The 34th annual summit We Suck.
Let’s Reconstruct the Power from Scratch! was held at the downtown hotel Shar(e)-asfiks-tom in
Abrëville, Iceland. On December 2nd 5050, the morning sessions were dedicated to the problem of
scant food supplies in the underbelly of the world’s duodenum. Keynote speaker
Stroke Oeldentoon, head of Banks to the People, the world’s leading hedge fund,
addressed the audience stressing an alarmingly high starvation rate among the
population under the age of four. As a piece of evidence he presented to the
attendees was a poem written and sent to him by one such victim. The effect was
supposed to be a wake up call for the masses of financial giants persistently
turning a blind eye on the dramatically decreasing élan vital among the
duodenumers. The poem is of the approximately following content:
I am three, but I can
write-read /
I am hungry, but I
have A voice /
I am a duodenumer,
but my words are not /
I work 14 hours a
day, but at night I sleep not /
Instead, I am
logorrheaing a lot!
A ground-shaking
applause followed. And so did lunch in multiple dining areas of the hotel. The
afternoon was enlightened by a discussant on the panel Who Cares You Don’t Care! World-renowned investor, chair of We Suck Your Blood
As Your Accounts Suck Into Our Bloodline—a leading trust focusing on the
question of foreclosure and reimagining of the housing dream. He drew the
participants’ attention to the skyrocketing number of the homeless in global
epicenters of urbanization. To highlight his point about the undisputable
urgency of raising more funds to ensure shelters for the endangered, he showed
a picture taken and sent to him by a domestically disabled person who used it
as support to the petition signed by the 5050 habitatly dispossessed.
A mindlessly vigorous
applause honored the discussant’s illuminating contribution:
The event was crowned by
dinner, followed by numerous private parties scattered across the hotel
lounges, suites, bars, and swimming pools. The dawn welcomed the exhausted
fighters for betterment of the lives of the financially crippled and
proprietarily impaired.
The same new sun was
shining on the bunch of the brave enduring a 24 hour demonstration of A Panapocalyptic Manifesto--ritualing on
the legendary cliff near Café Club on the infamous beach. The previous day,
simultaneously with the opening of the summit, the Kids started their
counterrites in order to confront the sinister presence of commercial moguls in
the city. To despise the self-righteous, self-congratulatory self-criticism
coming from the rotting mouths of the ownership corpse. As always, they were
standing on the cliff, holding each other’s hands invoking the archived
materials from the factory buildings and, having transformed them into a
vehement wave of cosmic vomiting, they turned their heads upwards in order to
be showered by that gentle tornado of phunkie particles. Invisible embalmers
anoint the bodies profusely.
As the fiery fountain is
streaming through the inner solar routes of these worshippers of wretchedness,
Bizzare, master of ceremony, addresses the present:
Dear Fellow Cyborgs!
Today, we proudly stand
on this spot of honor to resist the toxic wave that is threatening to spread
from the downtown gathering. Today, at Shar(e)-asfiks-tom monetary powers are
attempting to merge in order to bring to the world more of such stuff. The most
prestigious postindustrial tycoons, multinational corporations’ presidents,
beneficiaries, investors in space exploration, religious leaders, activists,
not-for-profit fiscal magnates, dosh oligarchs, cyberspace rulers, political
illuminati, cultural illuminators, respected representatives of the medical
profession, reputable agnostics, awe-inspiring celebrities, distinguished
motheress tigers, elected law makers, guardians of the freest press, warlords
against the red markets, promethei to the benighted corners of the best of the
possible worlds. In a word, contortionists on the economic tightrope are
assembling to give to the world whatever can be taken. To such an ambitiously
altruistic endeavor we say: Fuck Off Losers! : 2 Hell with Darkness! We despise
anomalies of nature and altruism turns out to be but an instant of such a lousy
offence to evolution. May the phunkie rain falling on us bring to the world
decisive dissolvement of the bloodsucking circles. To that end, let us take
turns in addressing that bloodcorroding world. Without further ado, speak
ladies & gents-comrade-cyborgs…
Cyborg 1:
I am imagining the world whose coordinates are heads and toes. In
that world, a river in the summer is frozen. That state is sustained thanks to
technological and scientific advancement. Above, when one looks, what catches
the eye is a cloud, wandering aimlessly across an alienated sky. Sooner rather
than later, such cloud inevitably comes across a region in the atmosphere where
temperature normally causes a transformation of the funny molecules into either
a shower, or persistent (some would even say annoying) drizzle, or, a day-long
outpour of snowflakes. Sometimes even harsher formations can be seen to be
falling on the ground. Nothing like that happens in the world I am imagining.
