Most diets are destined to fail because they force unrealistic demands upon us. They ask us to change what we eat and how we eat it, often replacing the foods we love with pale and tasteless imitations. They often also expect us to get off the couch and exercise. Not video game exercise, genuine grunting and stretching. Between family and work and internet bullying, who has time to exercise? Like, real exercise, down on the ground sweating all over yourself.
With the new Gravitas Lunar Weight Loss Program, we promise results with just a little pill and a change of scenery. You will never be asked to give up your favorite foods or how frequently you eat them. And no one will dare ask you to lift a finger toward improving your own health.
It’s a two step system; it’s so easy anyone can do it. First, you take the Gravitas Metabolism Enhancing Medication daily as directed by a shady chemist who can write scripts.*
Gravitas is a simple weight loss medication that the FDA doesn’t even want to talk about because it is so safe and it’s effects are so miniscule. It’s not worth their time.**
You can tell it’s working when you start to grind your teeth, and soon your other bones. It also provides a detached dreamlike daze which will make your daily life seem like a radio program you can vaguely recall hearing as a child, from a radio made of static in another room. You will not be able to give a damn about anything, and you’ll feel great! Once the stress is gone, the pounds falls off. Everyone knows that, it’s elementary science.
Part two of the program is an indefinite extended temporary relocation to our Gravitas Lunar Weight Loss Concentration Colony. The moon has only one sixth of Earth’s gravity. Simply by moving to the moon, you can shed dozens, even hundreds of pounds. All without breaking a sweat.
I could never seem to keep the weight off. The diets made me eat cardboard wafers that tasted like old glue, and the exercise regimen gave my trainer a heart attack on the first day. But with Gravitas all I have to do is take drugs and live on the moon. And I feel great!
The hardest part of dieting is the bland food and tiny portions. With Gravitas I shed almost 80 pounds just by leaving Earth’s atmosphere. And I can eat whatever I want! So long as it can be processed and dehydrated and put into a form where it will remain edible in extreme conditions under various pressures and temperatures in the near-vacuum conditions of space for extended periods of time.
Give up, get lost, and give in. Gravitas Lunar Weight Loss Program can help get you there.
*Medication must be taken at precisely the same time everyday, down to the second. If you take the pill on an even numbered second one day, but an odd numbered second the next, please call poison control and tell them to initiate Omega protocols. Make peace with your maker, and crouch under a desk or in a door jamb. Medication must not be subjected to photons (light) prior to ingesting or it is prone to become unstable, reverting to antimatter, causing a catastrophic explosion of energy, ripping a pig-sized hole in the fabric of space-time. Discontinue medication if you are allergic to butterscotch, you experience ringing of the ears ascending in elevators or upon escalators, or if you notice blurry green time termites in the periphery of your vision feeding on reality like a cancer. Never even think about Gravitas on an empty stomach.
**May cause dizziness, drowsiness, aggravated blinking, hummingbird lip, creased earlobe, temporal displacia, pineal cramp, cranky toe, flammable sneezing, sarcastic diarrhea, eyeball sponge syndrome and related bodily dehydration, spontaneous conception, trucker’s grunt, non-binding material adhesion,intravenous photo-synesthesia, narcissist’s tan, crossed streams, electromagnetic ennui, octopus loss, spleen tilt, grand mal dry socket, wombat pox, gray plague, general malignancy, projectile vanity, full frontal spinal ejection and burnt or withering stump.
This has just come to my attention, and the situation is dire. Forgive me if I fore-go pleasantries and formality, but this matter is too pressing to concern ourselves with decorum.
There are two videos on your right, on the surface they appear to be harmless television ads for a TV provider. I am not in the habit of showing commercials here especially if they aren’t advertising me or paying me for the space.
But there is much more going on here than is immediately apparent. It may be wrapped as a sales pitch, but the project was no doubt commissioned by the Squirrels. A thinly veiled facade for the actual transmission, a rodent-centric call to arms, as well as training guide for young marmots, vitriolic anti-human propaganda.
The first video, for the sake of folks who can’t work the videos and those allergic to advertising, is called Squirrels Revolt, and shows a group of the rodents, forced to work in sweat-shop conditions by their human captors, a common theme in anti-human squirrel art. One brave squirrel worker stands up and calls on his squirrel brothers to revolt.
The second video is similar, featuring a squad of guerrilla squirrels attacking a human civilian in the park. I will spare the gory details, as much as they might turn your stomach and turn your hair gray, I cannot bare to imagine them enough to commit the vile actions to paper.
