Though this tundra numbs my bones
it carries my words
with the speed of falling angels
to the warmer climes
of your wee little ears
Hello, fellow traveller,
My name is not important. What is important is that I
am the purveyor, and titilant of the web bucket known commonly by its
maiden name of 'Radical Splurge'.
My parents were gods. They are dead now.
You may call me The Editor.
My various offshore accounts funnel guineas directly to
various other offshore accounts which, eventually, fund the caretakers of the
myriad rodents that toil in the hellish wheels of our server farm. It is not
relevant where my money comes from, but I am very enthused about where it ends
up. As a supporter of various doomed causes, I could not withhold my slender, withered
digits from tip-tapping on the donate button for this devilishly obstinate publication.
This haven of ejaculatory dissent is the pit from which the subtle tingle of laughter
ruptures through my scabby throat, its meta-meta-satire teasing from me but the humblest of titters. It has been many centuries since such a thing has happened, and it scares me, but what industrial pioneer and renowned explorer could refuse such sybilatic succulence, such
asinine assonance?
Sadly, however, I write here not to praise this babe, which suckles
so hypocritically at my cryto-current teet, but to admonish it for its irresponsibility
and moral destitution. In the last post to the scrolls of Radical Splurge,
a callous invitation was sent about a summer school with places to be
purchased for human dignity. The writer, of course, was foolish enough to not remember
that, by their very nature, the polyps that peruse these pixelated pages are totally
lacking in human dignity. What self-respecting beast or body would bash their
eyes so ecstatically against their holo-screen for such petulant returns, lest they
were lacking in all dignity? For this mistake, we, I, it, apologises.
The second more fundamental failure was a lack of
organisation for this sunlit spectacle, evident in that the writer, as we have
so deftly detectored, made up the school on the spot, as he scrawled those
dellible words with but his bloodied knuckles. I have confirmed this, now, having
written to him by bottle. The Pseudo Autonomist Pessimist Post-Marxist compound
is many moons away by boat, and its shores ripple in the most unnatural of
lights. My sailors dare not row me within earshot of that blasted rock. The
bloodied note I hold in my hands is filled with admonishments of his own
foolishness and impetuity, and I scrunch it now, wet and cold, in my skeletal, ring-borne fist. Having spoken to the leade writer of this journal, whose name I dare not
speak nare utter for fear he may hear me, has apologised profusely. At least,
from the garbled screams he sends to me on magnetic tapes, I detected notes of
remorse. The other notes I cannot decipher, and dare not try, for my translator
has still not returned from the sabbatical he demanded after the last tape.
Those eldritch runes which line the front glow ever so gently in the lamp
light. I fear them, as do we all, but as the soul financial supporter of this
necronomic ulcer of a publication, my fear is bulwarked by coinage.
So I repent to you, flagellant and prostrate on the
floor, handing you the already sodden whip, to forgive me, I, it, for the lies
we have divulged uponce you, and for the lies we have so slanderously plopped
into the toilet bowl of your mind: as with all such plopping, the cold and dirty
water has flicked back up to our testicles and made us flinch in icy shock.
The summer school was but the pipe dream of one of our
poets/writers/diviners (the titles are but always in flux!) who, in scrying the
words that dribble through the ether, injected his own nonsense unto the pure
rationality he had, till that point, been grouting from the tiles of the universe'
bathroom floor. And in that brief moment of masturbatory elation, I failed you,
dear, sweet, beautiful reader.
These days of wealth and plenty are gone. The crops shall
fail this year, and the lord's boot shall crash down, steel-toed and phallic,
round the necks of those who transgress once more. The jesters shall be kept on
chains, my beloved reader, and their bells cut off like dogs' balls. Their
castrated moans shall be punctured by but the new jingle of the chains round
their necks, at once molesting their minds with what was and what is, as they continue
to write for me and for you, my brightest, my starlight, what the future will hold for us. I shall stand
here with great sang-froid as these cretins seek to nudge so insolently past me
with their lies and filth, and purify like some forsaken ethereal filter the piss
water that they call 'content'.
Though the crops may fail this year, dear reader, we
shall feast nonetheless.
Yours in damp eternity,
The Editor
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