New Triangulated Business Structure Offers Opportunities To Investors At Every Level

Flip Top News LogoAnnouncer:
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.


The Plastic Static



Damn. How did so much time get away from us?

It’s like one minute you are standing in the middle of a warehouse in the early nineties, high on cheap beer, brown weed, teenage freedom and rock and roll; next thing you know it’s a different century and a different world, and everyone is compartmentalized and plastic and isolated.

Yes, we are getting older. Some of us, not all of us survived.

And one has to wonder sometimes, who is the winner in this game? The ones who checked out early? The ones who missed so many years? Those of us left behind? To carry on, to trudge forth even as we see everyone and everything around us crumbling.

These days I’m not so sure.

I crawled out of a cave. I fell asleep sometime in the last century and woke up here. In a museum, in a cheap science fiction movie. Here, we are both the spectators and the spectacle.

This hallway is black. Not dark. Black. Light doesn’t dare traverse it’s expanse. There are glimpses of neon here and there, but it’s impossible to tell if they are real or hallucination. The absence of light makes the hallway feel immense, long, possibly unending. That’s another scary notion. Eternity. The thought that there may be no end to this.

And then we must ask ourselves again, which is worse? The eternal shuffling toward nothing, or the exit too early; the ones we have lost, who have fallen along the way. Are we sad they have gone? Or is it only us growing ever lonelier as they one by one depart?

I looked for you. I looked forward to reconnecting.

You wouldn’t recognize the place. Everything has changed since you left.

We’ve torn down nature and put up a plastic nature replica. It will last forever, and it doesn’t get messy like the real thing. We still aren’t sure if the birth defects are a direct result of the synthetic natural plastic alloy or merely a coincidence, but we aren’t letting it slow us down either way.

The streets are emptier too. You would get along a little better with less traffic, fewer distractions to fight for your attention. You see that’s where there was a bookshop. That used to be a record store. This was a Wags before it was a Perkins before it was a Bakers Square before it was the Sunshine Breakfast Club before it was finally abandoned and left to rot away.

This used to be the beach. Our beach. I wish I could say they left this one alone.

It almost feels the same, the yellow moon peeking down through slivers of cloud. That breeze that always hints of winter, even in August, always reminds you of how cold it could be.

As if it had any idea.

Nothing that lives or breaths or moves really knows anything of the true cold. The freezing. The motionless waiting, staring. Stuck in your tracks. So cold you can’t even feel it anymore.

It doesn’t matter, you wouldn’t recognize this anyway. It is not ours. This is no longer the world we knew.

This. You see this? This passes for sand. I know. It is cleaner. It doesn’t get in your shoes and stuck in every crevice. This is static. This is electronic noise, pixels, bits of information formed to resemble the granules we knew growing up but without all the mess.

Maybe that’s how they’ve done it. Maybe that’s how the rug was pulled out from under us. Maybe they filled up all the hourglasses with this synthetic sand. It bought them all the time in the world.

There was a point I was trying to make. There was something I wanted to say to you, but I seem to be only rambling. I’m sorry to waste your time. You would have laughed at that one. The idea of wasting time. Maybe you had it right all along, you and the Mad Hatter.

Maybe yours was the right move. Maybe I’m worse off for witnessing this. Maybe it is you who escaped and I who am trapped. Imprisoned in black iron, indeed the empire never ended.

Still, I thought there would be more time. I thought we would meet again. Even if it was out here in the fringes of reality. This crumbling pier hanging precariously over the edge, over nothing, a bottomless pit of black frozen emptiness.

©Robert Emmett McWhorter

Olympic Committee called on to ban anthem

Flip Top News LogoDATELINE, Sochi.

It began with a few countries asking the International Olympic Committee to ban the national anthem of Lichtenstein, which is the 1968 hippie masterpiece In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida by Iron Butterfly.