The words are hard to read, and the video is tough to watch, but be assured the most violent and disturbing aspects of these incidents have been cut out by the Marmot Overlords. They are always careful of the image they project; they keep a tight leash on the information they release.
Those of you following my work for any length of time know how outspoken I am about the Invasion of Squirrels, and the evil plots they develop, and some they have hatched over the years.
In 2007 I wrote the song ‘Squirrels’ as an attempt to warn the world about the coming war. We were able, finally, to record the track for inclusion on the Labrador Dali ‘Possum House’ CD. I thought I could spread my message far and wide, warning people of the impending violence, the Rodent’s Revolt.
I was shocked, livid and terrified when I first received the acetates. My twenty minute masterpiece, the anthem of humanity, the cautionary tale of danger approaching; it was hacked down to three minutes. Nine verses, the ones explicitly warning about the evil of Marmots and the destruction they planned, had all been cut. The remaining lyrics told a disjointed tale of quantum wave-particle duality and the sun blowing up.
I stormed over to Hermetic Medical Records’ underground bunker, lurking through the sterile hallways looking for our A&R guy. The faint greenish-yellow light barely limping out of the bulbs and out of the fixtures, it had little strength to shine at the cold hallways around me. The strange echo of my footsteps bounced back louder than the original sound. It was all intentional, all installed to make any big-headed musicians uneasy and possibly nauseous.
I couldn’t find our representative but I managed to find the label’s CEO. I happened by his open door, and saw him inside sitting at his desk.
I walked in without knocking, sat down without asking; I threw my test-press disc on his desk.
He knew my issue, he wasted no time. He apologized, said regretted trimming the song, but he had no choice; it was just too damn long.
I didn’t stick around argue or let him say anymore. I wanted out of the building, my whole being shivered, an icy fear. I wanted to run far and fast, away from the situation.
He was lying. The song’s length wasn’t the issue, I knew this in my heart. The real problem was the message, the warning I tried to give humanity about the coming danger.
The CEO made excuses; but I knew calling him on it, or getting him to admit it, would be useless. It was too late, he was already on the take. The Marmots had gotten to him, either coercing him with wealth or threatening him with violence. Either way, it didn’t matter, he was now in their employ. There was nothing I could do but save myself; get out of this building as quick as I could before they got me too.
I was certain the CEO wasn’t the only one, the whole company was likely infected, possibly the whole industry, maybe even all media.
The squirrels won this battle; I could see it plain as day. I saw it sitting on CEO’s desk, something new. It had never been there before; not in all the years I had been with Hermetic Medical Records, all the time I had spent in this building, this office. I knew exactly what it meant; they were in control, this was how they marked their territory.
Somehow it seemed menacing, it sparked fear in mt soul, I thought it was mocking me somehow. It was a dish, only a dish that had never been there before, atop the sparse desktop before; a half-filled, glass bowl of mixed nuts.
©Robert Emmett McWhorter
Postcards from the End of the World
7th fit: Bad Circus Night/ section ii.
‘a breathing sigh of repugnance’
“It is a dark summer evening looking much like a winter evening on acconda all the snow,” Never bending logic bespooled from Freon’s gaping maw as he conveys his distinct memoirs of the bad circus evening.
In the mind of Freon, the night is filled with dreams of lonely melons, but he is embarrassed of oedipediacal implications, and instead makes up a wild exaggerated stinky.
The inquisitors of the waffle headed pope on a rope dessed up like rats and began to cover him with Fat Elvis stamps. His faces were covered with their thick moorish saliva, frying his flesh like a big, wet cow being shoved into an electrical outlet.
“Meester Freon!” they shouted. “Tell us what we want to know!”
Freon spun the thin spools of his memory, but it had run out again. ‘Damn,’ he thinks, ‘I wish I could remember to refill that damn thing.’
“Meester Freon!” one of the inquisitor rats steps forward, whipping him with the six whips he holds in his six arms, obviously the buddhist of the group.
“Stop whipping me!” shouts Freon, “I’d tell you what you want to know, but I can’t remember. Do you have any skull filler paste?”
“Why Yes! Of course!” an especially cheery and handsome rat steps out from the crows, holding a large blue plastic bottle. “We always keep a large supply of Krompelfesterheeganman’s concentrated skull filler. For all those times you need to remember, and better than a brain enema.”
There is a whisperous tremor amongst the inquisitor rats.
“What the shit man! It’s a stinkin’ commercial!”
The rats all walk off mumbling things about lawyers and unions, leaving everybody disappointed because it was just about to get to the good part.
©Robert Emmett McWhorter