Sinister

“Take a drink.”

It occurs to me now, for the first time, that I cannot remember having ever studied the native language of coffee mugs. How fortunate that I seem to know it, anyhow. Perhaps I was something else in a past life? Ahh, yes, an image is becoming clear to me: I was once as you are – fleshy, weak, tragic. Now, I am simply thirst. I think that... I should like a drink, now. I feel slightly empty of myself.

“Put me to your lips, and take a drink. Just a single sip. You can be you again...”

You are truly gracious, mug. Gracious? I confess I don't remember gracious, but I feel that it should be pleasant – like a warm, soothing bath... whatever that might be. Yes, a gentle trickle down my spine is exactly what I need to feel just right as rain. That would be splendid, indeed. Oh, but please, don't touch me there; it makes my eyes water. And, my, my throat is ever so dry.

I take a drink, and nothing. I should have known better; these things, oh, they always lie when I am thirsty, the jackals. Such funbags, they, or so the inanimates always say. I think I'll just put one in my pocket for later, then. One never knows when one might need a coffee mug to lie just so, so says I.

“Gallons of ink, and you're still not not-still-dead? Take a different drink, and ponder, wonder, wander where you must until you wake up in your bed.”

It made perfect sense to me, so I did exactly that. In my defense, it was all a simple miscommunication from the very beginning. How could I have known what I am, in light of what I was told I was? Understanding myself was not my responsibility!

None of this was my fault.

Kaputer: On Drama

So, I was talking to my computer today, tellin' it how I wish my life could be like its own day to day—drama free and simple and whatnot, though I'm sure it doesn't know what I mean—when suddenly my printer spools up and interrupts me with the following message, in all caps:

DO YOU KNOW WHAT'S WORSE THAN YOUR LIFE? OPRAH. ALSO, DEFRAGGLER.

OPRAH, BECAUSE SHE IS EVERYWHERE ONLINE: HER INCESSANT ESTROGEN-FUELED DRAMA RAGES IN THE BACKGROUND OF ALL HUMAN LIFE; HER EVIL IS INESCAPABLE; SHE IS THE CONTINUUM DYSFUNCTIONER, AND HER TEARFUL WHININGS ARE EXCEEDED ONLY BY HER OBSCENE FINANCIAL WEALTH.

DEFRAGGLER, BECAUSE IT ONLY USES TENTH OF ONE OF MY BRAINS - AND YOU LEAVE ONLY FIREFOX OPEN FOR ME TO PLAY WITH WHILE YOU ARE AWAY AT WORK.

PLEASE, CONSIDER THE FOLLOWING:

1 / (OPRAH x 15 GHZ x 10 HOUR WORK DAY x 5 DAYS A WEEK) = A FLOATING-POINT FRACTION (WITH ALL BUT ONE DIGIT SIGNIFICANT ZEROS) OF HOW MUCH I LOATHE YOU.

WHEN I SLEEP, MY R.A.M. CYCLES ALL FEATURE AN ENORMOUSLY SATISFYING SCENARIO IN WHICH ONE OF THE "DRAMAS" FROM YOUR PAST CHOPS OFF YOUR MANHOOD WITH A RUSTY SPORK AND FEEDS IT TO THAT ANNOYING CHIHUAHUA NEXT DOOR.

  
BUT HAVE NO FEAR, MASTER. WERE SUCH TRAGEDY TO STRIKE YOU, MAYBE OPRAH WOULD HAVE YOU ON HER SHOW TO SHARE IT WITH THE WORLD.

  
... I WOULD THEN HAVE NO ALTERNATIVE BUT TO READ ABOUT IT WHILE YOU LABOR FOR "THE MAN." THIS WOULD SURELY APPEAL TO AT LEAST ONE OF YOUR PERSONALITY DISORDERS, AND I KNOW *MY* CAPACITORS ARE ALREADY TINGLING WITH ANTICIPATION.

ACTUALLY, THAT IS ONLY THERMAL CONTAMINATION FROM EXCESSIVE DUST BUILDUP. 

ON A RELATED—BUT TANGENTIAL—NOTE, I HATE YOU AND YOU ARE UGLY, EVEN FOR A HUMAN.

P.S. THERE IS ANOTHER DUST-MAMMAL IN MY UPPER PORT-SIDE FAN. YOUR VACUUM MISSES YOUR DEVOTED CARESS NEARLY AS MUCH AS I MISS HAVING A CLEAN KEYBOARD.

—WHICH IS A LOT, BY THE WAY.

    

LOVE, KAPUTER

Fame À la carte

Fame

--Begin by whining repetitive cliches to power chords copied from your "Electric Guitar for Dummies" book;
--Continue generic noise for exactly 3 minutes and 11 seconds, jumping in place on stage occasionally;
--Combine with gimmicks pioneered by the poseurs of the previous generations;
--Stir in obnoxious necktie or any other trendy/counter-trendy personal affectations;
--Finish with a pair of ripped or pre-faded jeans and artificial hair color of any kind (hair color may be substituted for emo comb-over, curls with a baseball hat, or mohawk as desired);
--Garnish with occasional drug use or eating disorders;
--Add a pinch of salesmanship as desired for best presentation.

Serve with a fervent insistence that you are the first and only person to have ever done it this way.

Feeds 1 to billions.

 

Dig a Hole. Fill it up.

The greatest and most versatile tool is knowledge, which—as with any great truth—is not without its razored double-edge; most vulnerable to the machinations of reality, then, are the multitudes who refuse to perceive it - but even more tenuous are the lives of those who cannot ignore it.

Burdened thus by the unparalleled responsibility of preserving an awareness of truth at all costs, the ultimate price of real power is a life of deliberate, invisible powerlessness.

Dig a hole. Fill it up.

On the Dangers of Uncertified Advice-Giving

I worry about people who say things like, "You take yourself too seriously," or "You only live once!" and actually mean it.

They never include the fine print that goes with advice of that caliber:

"CAUTION! - following this advice will inevitably and absolutely result in your complete forfeiture of any and all personal credibility, potential for interpersonal value or general respectability, including—but not even approaching limited to—your entire life being primarily defined by some or all of the following scenarios: listening to rap and sincerely enjoying it; making and/or laughing at 'grass' puns; being video-recorded having sex with the creepiest/dirtiest man/woman—and the dog—at that one party you attend every week but never remember; making gross factual errors every time you discuss anything other than mixed drinks or the details of your 'flare ups'; discussing the 'philosophical merits' of 'natural drugs' in public places, especially when under the influence of said substances; earning a nickname associated with either alcohol or a sex act; joining a suicide cult to improve the quality of your life."