There, when a cloud comes to such clime, a miracle happens. The miracle being
that nothing happens. How it is possible that condensation fails to occur is a
complete mystery to me.
Bizzare:
Perhaps not so puzzling
if one looks more closely. There are technical means that enable creation of
what to a scientifically illiterate mind seems inexplicable:
LONG LIVE DIARRHEA BASED
FACIAL CREAM!
Cyborg 2:
I am imagining a world
in which man yearns for a place one could call home. That man is homeless. That
man is multiplied into a plethora of homelessness. That plethora haunts the
world I am imagining. That world is generous. It provides man with an opportunity
to get rid of the burden. It provides one with an opportunity to work. When one
works, one earns money. Money is a materialized convention that has acquired a
life in its own right. It, therefore, has a power. A power to purchase. By
extension, man has that power, too. Hence, man buys what is missing from
the universe s/he would like to inhabit. The priority No. 1 being a house. Man
can buy a house, an apartment, real estate property, a flat. Moreover, stuff to
furnish the space with. But can that furniture decorate the space? Is that
space man’s place?
Bizzare:
The answers to these
questions man finds as one lives. As one works:
LONG LIVE HORSED BLOOD!
Cyborg 3:
I am imagining a world
in which work reveals the ways of supplying not only the basics for a living,
but life in abundance. More precisely, to work is to make money. To make money
is to gain the power to consume. To consume is to own. To own is to feel
secure. To feel secure is to have a piece of property. Even better, to work is
to make money. To make money is to be monetarily powerful. To be monetarily
powerful is to be financially mighty. To be granted such invulnerability is to
be free to buy whatever is lacking to make one’s microcosm complete. It turns
out that such things are numberless. Thus, one starts from the most needed
ones. Or, in order of preference. In any case, man’s power to purchase is
endless. Or, rather, it stretches as far as the bank account enables the
flexibility in question. Soon, man’s house is full of the things one once
lacked. And now, one is free to consume at one’s leisure.
Bizzare:
Leisure must be free
time:
LONG LIVE THE FREE SOBJECT!
Cyborg 4:
I am imagining a world
in which one reaches a conclusion about who one is. The knowledge about such an
abysmal query comes in the form of a question. And an answer. The question, in
fact, contains many subheads. The answer may. But may not. The initial
question, contrary to the expected “Who am I?”, is “Can I imagine?”.
Q: We are not robozombies!
A: We are not robozombies!
zarry(E):
Such a decision is a manifestation of the power of
decision-making. That power entitles an individual to a sense of an ability to
act. To act is opposite of stagnation. To stagnate is dangerous. To be in
danger is to be deprived of the authority to feel the power in its entirety. To
be dispossessed is to be less human. To be less human is not to be an
individual. Not to be an individual is to be lonely. To be lonely is to live
with others without an awareness of it. To be with others is to type. To type
is to…
Reasons 4 This’n’Reasons 4 That
My walk, along with the gaseous infusion, has been fueled by
memory. That is a memory of the name of the street. I remember it because
twenty-two years after, I will have read a chapter in a book that spoke about
somebody’s thoughts during a walk near the sea. Then I will have imagined
myself to be strolling the streets of a city on the shore, necked by the sea
too cool to welcome swimmers. And yet, warm enough to spread its beaches in
front of whatever foot feels compelled by their unbeatable appeal. I’d imagine
myself in that city where seagulls’ voices fill the meandering stairs
ornamenting the paths uphill. I’d like to see myself in that city protected by
sunshine never hot enough to free the walkers of their robes. And yet, bright
enough to make a fresh breeze feel like sticky ambrosia dripping from the
tropical sky. To make each step like a millimeter closer to the epicenter of
the tectonic vibrations tickling the soles. A nanosecond nearer to the moment
of the encounter with what might even be one’s stellar twin.
As a galactic child, I am not doomed to somnambulism. TherefoYr, I
feel I have entered the phase of refocusing my mind onto the parts of the
universe less severe in their inexplicability.
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