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Authors: Robert A. Wilson
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primates to argue that the reason poverty and starvation still continued in an advanced technological society was that
Somebody Was Getting More Than Their Share.
Whenever anybody asked who that
Somebody
might be, all eyes turned on these royal old primate males who owned so much. The eyes were not friendly. Sometimes, in far-off lands where these royal primates did not completely control the governments, some of their boodle was actually seized and redistributed to the people they had stolen it from. As Rising Expectations had mounted in the first half of the century, this regrettable pattern of expropriation also escalated.
The alpha males of these tough old predator families did not like this at all. They therefore invested a prudent sum in promoting the careers of everybody who preached Lowered Expectations, from Ralph Nader and the Club ofRome to Oriental gurus and the neo-Stoics of the post-Marxist Left.
When Furbish Lousewart came along, they invested in him, too—enough to buy the election for him.
THE QUANTUM CONNECTION IS UNMITIGATED
When Justin Case returned from the John the mad Simon Moon was still reading his nightmare version of the American Dream.
“Upper guns thou wilt, marxafactors,” Moon intoned, half-chanting. “A gnew gnu cries nixnix on your loin ardors [O my am I?] as the great Jehoover fouls his files [Seminole cowhand] with marching looter congs. What a loop in the evening, bloody-fouled loop! Lawn ordures for Crookbacked Dick, pig-bastchard of the world. See, it’s the stinking onion coop. Say, it’s the slimey deepsea doodler. By the wampum of caponey. O turnig on, Duke Daleyswine, lardmayor of burning-town! They’ll chip away yore homo hawks.”
“Hughes Rockefeller Exxon,” the drunken writer was muttering into his martini glass. “Thieving motherfucking …”
Justin decided the party was degenerating and left. In the foyer he had to pass Marvin Gardens and Josephine Malik and heard:
“Male chauvinist paranoid!” (Josephine to Marvin.)
“Extraterrestrial brainwasher!” (Marvin to Josephine.)
Justin decided morosely that the literary world had never been the same since the drug revolution of the 1960s and 1970s. “Pretty little boidies picking in the toidies,” he said gruffly to both of them and walked out.
Justin had no idea where he had gotten the words about the pretty little boidies from. He assumed it was the Afghan hash going around at the party.
“I know all
about
your
plansss,”
Marvin Gardens was snarling at Jo Malik, in his coked-up Peter Lorre voice. “I know why you picked Hemingway to discredit and
defame.
I know what you and your
extraterrestrial friends
are planning to do to humanity, you cold-blooded
fiendsss.”
“You know,” Jo said, suddenly tired of her own anger, “you really ought to lay off that coke, buster.”
“Yess,
yess
, claim that I’m paranoid, that’s the
usual tactic—”
“I say you two,” Epicene Wildeblood drawled, “did either of you see Cagliostro?”
“The magician?” Jo asked.
“Well,” Wildeblood asked with infinite patience, “is there another Cagliostro?”
Marvin and Jo exchanged equally puzzled glances.
“I guess he hasn’t arrived yet,” Jo offered finally.
“What?” Wildeblood frowned. “Why, he’s been here all night.”
Marvin and Jo exchanged glances again.
“I guess we missed him,” Marvin said gently, with the ghastly smile of one who humors a deranged mind.
Wildeblood glared at him and stalked off.
That was really heavy hash, Jo decided. Wildeblood had been hallucinating a guest who wasn’t even there.
DEMATERIALIZING GORILLAS
Knee-jerk liberals and all the certified saints of sanctified humanism are quick to condemn this great and much-maligned Transylvanian statesman.
—W ILLIAM F . BUCKLEY , J R .,
The Wit and Wisdom of Vlad the Impaler
The Warren Belch Society held its annual meeting on January 2, 1984, while POE was busy mining downtown Washington with homemade atom
Somebody Was Getting More Than Their Share.
Whenever anybody asked who that
Somebody
might be, all eyes turned on these royal old primate males who owned so much. The eyes were not friendly. Sometimes, in far-off lands where these royal primates did not completely control the governments, some of their boodle was actually seized and redistributed to the people they had stolen it from. As Rising Expectations had mounted in the first half of the century, this regrettable pattern of expropriation also escalated.
The alpha males of these tough old predator families did not like this at all. They therefore invested a prudent sum in promoting the careers of everybody who preached Lowered Expectations, from Ralph Nader and the Club ofRome to Oriental gurus and the neo-Stoics of the post-Marxist Left.
When Furbish Lousewart came along, they invested in him, too—enough to buy the election for him.
THE QUANTUM CONNECTION IS UNMITIGATED
When Justin Case returned from the John the mad Simon Moon was still reading his nightmare version of the American Dream.
“Upper guns thou wilt, marxafactors,” Moon intoned, half-chanting. “A gnew gnu cries nixnix on your loin ardors [O my am I?] as the great Jehoover fouls his files [Seminole cowhand] with marching looter congs. What a loop in the evening, bloody-fouled loop! Lawn ordures for Crookbacked Dick, pig-bastchard of the world. See, it’s the stinking onion coop. Say, it’s the slimey deepsea doodler. By the wampum of caponey. O turnig on, Duke Daleyswine, lardmayor of burning-town! They’ll chip away yore homo hawks.”
“Hughes Rockefeller Exxon,” the drunken writer was muttering into his martini glass. “Thieving motherfucking …”
Justin decided the party was degenerating and left. In the foyer he had to pass Marvin Gardens and Josephine Malik and heard:
“Male chauvinist paranoid!” (Josephine to Marvin.)
“Extraterrestrial brainwasher!” (Marvin to Josephine.)
Justin decided morosely that the literary world had never been the same since the drug revolution of the 1960s and 1970s. “Pretty little boidies picking in the toidies,” he said gruffly to both of them and walked out.
Justin had no idea where he had gotten the words about the pretty little boidies from. He assumed it was the Afghan hash going around at the party.
“I know all
about
your
plansss,”
Marvin Gardens was snarling at Jo Malik, in his coked-up Peter Lorre voice. “I know why you picked Hemingway to discredit and
defame.
I know what you and your
extraterrestrial friends
are planning to do to humanity, you cold-blooded
fiendsss.”
“You know,” Jo said, suddenly tired of her own anger, “you really ought to lay off that coke, buster.”
“Yess,
yess
, claim that I’m paranoid, that’s the
usual tactic—”
“I say you two,” Epicene Wildeblood drawled, “did either of you see Cagliostro?”
“The magician?” Jo asked.
“Well,” Wildeblood asked with infinite patience, “is there another Cagliostro?”
Marvin and Jo exchanged equally puzzled glances.
“I guess he hasn’t arrived yet,” Jo offered finally.
“What?” Wildeblood frowned. “Why, he’s been here all night.”
Marvin and Jo exchanged glances again.
“I guess we missed him,” Marvin said gently, with the ghastly smile of one who humors a deranged mind.
Wildeblood glared at him and stalked off.
That was really heavy hash, Jo decided. Wildeblood had been hallucinating a guest who wasn’t even there.
DEMATERIALIZING GORILLAS
Knee-jerk liberals and all the certified saints of sanctified humanism are quick to condemn this great and much-maligned Transylvanian statesman.
—W ILLIAM F . BUCKLEY , J R .,
The Wit and Wisdom of Vlad the Impaler
The Warren Belch Society held its annual meeting on January 2, 1984, while POE was busy mining downtown Washington with homemade atom
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