God in retribution was also played by Alex Jones. Jones has habitually played both ends against the middle. Jones played the cavalrymen killed in the battle of The Little Bighorn, as well as the Lakota Sioux people starved by the government of the USA, neither of which ever happened.
The simple SuperTrue® fact of the matter is, much like the single electron zooming everywhere instantaneously, creating the ephemeral dream we perceive as material reality, every victim of everything has been Alex Jones all along. Alex Jones is the eternal cosmic victim of everything victimizing. We wouldn’t say it and by law we couldn’t say it if it wasn’t SuperTrue®! Even the so-called Jews, who run everything from behind the scenes, yet are victims of the calumny and libel that they run everything from behind the scenes, even the genocides they’ve suffered, even the current Palestinians whose erstwhile homes they occupy and whose ghettoized populations the Israeli military seeks to control are in fact simply Alex Jones in quantum superposition in every scenario, real or imagined, agonized or dreamed, perceived or ignored.
It's mind-blowing, but if it weren’t mind-blowing, how could we be certain it was SuperTrue®? It’s so unbelievable we have no choice but to ultra-believe it.
If you believe that a “right to work” law is about supporting workers’ rights, I’ve got some swamp land in Florida you might want to buy. Not a swamp, actually; more of a bog. How much does it cost? If you have to ask, you couldn’t afford it.
It’s a pretty special bog. Windover Pond. Since 1982, Windover Archaeological Site. They found some 8000-year-old brains in that Florida bog. No, none of them belonged to Florida Governor Ron DeSantis, but that is a good guess. Like the governor’s brain, these have shrunken down to a quarter of the size of that of a living sentient human. Also like the governor’s brain, one would be hard-pressed to use it for thinking in its current condition. Different from the governor’s brain is that the 8000-year-old brains have the excuse of having been buried under ten feet of peat for 8000 years.
Eighty centuries. Eight millennia. Thereabouts.
Archaeologists had the bog drained so they could retrieve all the dead people. They found about ten thousand pieces of human remains representing some 168 corpses. And this was no mass grave like that mass frog grave we learned about a few weeks ago in the segment entitled, “The Cambridge Holocaust.” This was not the locus of any war or massacre or even black plague body dump. Nor was this a mass sacrificial site.
This, dear listeners, was a community cemetery. The people were mostly buried in the fetal position on their left side with their heads oriented north. They were buried ceremonially with objects and covered in woven fabric, fabric that survived, protected from decay, for eighty centuries by the Ph neutral water and anoxic, antibiotic nature of the bog. The deceased were even anchored with stakes so they wouldn’t float to the surface and be picked over by varmints. These ceremonial burials took place in this bog over generations, and DNA showed that one family had been burying their dead there for over a hundred years.
Tradition, bum ba da dum, tweet deedle deedle deedle deedle deet Tradition!
But they weren’t Jews from the Pale of Settlement, most likely, though genetically they are thought to have originated in what is now Russia, but in the North Asian part. So maybe some of their descendants were neighbors, either in Siberia or down in Boca Raton. People get around.
Were they maybe aliens from outer space? Or were they white Europeans who skated over on top of the frozen Atlantic, making the true claim of First Nationhood actually a white thang? These questions are controversial, undoubtedly, but nonetheless stupid and without relevance.
More important is: how did Arlene Cooper-Dwight in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, know to go to Nordstrom Rack on Monday November 14, 1994 and find the polo shirts her uncle wanted for Christmas on sale, even before that week’s Valu-Pak of coupons arrived in the mail? Looking back on her reason for going to that emporium, Arlene linked the links of her chain of decisions back together and said she believed she was told to go and avail herself of the on-sale items by a figure in a dream. The figure looked like a timeless combination of Danny Trejo and Lou Diamond Phillips.
Two years later, Tad Rostoff felt the uncontrollable desire to go to Office Depot and buy an eight-pack of fluorescent cream-gel pens at 50% off the regular price and a blank book full of black pages especially for use with fluorescent cream-gel pens, also at a 50% discount, for his niece on her fourteenth birthday. It was an entirely impulse buy, yet it was exactly what his niece had wanted, even more than the tickets to the Mariah Carey concert her parents bought for full price.
Asked what, if any, images had passed through his mind during the bargain-achievement experience, Tad Rostoff said that he’d had a vivid vision of a mortar and pestle carved out of rock. Uncannily, a mortar and pestle of just that description had been retrieved from among the burial objects at the Windover Archaeological Site.
