Kill Them All and Let Strange Un-P.C. Alien Beasts made of Oak-Galls Sort them Out
After K. Silem Mohammad’s _Grey Areas_
I guess its time I gave you my motto. Senseo Ergo Est. or is that
some kind of crouton grey people put out on their salads? Please
don’t mess with the memory of Herder. Deaf, Dumb, and Blind.
I guess its time I showed you my inner rhododendrite Quaker
now that so many people are upset by wars that kill less than
1% of the average global death toll. Tie-dyed Klansmen.
I guess its time to say that the total estimated human loss of life caused
by World War II, irrespective of political alignment, was roughly 62 million
people. Sometimes I like to look at fat black girls. Shoof Wahloo.
I guess its time I show you the scene where me and Quakey
my gal come strolling out playing banjos leading a caravan
of nudist lady combine drivers. John Deere = Jean Paul.
I guess its time I show you how Saint Anthony turned his demon
tormentors into a svelt armor of growling complexity, a musical
sideshow of un-PC cartoon orgies. Cat Stevens’ “Trouble”.
I guess when I told you I studied monsters, caricature and the grotesque,
you thought I was just some mechanic with dirty nails, well, I don’t have
dirty nails, but I’ve learned to breathe deeply. Ethyl lactate.
I guess you know Cargill Dow LLC, the world leader in developing performance-
based, cost-competitive naturally derived polymers and intermediates, has signed
an exclusive five-year agreement with Ashland Specialty Chemical Company.
I guess since the modern satirical grotesque is the most common form
of expression these days, you’ll certainly get tenures, (I hope!) but like Gottfried
Benn, I’ve put my lot in with the American people to support utter stupidity. Fohism.
I guess there’s something inordinately homosexual about the Pilsnerbury doughboy,
because when I feed sausage biscuits to men they usually end up hanging around
drinking beers and putting down my classical music collection. Fritz (Friedrich) Seitz.
I guess there’s no use in telling you that MY lineage goes back through Christian
Morgenstern, Nero, and the Beverly Hillbillies, and that when Beatniks set out
to study, they invariably fall asleep. sticky Chinese watermelon fingers.
I guess there’s some use in telling people they shouldn’t make war instead of
peace, but as long as I’m over 35 and culturally “indecent,” read “documented
schitzophrenic,” I’ll never have the joy of killing. stupid animal-murderers.
I guess there’s no use in telling anybody that for thousands of years some poets have chosen
to be hermits, or cork-eaters, because like weak insects they know that fat rich people kill
stupid skinny peaceniks who operate in the regions of resistance. Shady Drug Dealer.
I guess you can understand why I lie in telling the truth? Maybe it’s because
I already read Christoph Martin Wieland’s “The Case of the Ass’s Shadow”
like a really long time ago, after being really hip to Jacobi. Fichte and Heinse.
I guess you already knew that Hegel and Jean Paul = John Deere had once
considered collaboarating on a book which was supposed to be an introduction
to philosophy for young ladies, but there were too many Kant-babies. Titan.
I guess I’ll get up, since your face is starting to turn red, and you look a little like Paul
McCarthy dressed as a pirate Santa Clause with big cannons poking out of your
mouth and eye-socket. Ever been to the penisausage factory? Twain’s Esophagus.
I guess I should let you know that my real name is Herr von Fleischbein, and that I am
translating many volumes of Madame Guyon whose doctrines abolish both self-hood and
self-love, a complete mortification and disinterested love of God. Dry Extravagance.