Lichtenstein, a tiny sixty-two mile square mile strip of land between Switzerland and Austria, is well used to being overlooked. The country began to gain publicity and fame when it was reported that Doug Ingle, vocalist and organ player for Iron Butterfly, was born in the tiny nation. Eventually, in recognition and gratitude to Lichtenstein’s most famous export, they changed their national anthem to the seventeen minute long In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida.

This has gone mostly unnoticed as does most everything the tiny state does. They have rarely won medals in previous Olympics and have skipped about half of them altogether.

This year, however, the Lichtenstein athletes have come to compete. They won their first gold medal in the early events that were held the day before the official opening, besting the rest of the competitors in Figure Skating- Pairs- Siamese Twin- Short Routine. When the seventeen minute hippie anthem was played while the athletes stood with their medals, some countries protested primarily on the burdening length of the song.

Lichtenstein has continued to place well in the competition, winning seven gold medals as of this writing, most notably in Women’s Cross-Country Speed Curling, and Men’s Individual Ski-Lift Defenestration.

More and more countries have aligned with the protest as the extended acid rock staple is played repeatedly. Some national ambassadors are citing the thick cloud of marijuana smoke that permeates the stands every time Lichtenstein wins a medal, and the general feeling around the grounds which are starting to resemble a Grateful Dead pre-concert parking lot.

Olympic Officials could not be reached for comment at this time. They could be reached, but refused to comment as their mouths were full, mostly Cool Ranch Doritos and Krispy Kreme Donuts.

©Robert Emmett McWhorter

Install Your Own Flip Top Head™






One of my common themes, the Flip Top Head™, so you can take your brain out for a drag. This is part one of an extensive, easy to read guide to installing your own hinge and hasp and making the most out of the skull space by keep your mind externally.

The Cal Sag

calsagtrailIf you need me
I’ll be selling life insurance at the porn shop
I’ll be buying fake drugs from a bad cop
I’ll be waiting for other shoe to drop
at the sock hop

If you need me, yeah if you need me
If you need me, then I need you

But if you’re leaving
You can pack up all your memories in your pink bag
Forget them as you dump them into the Cal Sag
Tell me exactly when I became a drag
with your Red Flag

Robert Emmett Get It Together (2010)

If you’re leaving, yeah, get out if you’re leaving
If you’re leaving, I’m leaving too

So if you need me
When you’re cleaning your old corners with some new mop
and you’re sipping on a cool drink with your hot cop
and you’re looking for a way just to make it stop
Go out on top

If you’re leaving, yeah if you’re leaving
If you’re leaving, I’ll leave with you

© Robert Emmett McWhorter/
Published by Hermetic
Medical Records (ASCAP)


mg_bombheadinsideYou know what man? Fach Ohio! Eight hours of driving and the campground we’re looking for doesn’t even exist. We’re turned away at every subsequent spot, ‘All full up, try Sea Grove Park.’

Dismally we return to the car, ‘They told us to try you.’

The roads twist and just and disengage, branching out into dark, obscure county roads and Highways named after the Alphabet.

We get the attention of a police car, to ask for assistance and directions. Their pleasantries are a welcome mat of thorns. We tell them we’re looking for somewhere to camp, the cops turn on their flashers and more squad cars pull up behind us and make the display even brighter.

Two officers come to the window with a ‘what the hell are you doing in these parts’ demeanor. One of them rattles off a list of everything they’d like us to produce; Drivers License, Registration, Proof of Insurance, Proof of Purchase, Proof of Citizenship, Social Security Card, Medical and Dental Records, Work History and Tax Records for the past six years, all winning lottery tickets in our possession and any pornography we might have.

We suffered abuse and accusation before they understood that we were trying to ask them for directions. After some deliberation, a silent admittance began to shine through their dogmatic attitude of authority, they were as lost in these backward boonies as we were.

We gave up all hope. The police finally bid us goodnight, and we hopped back onto the turnpike, heading for the nearest rest stop.

Service plaza coffee, parking lot hotel. A hell full of hippies sleeping in and on their cars. Let’s wake these bastards up, the locals anyway, the ones with Ohio plates. Let’s make them party! In honor of their wonderful home state, in honor of a newly wonderful state of mind.