For the next twenty-eight years, up to the present moment, several dozen people, throughout the area from Florida to the Continental Divide, have been directed by visions or dreams or, in one case, a talking goose, to go to specific retail outlets. Upon arriving at the establishments, they invariably encountered one or more severely discounted items with special significance to themselves or their friends or family members. From fresh English peas to a fat leather Barcalounger recliner with electric beverage-cooling cupholder, the bargains just keep coming. Bargains, bargains, bargains galore.
And every vision seems to have some link to the ancient community whose cemetery was unearthed at Windover Pond. Was there really a connection, or were the discount recipients being swayed by leading questions or winks, leers, and other suggestive facial spasms of their interlocutors?
There was only one scientific way to know for sure, and that was to bring in a psychic consultant.
Her name has been lost in the shuffle. Likewise, any description of her appearance or mannerisms. Some say she erased all that evidence from the minds of all who might give her up to the angry ancestors of her mysterious people, but that conjecture is so odd, ill-considered, and unlikely that it might be true, or even SuperTrue®.
Following up on this non-sequitur clue, our researchers have pieced together what might have happened during the psychic’s investigation, given the lack of any parameters of reason.
Her name was, let’s say, Flois. Not her real name, nor anyone’s real name, probably. Using a device of her own devising, this Flois, if indeed that was her name, set up her pullies, refracting balloons, intake samovars, sparkling parabola funnel mirrors of pflignite and squartz, cranked it up to 115 glagoherpses, and let ‘er rip. The complantangenent meter went wiggling off the chart. The direction flomblossism mechanically oblated through the roof, describing a refraction arc of no more than three degrees three micro-metric minutes from the burial ground of the mystery civilization, and from there to the remains of their prune-like shrunken brains, bent on a bias as through a glass darkly directly to the purchasing centers of the shoppers’ pineal glands, thereby stimulating their eyes, ears, nose, and throat, preparing them emotionally, physically, and a couple other ways to hunt for, locate, and purchase, at a substantial reduction in the normal price, whatever the ancient persons, viewing our market economy from their portholes in the ship of dead souls, sailing through the grasmotic effluviasma of … what were we talking about again?
Anyway, that proved it to our satisfaction. And when it comes to smart shopping, satisfaction is what it’s all about.
This has been the Moment of Truth. Good day!
It is well known that the 12th Century abbess, theologian, poet, mystic, and musician, Hildegard von Bingen, composed her famous morality musical revue, Ordo Virtutum, known in English as The Virtue Play, based on music she heard in one of the many trances during which her divine visions were revealed.
It is also known that Saint Hildegard, beatified in 2012 by recently-retired Pope Benedict, kept a fifty-five-pound (25 kg) dry-cured Westphalian ham in her sleeping chamber in the abbey at Disibodenberg and then at Rupertsberg under a blanket of coarsely-woven wool.
It should be no trouble, then, to place the two facts, the seeing of visions and the companioning with the ham, one fact next to the other, tie them together with additional facts from little-known sources, bind them with the duct tape of bold supposition, and discern for yourself the SuperTruth® that Hildegard’s inspiration for the Ordo Virtutum emerged from no other source than out of her beloved ham in signals from the ultra-high-wattage broadcasting antennae of Jesus in His faraway fortress of solitude, Heaven.
As a child, Little Hildegard first started having visions, hearing voices, feeling feelings, and smelling smells when she was around five years old. This was in about the year 1103. At that time she was known to be fond of carrying with her everywhere she went a cowhide pouch containing a severed, desiccated rabbit’s foot. As she grew older and entered the monastery as an oblate and assistant to Sister Jutta, she could often be found in the chapel communing with a braided cross woven of strips of venison jerky. Later some cured, dried beef, called “speck,” in a hunk about the size of a full-grown squirrel, occupied her teenage years in the Benedictine monastery at Disibodenberg. By the time she became prioress and moved her nuns to St. Rupertsberg, she had already taken up residence with the enormous meat product.
Sister Jutta, when Hildegard visited her on her deathbed, expressed her disapproval of the relationship. In Hidelgard’s own records of her visions, the Scivias, the Liber vitae meritorum, and the De operatione Dei, she never mentions her communications with the ham, which might seem odd given the big deal we’re making of it here. We can most logically attribute the omission to Jutta’s disapprobation and Hildegard’s wounded feelings. Whatever clairvoyant and prophetic sensory extravaganzas the ham revealed to her, the ecstasy – as with all experiences worthy of being so called – in addition to being ecstatic, weighed upon her with the heavy burden of shame.
