This lovely 6.9L Daimler, delivered to the Don Quixote Sculpture Garden in East Jesus, California, will be radically and violently transformed between now and January 9th into a car-b-que, ostensibly with much photo- and videographic documentation.

Ladies and gentlemen, start your engines….

It’s indistinguishable from a salamander, bluefin tuna, wolf or chimpanzee embryo.  Its sex is undifferentiated.  Yet some religious Bozos still cling to the idea that this grotesque assemblage of tissue is a Human Being.

It is not.  It might become one, but now it is something that has no self-awareness, nor soul, nor capability of sustaining itself.  If it were to exit the womb under any circumstances, it would immediately die.

I have “killed” three such of my “children.”  I do not believe they suffered.  I do not believe my decisions (in collaboration with the bearing mothers) were unethical.

I’m looking forward to the newfangled 21st Century Bible, with its high-resolution anatomical diagrams of the soul and its scanning electron microscopy of Hell and Purgatory; with its explanation of why The Rapture ain’t happened yet, and why atrocity after atrocity throughout the centuries in the name of a Bastard Jew was ultimately justifiable because it made damn sure this tiny quasi-reptilian “human infant,” about 10mm long, is worth more than its adult human host.

Dear Religion, please get the fuck off my lawn, and out of my girlfriend’s uterus.  I promise not to teach science (or history) in your church.

Inspired by the Twitter hashtag #ihadanabortion

The End of The Road – Documentary Trailer from The Drone on Vimeo.

1st PLACE: ICOM AMERICA – I had a minor problem with my Icom IC-7000 HF/VHF/UHF mobile transciever and, since it was still under warranty, decided to send it in sooner than later.  The warranty card said to just send it in with a copy of the original receipt of purchase, showing the date, and a brief description of the problem.  That seemed awfully easy, almost too good to be true.  So I did.  About a week later I called in and was told it had already been repaired and would ship soon.  Not only did they fix the problem, but ran a comprehensive test and fixed a few other things, then gave the radio a complete alignment.  All I had to do was pay for the shipping back to the service center, about $20 (UPS.) WIN!

2nd PLACE: OUTBACK POWER – I own a lot of Outback stuff; their components are the mainstay of my off-grid power system(s).  They’ve always been good about replacing stuff under warranty.  When the VFX3648 failed just the other day and I called in about it, the customer rep offered to just send out a complete board replacement kit.  That saves us both the hassle of shipping the big, awkward, heavy unit back and forth and saves them a little tech time, and allows me to service my own equipment, which I’m all too happy to do in this case.  WIN!

3RD PLACE: T-MOBILE: For the third time now, my G1 phone died.  And it’s still under warranty, and insured to the hilt above and beyond that.  Nevertheless, I have to submit to being treated like an unwanted visitor on a prison camp before I can get anything done.  I have to spend my entire morning negotiating with chatterbots on T-Mobile’s customer-time-wasting phone labyrinth before I finally get the point across that my phone is broken.  Then I have to answer a bunch of questions.  I feel like I just got pulled over by a cop who doesn’t like men with beards or something, and insists on treating me like a suspect, even though I’m a paying customer.  They make me give a lot of information about the phone, which I’m still liable for in case said info is later found to be incorrect.  I’m perpetually at their mercy, always on the defensive.  I hate it.  Once the torture is over, I get an unsolicited call from T-Mobile asking me to participate in a survey about the professionalism of the customer service rep I last spoke to.  Guys, your people are doing a great job: it’s your hostile, defensive policy towards customers in need that makes me sick.  I wish I had a home version of your phone tree interrogation system, and could make you verify the last four of your Social Security number six times and your mother’s birthplace twice, after making you listen to a minute’s worth of irrelevant drivel while you cling desperately to the line, hoping an actual warm-blooded, sentient being will finally grant you an audience….  Fuck off, I hate you.  I can’t wait until my contract with you is over.  FAIL.

Tomatoes was a prankster, but you never felt badly if you were on the ass end of his prank.  He believed in nothing, and thought death was “cool,” but embraced life like few ever do.  He was a kinder, gentler sort of revolutionary; a nihilist with a heart; an ethical jackass.  Throughout my adult life, I have only been involved in two violent confrontations, and Tomatoes – virtually a stranger – played a decisive role in bringing both to a close.  That’s pretty weird.

I wish I could say more.  I wish I had known him better.  I wish I were really sad.  But I’m just pissed off that someone like Tomatoes died of a fucking heroin overdose.  A FUCKING HEROIN OVERDOSE.  Jesus Christ, couldn’t he have at least set himself on fire or fallen out of a window or overdosed on something stupid like Magic Markers?  Couldn’t he have been run over on his bicycle by a garbage truck with particularly interesting graffiti?  Couldn’t he have died of some obscure, vanishingly rare disease like smallpox?  An HIV-infected tattoo needle from a back alley inking of the likeness of Sarah Palin on his scrotum?  And why do I even give a shit?

An excerpt from his blog:

Friday, October 09, 2009

depresion

I remain optomystical. These things, they make me remember the joys in life: not sleeping for four days, the warm feel of a five dollar machete handle as I lie in wake waiting for that oportune moment when they barge through the door and I decapitate them, thus proving to my ex-girlfriend that I’m not really scared, I’m just looking out for our safety.

Waking up in the kitchen, fully clothed clutching the machete wondering what day of the week it is and whether or not I’ve depleted the liquor store’s supply of 211.

She won’t share her drugs with me, her family hates me, and I don’t really understand how much money they invest in helicopters in Hollywood. Supposedly, they’re not really helicopters. It’s “auditory” hallucinations due to no sleep and lots of drugs.

I eat stuff though, . . . sometimes. Snickers bars, and the rolls of mini donuts coated in chocolate.

I’m scared to go outside. I go to Rite Aid a lot. Just to look at girls. and buy Natural Ice and Halloween candy that I just eat myself.

]]> http://chaster.us/wp/?feed=rss2&p=561 0 http://chaster.us/wp/?p=553 http://chaster.us/wp/?p=553#comments Wed, 13 Oct 2010 03:14:17 +0000 chasterus http://chaster.us/wp/?p=553 This isn’t news, but I only recently discovered this video. The estimable Kristi Michele performed this original song during the Mammoth Erection Festival in June. I was present, listening intently, hoping I would someday see the video on YouTube…. Kristi is off to the UK for a little tour and some recording dates, hopefully returning safely to our shores before Christmas.

By Laurie Anderson.