Coming out of T or C Pizza, stuffed like a walking log of cheese and with a shit eating greasy grin on my face as I had finally gotten Joanne the waitress’s number (turns out later that minimum wage overweight harlot with the lazy eye gave me the local line to the local Pahrump AA chapter), I suddenly realized as I fumbled around for the keys to my 94’ Ford Probe that I hadn’t really taken the time as I have before to really watch “Star Wars” for the signals that I knew this mainstream trilogy had to be sending out through its NWO approved channels. I’d have to correct that I reasoned, I got a moral job here and audience out there wanting to know what this big ol’ bullshitter of blockbuster was really trying to get across from its masters. So I retreated to the Blue Velvet Suite above the Garage overlooking the wide black desert, cranked the A/C to polar winter, poured myself a liberal gin and tonic, and sat down for what I figured to be the 88th time watching the trilogy and really getting into the nit and the grit of what “Star Wars” was all about. 88 times. Yes I am right, I write down how much I watch a movie so I know scientifically and exactly what my favorites are. 88 times, I noticed. That’s a real special number, 88. You watch anything or read anything 88 times you begin to notice certain things. I read the Stand 88 times (boy Stephen spits on the flag and dances on the bible all through that 1,000 pages of anti-christ rantings, I noticed on the 88th try), I’ve read the Hobbit 88 times, and I know all the ins and outs and the what have yous (the Hobbit is really about the need to return to a gold standard, I noticed that on the 88th try). My first Thai internet girlfriend dumped me on the 88th session. Bitch. 88 is the number of knowledge, sometimes good, mostly bad. But always truth.
And you know what it’s all about, friends and kitties? WHAT IT’S ALL ABOUT REALLY??? Star Wars is about horseshit! Collectivist idealism run way the hell amok, that’s what its about, friends and kitties. And something more… Mother Midnight is upstairs, slaving away and the stove, making a penne alla vodka with sausage, and I scream out “GEORGE LUCAS YOU MAGNIFICIENT COMMIE BASTARD!” The cats jump, Mom screams, burns herself and I go right to where I am at right now, in front of a computer with my third gin and tonic fresh, writing to you now after I dialed up the Nye County Fire Department (Mom’s fine). You see, Comrade Skywalker, he doesn’t ever DO anything. He listens to no one, doesn’t do anything anyone tells him to and in the end SAVES THE DAY?!? He does not “Save the day”. EVER. First off, Han Solo saves his ass so he doesn’t get shot down in order to make the easiest shot that any dummie without cancer in his brain can do (UH HOW HARD IS IT TO SHOOT STRAIGHT DRR ERR WITH A HOMING MISSILE DDRR EERR). Second movie COMRADE SKYWALKER SAVES NO ONE and loses his girlfriend, I mean right hand. Last one? Return of the Bullshit? His dad saves the day by issuing an old school prison-style beat down on the Emperor. I mean its just like in that Alan Alda made for TV movie I watched 88 times, Liberal Larry Saves Some Degenerates From Being Shot by the National Guard, or somethin’, I don’t know. Really. Alan Alda didn’t beat someone to death during a prison riot, he was always the one to see it the way the poor sodomites did negotiator or he was the intrepid journalist. I think.
But here’s the crux. George Lucas is trying to tell the audience one thing (you can’t do anything in life unless your friend boinking your sister bails you out or your father in the mobile iron lung does the same) but really, really, he doesn’t even know it, that bearded marshmallow of a phony passing himself off as a man. What he’s really telling you is not what he wanted to tell you that (that you have to rely on the great collective in order to win, AKA Communism). What he’s really telling you without knowing it is that life is just one big prison riot, and if you turn your back one second, your next in line is throwing you over the railing. Simple as that. Life is a prison riot. After Return of the Jedi, Lando and Leia plot to have Han stabbed to death in the showers when the Guards are playing gin rummy in the laundry room. That’s life. One big dog goes down, another gets on top, until his girl plots with his attractive African-American friend to doom him while Luke Skywalker dances the meringue with a bunch of sexually ambiguous muppets in a forest. Voila, New Emperor Lando. That’s how it works in life.
Every revolution ends up the same way (except ours, friends and kitties, but that’s because we had the Count of Saint Germain writing our constitution and freedoms behind the scenes, see my book “Gift of Freedom: Saint Germain Wrote our Constitution Behind the Scenes” that’s currently available on Amazon, quick read, eighty seven pages plus one of notes, I have pictures in there too my cousin Ron drew plus charts).
I looked out over the desert, the high desert around our little square nest, past the tires and barbwire fencing and thought about this all, looking out that big ol’ moon that haunts the wastes, drinking my sixth G and T . Life’s just one big prison riot. No rules until the guards show up with the rubber bullets and the batons (and then, ha ha, its their rules, until they turn their backs!).
Look at the Middle East right now. JFK’s assassination. Jennifer Lawrence’s acting. All a bunch of horrors we have to endure because life is just one big prison riot. And just like a prison riot, you get this sense that things can only end real ugly (AND THE FUN PART WAS IT ALREADY WAS UGLY TO BEGIN WITH…)
You think about Star Wars. One layer after another. First layer, boy wonder. Second Layer, Commie Peacenik bullshit. Third layer, the void and nihilistic death. So many layers in life. I peruse it though. Me and my freshest G and T look all around for layers at night, looking through the Dark Net.
That’s where you see some layers my friend. Cruising through the dark net after I posted a sixty page email to that stuck up Theresa Manalucci triple whore triple fat triple slack jawed swamp donkey ex-homecoming Queen for the Pahrump Pioneers about how she dumped me back in 1981, I saw the face of the true reality in there. People don’t want to play around in the Dark Net. I do. I felt mean and you gotta have a mean heart to play around there. And a good head about your shoulders- people go nuts seeing some of the things I see at 3:00am on a Tuesday, out above the garage over looking the high desert with only the glow of my monitor and my G and T glass to keep me company. People just lose their shit, end up painting the walls with their brains. Happened to Joe Slams my parolee friend.
Last night I saw these things rip a man to shreds- undead, zombies, whatever you want to call ‘em. I thought I was watching some east European zombie flick from the early 90’s called The Black Castle. Maybe it was Italian. But then I remembered I was in the Dark Net. And no, children, it wasn’t a movie. Bottom right hand corner. CCTV. Fashion Island Mall. Newport Beach, CA. 12:03 am. Then a series of numbers (numerical website address to get PART 2 of WYRD The Black Castle). Dark shit. True ugliness- at a mall no less at night! How the Lord does THAT HAPPEN IN AMERICA. Like a prison riot ‘cept all the prisoners were undead ghouls who’s only goal was to drown themselves on their victims blood.
But that was only one little thing, my friends and kitties. One little snapshot. There’s a whole lot of the abyss staring back at you at 3:00am when you are watching things on the Dark Net.
“The horror. The horror.” “Mistah Kurtz- he dead.” “Exterminate all the brutes!”
Life is a prison riot. It just gonna keep getting uglier and uglier.
Thanks, George Lucas.