Still, as has been the way with many nuns, Hildegard persisted in her queer habit. Every night she slept with the cumbersome recumbent joint of preserved pork by her side. Hildegard would cohabit with the ham, lying beside the dry-cured meat much as a Scottish herdsman might embrace the sheep he’s wooing in his Highland bower, caressing its cold-cut contours, petting its firm pellicle, whispering into the grain of its muscle, sensible to its every sinew, alert to the vibrations of its bone.
The two, the nun and her ham, would at times meet on an unearthly plane, in each other’s dream, and dream together as one. Nun and ham. Ham and nun. One divine being. Being divine one. Where we divine one we divine all.
On a particularly cold Rhineland autumn night, according to a cousin of a friend of a friend’s cousin who’d heard it from another friend, Hildegard experienced a rush of sensation in which the entirety of the Ordo Virtutum washed over her, in full, including plainchant music, lyrics, book, lighting effects, cast, costumes, choreography, and even the program design. “Eureka!” she exclaimed on coming down from her trip, but in Latin instead of Greek.
Well, of course we know in retrospect that the production was a smash hit, running for five hundred consecutive years on the Saxon circuit. Years later, George S. Kaufman famously said: “Satire is what closes on Saturday, but mystery morality musicals are forever matinéed, and that von Bingen’s is beaut!” He also said, “That’s no Teutonic turkey!” But by then no one had been listening to him for at least half an hour.
The flesh of animals –the monkey’s paw – and even humans – witness the Viking or the New Guinean devour the heart or drink the blood of a conquered foe to absorb his bravery, or the Aguaruna who parlays with his shrunken head – once-living portions of flesh have long been esteemed for their ability to conduct consciousness and power across the boundary between life and death. Hildegard von Bingen’s ham radio connection to Heaven is far from the only example of cold cuts, salumi, and deli meats intermediating between our world and the world beyond.
Nostradamus was known to consult a pistachio mortadella.
Gershom Sholem, no stranger himself to the deli counter, describes Rabbi Isaac Luria’s longtime mystical bond with a teawurst.
It’s documented quite well that many spiritualists fell under the spell of Blavatsky’s bologna.
Rasputin fraternized with a pair of kabanosi. Carlos Castaneda kept company with chorizo. William Blake had a weakness for weisswurst.
In Crackow, Aleister Crowley claimed kinship with the cosmic kielbasa of Khartoum.
Rumi made love to a plate of Moroccan merguez.
Rumanian chronicler of shamanic visions, Ioan Culianu, composed his most famous treatise on the gnostic knackwursts.
And of course, who can forget Sri Kriyananda Goswami and his shamanic salami?
The SuperTrue® record is plain: since the distant past, myriad seers have sought second-sight in sausage links to the spirit realm.
This has been the Moment of Truth. Good day!
As if I inhabit some perch on a lofty peg, I often encounter behavior intended to lower my peg level. The battle of peg altitudes is a continual playful obsession between friends in Hollywood, and, in various degrees of overtness, most places where people are friends. Perhaps, due to my arrogance, I well deserve to have my dignity slashed. Why should I, a failure by all measures that count, a liability and a burden to all, be allowed to nurture within my soul a thing as precious as dignity? Do I not understand that among the prized rewards for being a meritorious human being is the simple right to exist? Do I not, on a daily basis, witness the casual disregard with which human beings who have not merited a home are left to the bullying of police and the abuse of the elements? What right have I to my opinions? To express them? To hold them? By what effort have I earned anything I possess at all?
Do I believe that merely by existing I ought to be accorded the courtesy one wouldn’t give a crumpled Powerade bottle on the shoulder of the highway? By what graciousness of anyone’s heart should I be allowed to live? I have gathered to me no family won in the competition for love partners, a contest by which one’s intrinsic worth is measured. I have no employment, my writing and art are barely appreciated and certainly do not earn me a lot of money.
Wealth, of course, in this milieu of shallow fashion called Hollywood, is another mark of the worth of a person. I once had an industry insider tell me, in relation to a mutual acquaintance, “he can’t do anything for me, so why should I continue being friends with him?” Here in Hollywood, fealty to fame lies everywhere as thick and viscous as if a zombie army of slobbering polyamorous fans had left a coating of saliva over every surface a celebrity might have brushed against with one body part or another. People here, as in most lands under the sway of extreme capitalism, love things and use people, although here their professions of love for this or that rich or famous person often gush in cataracts of the same fame-worship saliva found coating their entire stunted world.
I must qualify all this by admitting to having encountered a great deal of generosity here, as well as integrity and artistic excellence. Most of it has been inextricably mingled with less stomachable features of human behavior, naturally. In all of us, virtues swirl and intertwine with less wholesome aspects of ourselves. As I’m sure you can gather, I am no model of anything even indecent society might prioritize as “virtue.”
