Untitled Document

A SQuishy Manifesto

by

Mojo IV,

SQuishy BOgSLug

53rd Amongst Equals

If you only commit yourself body and soul to one ideology, make it SQuish.

Be it known that the shades and visions which comprise visceral experience are hereby revoked, made null, and voided. Any connection with certainty, rationality, or Sumeria is best avoided, and that is the general crux of the matter. Did the Chicken cross banjos with the stovepipe children? Did my cancer-stricken geraniums rail against the coming of the summer, when the half-crazed Moon Goblins of Kram-Ned swooped down on the pools of bubbling amino acids which await us all? Are you not malleable, and malignant in your metastery?

Be it known that it is the Ego that rules the roost; a rooster yoked by a vengeful worm. The cocklers had their pistols cocked, petering between thresholds and down shafts. Cynicism will do you no good; Daddy's left us to our own devices. The ancillary compartment nostrils juxtaposed and overthrew your mother's self-inflicted caramel and her unrepentant fudge. Nuts to that!

If you are reading this you already know. You can feel it in the turpentine; smell it in the reds and blues. (A semi-colon -- when a period is too much and a comma is too little) Semi-carnalicious superstars and silly syphilis, can you can the capers kindly? is your donut gaunt and spindly?

Be it known that the Cloak has been pulled from the vault of the sky, pulled by the hole God's fist left. The noonday light exposes the ends of all our forks, and we have nothing left to fear or hide from. And what once sat upon the bedrock of the words "I Am" (conjugating our universal "to be") now sits upon a cacophony of "We Ares", billions of mouths competing for the same nipple. Thousands of threads may comprise a single parachute but under no circumstances should a strand of nylon be allowed to operate a loom.

The yeast and hops drink up our beer and the sheep tend all our farms. Our bacon comes from everything for everything is one giant pig, boasting in its own juices.

At the intersection of misdirection and indecision made lifestyle the strangulated synergy of multiple simplicities evokes the standard shriek of horror. Fly down across the valley and drink from the concrete oceans. Spite your nose in rejection of your face, and lay down the flagellant cantaloupes and virgin homestead diaries.

We resolve to FIGHT this CONSISTANCY.

We resolve to PAINT the VIVID THUNDERCLAPS, and EXPOSE ALIEN UNDERPANTS.

We resolve to dissolve, and flow backward into the fragrance which spawned us.

We resolve to tip 20%.

Yours SQuishily,

Mojo IV, SQuishy BOgSLug

53rd Amongst Equals

ARTICLE I: The nature of reality is Chaos. The entirety of existence is a great, complex, totally interweaving maelstrom of energy and matter. It is only due to the extremely slow rate at which sentient life forms experience time that it appears that anything constructive is actually happening. If you were to perceive reality as Amog the Dolphin God of Assassination does, you would've been done with it all weeks ago and found something more interesting to be doing.

Consider the Mango. Wretched creature. Filled with anger and self-loathing. I can hardly blame them, really; who'd want to have their skin burned off with acid while being forced to watch your mother turned into chutney?

ARTICLE II: You are NOT in your right mind. Your true self is a being of pure energy which exists only in a dimension who's very nature makes it impossible for anyone to perceive it, including and especially YOU. Your complete inability to ever comprehend your true self and nature makes you ideal for corporate management and general skullduggery, but not for Godhood. However, mistakes have been made. Possibly. I'll get back to you on that one.

ARTICLE III: Deviance is not a crime; It is an Art form. To the eyes of this New Earth is left a great canvas which must be filled. Let your perceptual space be a salad and not a casserole. Sword smiths and dry cleaners must strike when the irons are hot, not after the Lego's have been glued together. For more information, consult your local library or socially maladjusted conspiracy theorist.

ARTICLE III.XIV: Space is curved. So are women. Think about it.

ARTICLE IV: Capitalize on your punctual accommodations and predicate your objectives with periodic exclamations and oleander flavored duck. Traitors such as this cannot be, uh, hyphenated, and will be subjected to questioning. You can quote me on that.

ARTICLE V: NO-ONE IS RIGHT. EVERYONE IS WRONG. The only one who might be right is GOD, and from all the snickering I keep hearing from his office I have a feeling he's not going to tell us. Maintain only a strong enough foundation to avoid being swept away; NEVER DAM THE RIVER.

ARTICLE VI: Keep careful track of the Penguins, for they are swift upon the water, and do not give you heartburn like those damn Puffins. Garish helicopters shall light the alleyway to Paradise for all those who grasp ahold of Charley Weaver's annointed feet and spread his toes for all the world to gape and take lurid pictures.

ARTICLE VII: Mike Sterling is the only normal one left. Which is why we made him one of us.

ARTICLE VIII: The Starbucks Corporation has cunningly built all of its coffee houses on the sites of Ley Line Nexus Points, in preparation for their ressurection of the Great Beaver. Some soothsayers suggest Sally Struthers; others offer oodles of outhouse offenders.

ARTICLE IX: Be envious of Discordians, for they know they know not what they do. Find the Sub-Genius and overclock them. The Urantians have a secret casino, thousands of miles beneath the Earth's crust.

ARTICLE X: And I beheld the falling of dog biscuits across the shanty towns of Parrot Burger and Fledging Motor Squirrel. Lo I placed the Salt Barons on hiatus, and smote the anchovies for their apostasy. And there was a great clattering of shells and gnashing of vertebrae; out of the West came blazing sediments and unbridled telephony; In the Nothern realms the butterflies hooked themselves up to car batteries to fill their pupae's metamorphic sleep with nightmares. It was the Mollusks who rose out of the BOg, and brought down the poison gophers and merry widowmakers. It was the PENCILS which OVERTHREW the DRAPES. The Neonatal Intensive Care Units of Malta unsheathed their shiny epidurals at the sight of this Roman Quagmire, this biting statue, this Herculean hopscotch. Crash the beanbags back to the front standard and leave the driving to us.

ARTICLE XI: God is the Big Toe of a computer programmer in Brewster, MS.

ARTICLE XII: The Biting Statute is upheld; Venus D. Milo is hereby charged with equivocation and lechery. And how does she please...? Oh, no, not her. Not the pleasant suicidal ache for the natural aim of projected sack logic. Not the cradle of Western Civilization. Not even a coma. Its the naked sun-devil, soaking up the misery of blame management and the succor of October grape harvests. Grip firmly; Don't choke. Do it properly and you won't have to miss tonight's shame.

ARTICLE XIII: GOD HAS NOT ABANDONED US. He's just not running our lives anymore.

ARTICLE XIV: Look closely. Think. Demonstrate. Repeat. Frame it at that resolution. That's it. Crop three degrees right, drop that second layer, and rotate. Lower your expectations and raise the level of your aspirations, if only because the dinosaurs reject your advances. Take a deep breath. Smile. Put down the gun.

ARTICLE XV: Marcy was a tuned-up pregnant sales associate with talent to burn. On the day she became a walrus, blood ran like a river in the frozen food section. Bernie, the assistant manager, got a promotion. Cherry tomatos were marked down 10% in preparation for Armageddon.

ARTICLE XVI: There is no hope, but there's nothing to fear, either.