Maggot butt
Is the CIA "behind" must-clench TV? (one line w/ head if fits)
According to some of our best conspiratorially minded loony-birds, mom/dad were right all along: sitting on yr rump is bad for you. But it’s not just for the usual reasons (quote of the day: "If you don’t get up offa that chesterfield & get a job, nobody’s gonna ever love you & I don’t care if yer only 3 yrs-old b/c when I was 3 I’d already declared Chapter 11 twice & made the cover of Forbes once, by gum!" – Pops, God bless his bootstrap self-mythologizing & bulging forehead veins), it’s b/c the CIA is turning our own rumps against us.
OK, the CIA isn’t literally turning our own rumps against us, that’s physically impossible. (Prove me wrong, yoga fans! Send photos/ videos/ schematics to "Monsignor Smutté," c/o this fine news publication. Include a daytime phone number, in case I have questions. Note: I will have questions.) And I suppose it isn’t necessarily accurate to say "us," since the CIA is targeting Yanks and not Canucks. But those wascally spooks are doing their dastardly deed via American teevee programs – and the whole wide world loves U.S. entertainment products, it’s true! – so, really, nobody is safe.
Here’s what’s (allegedly) going on: the CIA has figured out how to encode TV signals w/ special energy waves which cause viewers’ anal muscles to contract, resulting in an audience that is most literally "tight-assed." Just as a hummingbird’s rapid wingflappery (in Hemisphere "A") can produce one heckuva "dust devil" (in Hemisphere "B"), the human body is one big interconnected hunk o’ meat. Thusly, the physical clenching of the butt-region creates a metaphorical "closing" of the mind, thereby mentally constricting the population so as to keep ’em dumb’n’down.
(No word yet as to which TV shows are broadcast in CIA-Vision. I have noticed, howev, that Oz makes my bottom feel funny.)
This is exactly the kinda thing G. Clinton tried to inoculate us against waaaay back in 1971, w/ his funky exhortation to "Free yr ass & yr mind will follow." (Not to be confused w/ B. Clinton’s later motto, "I’d like to feel yr ass, if you don’t mind. Follow me to the presidential broomcloset.") In fact, it’s downright prescient how Clinton (G. not B.) was so on the moola in terms of relating one’s sphincter w/ one’s consciousness. So much so that I think it’s in the free world’s best interest to fund a close re-reading of the entire Parliament/Funkadelic back catalogue.
Take the song "Side Effects" (1975), for e.g., which talks about "the miracle drug that made me feel better" all the while "robbing me of my manhood." Does this remind anyone else of the libido-sapping qualities of Prozac, decades b’fore the fact? Freaky, freaky "shit." And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Man, the crazy P-Funk "coincidences" I’ve discovered would curl yr hair, if you hadn’t already botched yr mop w/ that home perm kit. Yep, I know things, terrible-yet-beautiful Cosmic-Truth-type things. In fact... uh, actually, that’s pretty much the entire iceberg (more like a half-melted ice cube, if that), but I’ve invested too much in this crackpot theory to give it up now. So let’s just cut to a sweeping generalization and say "G. Clinton is like Nostradamus, but w/ much groovier hair." Yes, the CIA can keep its newfangled ass-control technology, as long as those of us fighting the good fight can count the fortune-telling G. Clinton on our side. They may have the butt-clenching microwaves, but we’ve got "Do Fries Come With That Shake?" (1985). Let the battle begin.
Next week: I’ve been noticing some rather interesting secrets encoded in the "sale" flyers that show up on Sunday afternoon. Lemme tell ya, one man’s "slightly irregular blue jeans" are another man’s "global banking conspiracy." In fact, I will tell you. At great, excitable length. Bring a lunch, and a chair. |