I am petty, shiftless, unattractive, ill-tempered, unjustifiably arrogant, foolish, stubborn, selfish with my time and affection, and suffer from sleep apnea, which I desperately want to spell “apnœa” or even “apnœia” for pretentious reasons. Whatever crumbs of virtue I may inadvertently have maintained are trampled under the rampaging hippo-herd of my myriad more obvious faults.
I even despise myself. There are two reasons I haven’t ended my life: cowardice in the face of pain, and the effect such an action would have on others whose happiness I care about. It is quite a chasm-leaping assumption on my part, indeed, to posit that there might be any negative outcome from my erasure, but I suppose that is what makes me intolerable.
Perhaps you’d thought civilization had moved beyond this “Notes From Underground” type of splenetic confession. And you would have been correct. The erstwhile fine art of spleen has been commandeered by emotionally adolescent mass shooters and the plethora of fear-stoking demagogue-wannabes egging them on. They have discredited and cheapened discontent on the way to hijacking it for themselves. This has meant that, in order to distinguish itself from its faddish usurpers, actual resistance to social indoctrination has had to make itself ultra-specific.
In the marketplace of reaction, one must adopt a quickly-understood label. Those whose reaction runs counter to white supremacy and extreme capital hegemony divide themselves into factional “identities” for ease of consumption. When the people fight for women’s reproductive freedom, we call ourselves “feminists.” When the people fight for the right to collectively organize for decent treatment by our overlords, we call ourselves union activists or labor activists. When the people fight for black people to be able to live without being controlled, coerced, beaten and killed by police, we call ourselves anti-racists. When we do the same for unhoused or poor people, we label ourselves accordingly.
Opposite us, those in support of capital, property, and privilege domination lie to their gullible audiences’ faces, lumping their enemies together as “Social Justice Warriors,” a sarcastic epithet which may backfire in the long run by unifying the otherwise fragmented resistance to these xenophobic fascists.
But there are still a few of us spread across those groups in a love/hate relationship with the very nature of world. We do it in the old-fashioned, craftsperson-like way, in the manner of the young Dostoyevsky, or Gorky, or the dissolute Poe, the consistent Baudelaire, the celebrated Villon, Sade, and Kathy Acker. We practice misanthropy and anti-social philosophy in a more artisanal manner. We represent a re-emergence, and that re-emergence is, I hope, a trend. Let’s call it the “Slow Bile” movement. There, it is branded.
You do not have to merit being in the Slow Bile movement. Either you’re doing Slow Bile or you’re not. There is no gatekeeper other than yourself. In the farm-to-table negativity movement, you are the hen, the farmer, the chef, the waiter, and the diner.
Who else would have you? From whom else do you require certification?
This is no endeavor for a mere contrarian. Au contraire. The agenda of the contrarian is to explode unexamined cliché irritants with devastating logic. But logic destroys the bouquet of Slow Bile. Logic is too busy, too hectic, too rushed. The nectar of Slow Bile is spoiled by such fussiness, while at the same time too fussy to survive being shaken about with didactic turbulence. And logic is what bolsters the lies of demagogues, logic based on false premises.
Slow Bile is organically poetic. It germinates in the spleen, which is a silent glade in one’s soul, sprouts like grain malting and fermenting in a mash, blooms and degasses like pour-over coffee grounds in their initial thirty-second exposure to water, which you should really be allowing for if you want the genuine, dense flavor of the bean to come through. Slow Bile must be given time, warmth, and humidity to rise. Its buds must not be rushed to blossom with tricks of light, contrived temperature changes, or additions of instant-rise yeast.
These fleurs du mal must blossom in their own time, fill the sinus cavity and cranium with their day-lily aroma, make redolent the atmosphere of mutual antagonism between the self and the worlds the self habituates on its rounds, imbibing, haunting, shoplifting, seeking blood to slake its vampire thirst. The blossoms, like the smell of blood, awaken the senses. Such artisanally-conjured poppies grant the mind’s eye eschatological apocalypses which the mere demagogues, scolding preachers who specialize in frightening little children with petty bedtime doomscape fairytales, can never assimilate into their puckered-ass paradigm.
Slow Bile is simple and honest. It cannot be said to arise from any sophistry of didactic logic. It is not a lie. It often commences as an admission of weakness, with the potential, much further down the road, to ripen into a putrid swamp worth wallowing in.