“Come on, ya fachs, get up! It’s four thirty, the sun will be rising soon!”

These roads won’t lead anywhere for us, only back to where we never wanted to be in the first place. So come on, native, lead us to the watering hole or the Booze ‘n Burgers. Take us somewhere we can let the car cool down while we roam along a stream or ascend into the trees.

Been up all night at the rest stop playing pinball, giving up when the machine overwhelmed me with at least a dozen balls for me to juggle at once.

Outside it is tranquil Light is just streaking the Eastern sky, between watermarked clouds with flat, black bottoms. The sun is yet to make it’s initial peek over the horizon, but it seems to be preparing a spectacular entrance for those brave enough to wait it out.

People are sprawled out on picnic tables, asleep, huddled up in large wads of sleeping bags and blankets. Headlights from trucks and cars are view-pointers for the constellations.

Birds in the trees are going crazy. Chattering on and on, moving from branch to branch, tree to tree. An owls god is as good as any, but fall is frighteningly imminent this morning.

They’re all on edge, ready to attack. Don’t shake the tree. We kept them up all night, and they’re trying to figure out what to do now that the cold is coming.

Chirp, chirp. What’re you going to do? I don’t know, what are you going to do? I’m not sure, let’s check with everybody else. Chirp, chirp.

They flutter around in confusion, trying to put it to a vote. Same thing as last year? Chirp, chirp.

South again? Fach south! We go south every year! Is that all you can think of?

The birds chirp wildly, almost in a riotous state, until one steps out and demands attention from the rest. “Well, can any of you think of somewhere else to go this winter? Anyone? Anywhere?”

The tree is silent and still. A slow remorse and resolve falls upon them, the birds all come to agreement on the plan.

“Come on, everyone! We’re heading South, again!” Chirp, chirp, chirp.

The sun makes its first appearance, coming over the Eastern sky. The birds gather in formation and disappear high in the sky. And cars full of hippies, some just waking, some still up from the night, flock together in line on Ohio’s winding turnpike in search of the paradise camping ground.

© Robert Emmett McWhorter (circa 1994)


Mayan_priest_smokingThis is the very last pack of cigarettes I am going to buy. After this, I quit, definitely. I say this to myself, although it’s more of ritual than a resolution. I suppose I believed it the first time I said it, probably the second and third time, too. But that was many years and a million cigarettes ago.

Still, I am under the self imposed delusion that one day soon I will put the smokes down forever.

I have, in fact, become addicted to the idea of quitting cigarettes. I can no longer wake up in the morning without telling myself two or three times that today is the day that I will put cigarettes out of my life. I doubt now that I will ever be able to actually stop.

Besides the nicotine withdrawal I will also suffer the absence of a reason to tell myself every day that I will stop smoking.

I suppose I could still tell myself that I’m going to quit, but have already quit it wouldn’t feel the same.

Maybe I should quit everything else and devote all of my time and energy to smoking cigarette after cigarette, while simultaneously telling myself this, definitely, is the last one.

It’s possible the real solution to this paradox is to become addicted to something stronger which will outweigh my dependance upon cigarettes and the desire to quit them. Something like heroin. I’m sure that between violently fiending and combing the city’s underbelly for a fix and then getting sick and staring at my shoes for nine hours, I would have neither the time nor energy to light up a cigarette or tell myself not to.

smokinggirlPossibly, that could backfire. I would find myself somewhere, a needle in one hand, a smoke in the other, saying to myself, “This is my last fix, this is my last cigarette.”

I would become addicted to addictions, everyday adding another drug or vice just so I could tell myself I would never do it again.”

“This is my last cigarette.
This is my last fix.
This is my last joint.
This is my last line.
This is my last shot of tequila.
This is my last handful of diet pills.
This is the last time I was down barbiturates with large quantities of grain alcohol.
This is my last rock.
This is my last balloon.
This is my last hit of haliprophine.
This is my last sniff of arsenic.
This is the last of the hemlock.
This is the last game of Russian roulette I’ll ever play.”