To come into bilious fullness, the dank hive of emotions and impressions must be allowed to fester and swell into an infestation of crawling, swarming despair. An entire insect civilization unto itself, it turns its compound eyes away from civilization at large, though never rejects it fully, tapping those cosmopolitan veins from which to feed its funereal fecundity. For, unlike the morbidity worshiped in the death cults of its commodified cousins, the death inhering in Slow Bile is paradoxically fertile. Demise is renewal. While it rots it grows, a fetid cloud bearing aloft newborn worlds, destined to rain down the plagues of consciousness, of fire, of blood, of frogs, of locusts, of worldly attachments, of life itself, upon an earth denuded and raped by her ravenous exploiters in their money-lust, their egotism, their shallow, brittle vanity. That vain looking glass can have no other fate than to shatter into jagged shards that must ultimately open their admirers’ arteries and bleed them out.
Slow Bile will steadily win the race or suffer destruction in the attempt.
This has been the Moment of Truth. Good day!
SuperTruth® has brought low the mighty human race. SuperTruth® has turned reality into insanity. SuperTruth® has turned insanity into anxiety, so at least the insane are motivated to go to work. At least anxiety forces us to find a way to function, to search for that which will relieve our anxiety. Life is a disease, and there’s only one cure. But since most of us fear death, we’ll have to settle for… SuperTruth®.
When skies hang pendulous leaden clouds of unnatural hue; seas skip like rams and leap and bow like fire-worshiping devils; the atmosphere groans fat and snappish with negative ions, the barometer uncoils, fright wigs are on edge, and pancake white refuses to be applied evenly to faces beaded with flop-condensation; and all the world’s stage feels burdened by a furrowed lowbrow glower redolent with the sense that too much time has been borrowed, the usurious interest is overdue and the gas gauge reads that your luck has run out; that is when the Lost Dauphine is sighted, bearing its unhappy driver and four dozen eternal passengers, cursed to ride the storm clouds galloping heavy over the bigtop… forever.
It had been a bad year for clowns. Chuckles, dressed as Peter Peanut, had been fatally shelled by an angry elephant who’d had enough of human shenanigans. Pennywise had his heart pulled out by the Losers Club. Octavio the Clown was killed by Frank Lopez’s hitmen in an unsuccessful attempt on the life of Tony Montana. Violator the Clown’s head was cut off by Spawn. Krusty was eaten by Zombie Sideshow Mel. A posse of Penn State students rampaged with the intent to lynch a thousand clowns, but only got the unfortunate Bippo. But the worst clownaclysm of all was the notorious disaster of the Dauphine.
In September of 1989, tragedy struck the non-clown community: 31-year-old Leslie Pulhar, a waitress from Royal Oak, Michigan, was driving across the Mackinac Bridge to visit her boyfriend in the Upper Peninsula. The bridge runs high above the Straits of Mackinac, connecting the Upper Peninsula of Michigan with the Lower. To this day no one knows why the two are part of the same state. Perhaps the thinking was that, as two peninsulas, they had so much in common they simply belonged together. Whatever the reason, Pulhar died when her Yugo was blown off the bridge by a 48-mile-an-hour gust of wind that sent it plummeting 160 feet into the freshwater straits below.
Not one week later, 48 clown passengers and one hobo clown driver named Bum Steer piled into a classic Renault Dauphine. Despite the shadow of Pulhar’s death hanging over them, they had agreed to confront the gloomy prospect of driving yet another economy car over the very same bridge.
What had led them to make this decision? Well, they were the Ypsilanti Clown College class of ’89, after all. They’d been trained for this. They were determined to attend the “Well Above The 45th Parallel” Midwest clowning convention in Escanaba. Perhaps they felt their combined weight would give them stability and prevent them from suffering the same tragic fate as Pulhar.
But does a clown car impossibly stuffed with an absurd number of clowns actually achieve the total weight of the clowns, or does the absurdity collapse them into a six-dimensional Calabi–Yau manifold, (according to theories they were surely taught by Professor Daisy Floppytopper at Ypsi), sharing out most of their mass into other dimensions?
But clown sub-quantum physics was moot. They never found the opportunity to apply it, because Bum Steer, the sad hobo clown, driver of the Dauphine, was aptly named. Once they passed through Petoskey, a strangely persistent fog enveloped them. Bum Steer lost track of the surface of the highway itself. It was as though they were suspended in a uniformly gray-white limbo. This went on for hours.
How do we know what they experienced? One clown, Little Pip, somehow managed to crawl through the ventilation system, out of the grille, and jumped in panic to freedom and watched as the Dauphine, with the rest of the class of ’89, slipped out of sight, like a carp into a pool of cream.
Little Pip found himself afloat in the lake, at the vertex of an expanding horizon that stretched away into infinity. He treaded water there, his body going numb with cold, his mind falling into a madness in which visions of Hiawatha, Hemmingway, and the ghosts of the Chippewa sang Gordon Lightfoot’s “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” to him on endless loop.
Little Pip was pulled out of Little Traverse Bay off the coast of Harbor Springs on the verge of dying from hypothermia. He fell into a coma that lasted a week and a half. Afterwards he told his tale to a local journalist in a single afternoon. That night Little Pip’s heart mysteriously stopped beating with the abruptness of an alternator seizing up. His face was frozen in a mask of terror, his dead eyes bulged from their sockets. What had he seen?
There are times, at night, when the sky threatening a storm has displayed the unappealing colors of bruises on a battered body, bruised brooding clouds hanging leaden above the bigtop of one circus or another, one never knows which, when clowns and other circus folk testify that they have seen the Lost Dauphine appear. Bum Steer at the wheel, the knuckles of his gloves frayed, his eyes below the brim of his worn-out bowler hat are red and all but molten with tears. His painted frown drips down his jowls. The faces, noses, shoes, knees, and hats of the magically packed passengers press in chaotic discomfort against the window glass. One white-gloved hand reaches out of a partially open window, waving, now and then honking a bicycle horn or flaunting a rubber chicken.
It is said that if you stick out your thumb, hitch-hiker style, and in particular if that thumb is comically oversize, and moreover covered in a white glove, the Lost Dauphine may descend from the clouds. You might find it idling beside you. And the legend is that if you don’t flee from it as fast as your gangly legs and floppy feet will transport you, the gloved hand will pull you in through the window, into the six-dimensional Calabi–Yau manifold, and you will ride with the class of ’89 aboard the Lost Dauphine for eternity.
This has been the Moment of Truth. Good day!
The loudest, most obnoxious mass of Christians had come to the general agreement that, the more Jesus loved you, the wealthier and more powerful He would make you in this world. He did this to balance out all the Muslims, Confucians, and other heathens Satan in His nastiness rendered wealthy and powerful. The only explanation for the majority of wealthy, powerful people in the world not being Christian was that, even though Jesus could easily win against the Devil, sometimes He let the Devil win, by mistake or on purpose, just to keep everyone guessing. If the overall picture were simple to interpret, faith wouldn’t be the test it was known it to be. And so, even under the simplistic, dogmatic doctrines of Dominionist Evangelical Christianity, there was room for confused outcomes.
And thank God for that!
Tom Brokaw was a simple, millionaire news-whisperer and fly-fisherman who called the generation that profited most from the FDR public works program—in other words an entire generation of welfare leeches—the “Greatest Generation.” Once in late September of the year 2022 (by the old TV Guide calendar), he wrote an opinion piece for the New York Times. In it he bragged about his friendship with – no, not post-modern Homer, David Letterman – Yvon Chouinard, son of a Froggy Canook mechanic who reluctantly became an outdoor apparel tycoon.
Brokaw, in an attempt to show how low he was slumming it by hanging out with a fellow millionaire, kept calling the guy a “dirtbag,” which was apparently some slang term rock-climbing skiers liked to call each other, and had not much to do with bags of dirt at all. He also referred to Chouinard’s early life as a leisure sportsman rock climber and skier as “hardscrabble,” a term usually used to describe the lives of poor farmers. Rocks are indeed hard, and Chouinard probably found Scrabble a challenging game as a child, but that did not qualify his life as “hardscrabble.” It’s no surprise that Tom Brokaw, who coined the incorrect moniker “Greatest Generation,” should describe the life of an avid outdoorsman who became an apparel capitalist as “hardscrabble.” Tom Brokaw didn’t really know what words meant. A survey of his coverage of US foreign policy during his years as propaganda parrot confirms this.
Brokaw wrote his piece, entitled braggadociously, “Yvon Chouinard Is the Founder of Patagonia. He’s Also My ‘Dirtbag’ Friend,” shortly after Chouinard made loud news by turning his company, Patagonia Incorporated, over to a non-profit pro-ecological consortium. They would still make Patagonia products, in as sustainable a way as they possibly could, but now 100% of the profits would go to supporting the work of grassroots environmental groups.
Wealth inequality would not be one of the consortium’s targets, because only through capitalist wealth-creation could Chouinard have amassed the money required to pay back the world, or what he considered the world, for the damage he’d reluctantly done by reluctantly becoming a reluctant CEO, able to bring his friend Tom Brokaw on “long hauls to Iceland,” as Brokaw put it, once again painting luxury, i.e. a ride in a jet, as hard work, the way one might refer to a dogsled trek across the wild tundra. But then again Brokaw thought standing in a river in waders smoking cigars with David Letterman was the equivalent of coaxing rice out of the bare Earth.