Maybe then I could quit it all, turn my rhetorical mantra into sound words and a solid resolve. I wonder if dead men feel withdrawal.

© Robert Emmett McWhorter (circa 1992)

Horselover Fat rides again…

pkdSaturday, 29 November 2003
Topic: from the soapbox

So, I was in a car accident last Sunday. I remember it was just starting to snow, that kinda half-snow, half-rain that makes the roads such a joy to drive on. Besides that and the fact that I was probably going too fast in the first place, I came to a red light and hit my brakes. Nothing, The car kept moving ahead, and hydroplaned right into the car in front of me. The fact that I saw it coming and stiffened up in anticipation, instead of letting by body go slack, that probably made it worse, but that’s another story for another time…

I can’t work or drive for now, doctors orders. I have bumps and bruises all over, and a bandage over my eye. Apparently I hit my head on the steering wheel. It took twelve stitches to close me up, and they told me I am lucky I didn’t lose my right eye.

So I decided I would take this time to catch up on some reading, and to get some writing done. I found an old battered copy of “Valis” by Philip K. Dick, who is, and anyone who knows me knows this, my literary hero. A mentor of sorts, a lot of my writing, not just stylistically but idealistically, has been inspired by him. I have read everything I could get my hands on written by Dick, back even before a lot of it was put back into print.

“Valis” deals with a lot of metaphysical themes, a lot of which are based on ideas that were only unearthed recently in the caves of Qumran and in the manuscripts found at Nag Hammadi. These ‘lost’ religious articles, suddenly appearing after sleeping in the desert for two thousand years, have always intrigued me.

One thing about having all this time off work, is I have way too much time to think. Not just about the life of a mad genius sci-fi philosopher who died poor and unrecognized, and would not garner any real fame or respect until twenty years past his death. Not about the strange coincidence that I have been interested in the Dead Sea Scrolls since I first heard of them, and just happen to pick up this book where my favorite author of all times is talking at length about them. And what exactly does that mean, what does that imply if anything? That these two fascinations of mine would merge here together as I lay bed-ridden and broken. Coincidence? Synchronicity? Fate? Quantum Holistics?

Or is it merely that my mind being as it is, is attracted to the writing of Phil Dick, and as such is also attracted to the long buried manuscripts of an ancient secret society. Not necessarily an eerie similarity, but a matter of “well, naturally I like his writing, because he is interested in the same, weird, whacked out things that I am”.

When my mind isn’t playing this metaphysical game of chicken and the egg, it is trying to weigh me down, drag me into depression, based on the accident and the consequences there-of.

I nearly lost my eye, half my head is covered in bandage, the area just below my eyebrow has been repaired with stitches, it is black and ugly like a caterpillar resting on my eyelid. “Right Peri-orbital Laceration” is what they call it. My face is no longer symmetrical. The right side of my face is swollen, puffy and a sickly bruised yellow in color. Half of my head is sore and in almost constant pain, the other half is still numb- completely without feeling, like Novocaine has been shot into my skull. The pain or the numbness, I’m not sure which is scarier.

My shoulders are sore to move, my knees are wounded and scraped. I have random bumps and cuts about my body. My sides hurt when I laugh or bend the wrong way- ribs or internal organs or just superficial bruises? Its a lot to think about when you have nothing but time to sit and think. No wonder I’ve been trying to occupy my mind with such heavy subjects as the Gnostic Gospels.

Never mind the fact that my car is gone. And I don’t know when they will let me drive again anyway. Transportation, work, money- they are all trivial things in the light of health- but they are issues which weigh on me late at night when sleep will not come.

Why did this have to happen? Why now? Just when things were beginning to fall into place. A job I could bare to go to everyday, a nice little routine I was falling into where I would be content. There were some things to look forward to, a book I was planning on publishing once the funds were there. A girl I wanted to fall in love with once the time was right.