Also name-checked in the op-ed piece was Yvon and Tom’s close dirtbag friend, Doug Tompkins, another hardscrabble sporty outdoorsman who founded the non-pretentiously French-named apparel company, Esprit. Whereas Yvon believed capitalism could be pursued responsibly, Doug walked away from capitalism, having amassed enough wealth to buy an entire region of South America and establish it as a wild preserve fiefdom, putting the land in trust despite the will of its human inhabitants like an absentee feudal lord.
But that’s how things had to be done back then, under the yoke of capitalism. Human communities had to rely on the good will of individual benevolent custodians of property, distribution, policy, and wealth the likes of FDR, Andrew Carnegie, and the owners of Costco.
And if they weren’t benevolent and possessed no good will, humans and everyone else were merde out of luck.
One area Tompkins’ trust helped preserve was the Chiloé Island-Corcovado Gulf region of Chilean Patagonia. A complex of cold-water coral reefs, inland channels, archipelagos, fjords, fresh watersheds, and intermingling ocean currents, the region attracted increasing tourism, part of Tompkins’ entrepreneurial plan to sustain the inhabitants whose ability to decide he’d usurped, and the trend continued even after Tompkins’ death in 2015 from hypothermia resulting from a hardscrabble kayaking accident.
It’s unclear, however, if the Tompkins trust understood the adverse effects on blue whale reproduction caused by the increased noise from burgeoning ship traffic. The preservation of the zone’s wildness overtook entrepreneurial development though, enough to support the comeback of the blue whale population.
One whale understood the situation very well. That whale’s name, translated from blue-whalesong, was Florbitty Glubblebubber. Florbitty was born in Corcovado National Park, and realized almost immediately that she was the reincarnation of Doug Tompkins himself. Blue whale mind activity exists most expressively in the part of consciousness that in humans is devoted to dreaming. Thus Doug’s widow, Kris, who oversaw much of the trust’s environmental preservation work before and after Doug’s demise, was visited in a dream by Florbitty in the whale’s dream-guise as Doug.
Florbitty Dream-Doug held a series of seminars in the venue of Kris Tompkins’ unconscious. They were like Ted Talks but through the mixed media of dreamscape and whalesong. The immersive discourses finally proved to Kris that the cultural and material logic of capitalism, whether for profit or for one couple’s private idea of environmental preservation, was the problem. She had been trying to put out a fire by spraying it with lighter fluid.
Kris Tompkins awoke one morning after the final night of the multi-night seminar of dreams a changed woman. She immediately booked a tour of major cities of the world as the first convert to Cetaceo-homo-sapianity. She also began to devolve the Tompkins holdings to local community land conservators who in turn granted it to families of all types under conditions of responsible stewardship agreed on by a coalition of sustainable agriculture and ecological maintenance practitioners elected to non-contiguous terms of no more than three years. And that was how the apocalypse came to be limited to about half the disaster it could have been.
SuperTrue®? Yes. So SuperTrue® that you will not find a trace of it in the mainstream media of the time. Now, though, with the advent of Dreamsong Media Immersion techno-ritual practice, we can all enjoy tales told by mushrooms, euphausiids, quarks, cabbages, quasars, and kings from time immemorial to the far distant future. We no longer have to rely on the faulty and biased quackery of the likes of Tom Brokaw. The world is our singing oyster of knowledge and imagination.
And this has been the Moment of Truth. Good day!
As the crow flies, so shall it stop flying and settle down in a tree to watch the Romans dig a mass grave. Only a few miles north, as the crow flies, of Cambridge, England. As the crow flies, so shall it caw, and eventually fall to Earth, its feathers carried off by ants to build their ant-bowers, its flesh fattening the Cambridge worms, its bones turned to tinker-toys for Iron Age toddlers out of which to build tiny bone-henges.
But let us leave the subject of that tragic Iron Age crow that didn’t survive the Roman occupation. Few did, and not just crows. In point of fact, not a single person, crow, worm, nor it matters not what animal species, living or dead, today survives from the Roman occupation of Britain. Yet a certain song survives. A song of frogs. So, that is something.
Let us also leave aside all those dead humans, crows, and other species, and observe the Romans digging. What are they digging, here in Iron Age Cambridge? Why are they not enjoying the sunrise with a bowl of Romantic porridge flavored with borage and sorrel? Because they have their orders. They have gone from hut to hut in hamlet after hamlet, interrogating the occupants. They threatened to rape the women, cut parts off the men, or break the bones of babies to get at the truth.
They needn’t have bothered with threats. The humble Iron Age Britons, most of whom would have admitted to still being in the Stone Age, and proud of it, readily gave up the “guests” they’d been harboring.
In total, about five hundred fugitive frogs were discovered and arrested that day. The frogs were frog marched out to the village square, to where a mass grave was dug in view of the roundhouse, and were, one by one, executed by dagger and thrown into the pit.
Astonishing: there really was a mass grave of frogs in this area dating from the Iron Age. It’s both SuperTrue® and regular true. Really. Look it up!
What’s SuperTrue® about it is, of course, the story behind the remains, the conspiracy behind the tangible evidence, the rumors and innuendo by which an overactive imagination can make sense of the random clues. For example, there’s the possible fact that there were rumors the Romans believed to be true, about a frog prophet, King of the Frogs, whose army of followers – and, yes, the collective noun for frogs is indeed “army” (again, look it up!) – whose army of ranine followers believed the Frog King’s prophecy that a mighty general would arise, unite the Celtic tribes, and throw off the yoke of Roman tyranny. It is rumored today that this Frog King’s name was Pepe, but that’s a somewhat tart and possibly satirical rumor, and has yet to attain the internet currency required for it to be considered a SuperTruth®.
The Brits had been saving the frogs for supper, but they didn’t relish eating frogs. A bumper crop of turnips had just come in, and they were far keener on eating those for dinner than frogs. They had no feelings one way or the other about amphibious loyalty to Rome or the lack of it. They turned their frogs over to the Roman soldiers because they hadn’t really wanted them in the first place. They had been worried about a prophecy made by a charismatic mackerel that the turnip harvest would be washed away by a flood and had cached away the frog rations in case the mackerel’s turnip prophecy came true.
Rumors, prophecies, rumored prophecies, and subsequent adorable horrors swirled in abundance.
One rumor that comes just this close to being SuperTrue® is that it was the Britons themselves who started the rumor about the frog prophet and its loyal following of frog zealots. According to a recently rumored-to-be-recovered text by Tacitus, the despair demonstrated by the Britons at losing their frogs lacked the ring of authenticity, and, while Romans crucified the frog they had decided to designate as Pepe, a lot of the Celtic wailing and hair-pulling felt over-the-top, performative, and unconvincing.
A supposed witness claimed to have heard poorly-stifled laughter while the Romans were interrogating frogs to learn the truth about their treacherous plans, and when they flogged the frogs with tiny whips, few Brits could squelch their guffaws. And who among us could but guffaw at a frog-flogging, if only to keep from weeping? The tiny, frog-size whip, the suffering amphibian, the clownish centurion or whatever, leaning forward and squinting as if preparing to make a difficult billiard shot.
As the crow flies, so does it caw. A murder of crows cawed and guffawed at the flogging and holocausting of the army of frogs. How callous. The Romans, of course, assumed the crows were clamoring for a crack at the corpses, and gargled bitter chuckles in their Roman throats at how the crows would be disappointed when they saw the frog bodies interred out of reach of their plucking beaks.
But the Britons knew why the crows guffew. They knew the crows knew of the ruse, and found the Romans obtuse, too. And off the crows flew, as crows tend to do.
About a century later, the purported prophecy of treacherous Pepe, who may never have existed to make a prophecy in the first place, came about as true as such a probably non-existent prophecy could. Queen Boudica of Iceni united the tribes and led a revolt, not far from the mass grave of the frogs, as the crow flies. And as the crow flies, so were the Britons defeated, and in the end even the Romans died. Indeed, no witnesses, nor participants, nor those living in other parts of the world unaware of the frog holocaust or the Boudican Rebellion, no one, not even a sprouting fern, not even a tiny mushroom, not even a miniature meatball, survives to this day from the time of the aforementioned massacre.
The frog holocaust remains one of the strangest endeavors of the Romans, or indeed of any people, and absolutely no one on Earth discusses it, whispers about it, or even whistles a tune they made up while vaguely reminiscing about or elegizing the event.
No one, that is, except the frogs. The spring peepers peep about it in spring. “Pepe, crucified,” you can hear them peep. “We await his Second Coming.” They peep to the skies, eyes teary with grief, “Our people, rounded up, tortured, flogged, and buried in a mass grave,” they peep. Spring peepers call their fellow frogs, “our people,” and who can blame them? Naught remains of the cursed event but their song, their lonely song, the peeping of the peepers. That is how a thing becomes SuperTrue®: through the commemorative despairing of creatures, human and otherwise.
And this has been the Moment of Truth. Good day!