And then suddenly, in literally an instant, it was all turned upside down. Everything seems to be up in the air at this time. One step forward then two staggering steps back. And the work it will take to get back to where I was has just seemed so overwhelming. I can do it I know, but in my darker moments I wonder if I should bother, whats the point?

And once the darkness of depression splinters into my brain, it clouds over all else and turns it to black. All hope, all dreams, black. And the lingering question of “Why?”

So last night I was searching around the Internet for information of the Nag Hammadi texts, the Dead Sea Scrolls, and the Gnostic Gospels. I found a few good sites and read as much as I could before the weary gloom would creep its way into my thoughts.

I tried a different search then, on Philip K Dick. I have read most of his work, but don’t know that much about him; only what they put at the end of the books in the About the Author Section, and from the seemingly form-lettered publicity profile: Born in Chicago, lived in California, wrote 110 short stories and 36 novels, ate dog food in the grips of poverty, was addicted to amphetamines to keep his prolific writing pace, was married and divorced 5 times and died of heart failure in 1982. I was hoping some web site out there could help me glean a little closer into the actual man behind these words.

I found one site, where they had clips of Dick actually speaking. Actually speaking. In the fifteen years I have been reading his work, I had never heard his voice before. I listened to the first clip; an hour long tape Dick had recorded as a synopses for a novel he was working on, he recorded it on tape rather than type it because of a broken arm at the time.

His voice came through my stereo, a kind voice but obviously roughened by cigarettes and booze, and that slur that only comes from years off drug abuse, the “acid accent” I call it- and the fact that his words would sometimes meld together as he spoke a mile a minute trying to keep pace with his racing mind.

Once I adjusted my brain to hear his odd way of speaking, I lay in bed and felt like he was there in the room, telling this idea he had for his next book directly to me, in confidence. Bouncing the idea off me in private discourse.
The next clip was an hour long interview. By interview it meant that the host of the radio show would ask a simple question, and Dick would veer off on several tangents and cover as many and as few topics as he cared to before he would allow another question.

Somewhere in the middle of a rant, Philip K Dick somehow came upon the subject of God, this didn’t phase me all that much. It was obvious that the Great Beyond was a matter of deep thought for him and for me as well. I sat an listened as his low-flying form of conversation strafed over many religious, spiritual and metaphysical hot-points. Touching for a second, a moment of lucid, profound thought swirling out of a tornado of jumbled words and thoughts, and moving on quickly to the next target.

He got on the subject of Gods Will and his Ways. The mysterious ways in which he works. How he makes things come to be.

Sometimes, he was saying, (I am paraphrasing here) God has to take measures to bring people to their destiny. People get stuck in routines and will stay in those routines unless physically removed. So God will take action to put people where they need to be, to meet people they need to meet. And he will do this by the simplest means possible.

Such means as, say, a car accident. ( My brain nearly jumped out of my head at hearing this.) Sometimes the easiest way for God to put you where you need to be is in such a tragedy. You wonder, why did this happen to me? It messed up all my plans. Only in retrospect do you realize, if I hadn’t been in that car crash, I would never have met so-and-so. That car crash was the best thing that ever happened to me, and such and such. Fate comes, he closed the topic, like a firecracker being dropped down the back of your pants by invisible hands. You are walking along minding your own business, and then BANG!!!

Well, hearing this, the talk of a fateful car accident, coming from a twenty-five year old tape of an interview with my literary mentor, it shook some things up in my head. Maybe the lack of real sleep, the pain medication and the long hours of solitary thought contributed to the significance it had taken. But it seemed to bring about some answers in me, and at the same time it also asked a whole new round of questions. Neither can be fully explained here.

The answers deal with fate and with life in general and the random curves it seems to throw at us sometimes. The questions tend to wonder about the same, and about the seemingly innocent paths we choose which invariably lead us to where we were bound to wind up anyway, and the harder we think we are fighting against our destiny, the more we are only hastening it; about random decisions and utterly meaningless moments that only make sense when we look back upon them; about time and space and synchronicity, and how a genius mad man returned twenty years after his death to tell me that all would be okay.