Please enjoy the next step in your spiritual awakening.
Excess Nexus
Pukers puking on pukers.
Over 60,000 chocolate, cinnamon and marshmallow bodies writhing in the late afternoon under the golden glow. The nearby lake is frothing and foaming from the heat their bodies put off.
It’s the biggest orgy of all time, one last blowout giant fuck for mankind. “God has failed us, so this is it. The meteor impacts in 6 hours.”
Some are pulled across by their hair because they like it, others are being dragged by their hair because they’re simply too weak from all the sucking, gumming, riding, ribs with sauce, ribs without sauce, fatty foods, sex machines and trance music heat.
A thousand bodies writhe in mud to a familiar techno beat, shoving pecan pies and cocaine-pot-brownies into mouths, anuses, orifices and anywhere else the imagination can dream to imagine. The Tyrannosaurus Sex pleasure-bots use their tiny hands to pleasure, their mighty tails to clear out space for the battle pits. In the pits, thousands of newly freed federal prisoners are offered a virgin in exchange for the craven slaughter of doves, lambs, mules, ugly horses, beautiful horses, horses that would probably rate a 6 or 7. Some forget about the virgin and take what they can get.
The pyromaniacs light the still-locked-in-coitus nymphomaniacs on fire. 10,000 Maniacs refuse to play their only good song.
The king and queen preside over their filthy subjects, finding that their pleasure does not rely on pecan pies, but defecating on one another while reciting poetry that was never appreciated, never enjoyed by human ears, they chirp the song of the dolphin, sing the song of the whale and croon the graceful manatee.
Russell Brand, Nicole Richie and Richard Dawkins shout to the crowd, one last moment of being loved by strangers before all are beheaded, speaking in tongues as an 8-foot abomination tears their still convulsing corpses apart. A beast man, the DNA of Andre the Giant (for size and power) combined with the chromosomes of Rita Rudner (for insane tenacity) finished destroying the bodies before living out his dream: to dance slow with a girl. The ghost of Anna Nicole appears, mentions that she doesn’t give a fuck, then disappears. The crowd squeals with pleasure. It’s moments to the end.
The surface of the planet erupts. All the scientists observe from their Mars based colony.
That’s what my friend told me, anyway, since I was in the bathroom with an awful case of the shits.
Poemz: Festival of Mi Familia
Weak Nights continues its constant exploration of contemporary Arts & Culture as we introduce our newest video series, Poemz. Please enjoy this first installment, an original piece by Lily Sparks.
Tribes of the Native North Americans
The tribes of North America in 2010 are many and varied. They are here pictured that they may be recognized by the traveler and any encounters made peacefully.
Figure 1: Being the Electric Hudson Valley Tribe. They are proficient in electrics, in the manipulation of circuitry for music and art, on which many of their ceremonies center, mirthless though those ceremonies may be.
Figure 2: Here depicted being one of the Neon Ravers, their tribes numbers are heaviest in coastal areas. They eat the lotus and surrender to extravagant music, share women, trade each other neon beads, and are very amenable and welcoming to foreigners.
Figure 3: A Chieftain of After-Parties, being highly trained in fashion or video-arts. The Chelsea cut and spangled eye patch denote the wealth of the native, who can attend countless nocturnal ceremonies without laboring in the day. Will trade camaraderie for cocaine, demands large tribute of trinkets and swag from worshippers.
Figure 4: The tribal paint of the Juggalo Nation, an impoverished Mid Western tribe that comes together for days of war songs. Despite this seeming aggression they are ultimately benign. They count Faygo as a sacred drink, and do not educate their young.
Figure 5: A portrait of a Masked DJ Priest, who conducts the music machines during ceremonies. The mask allows him to step outside his roles in the tribe and assume the persona of sacred music conduit. He may at his whim give favored devotees mouthfuls of vodka.
Figure 6: Here being a Coachellan or one of many Summer Music Festival Braves. A rich tribe that does a sort of penance by undergoing the ordeals of weather-exposure, dehydration, exhaustion, and living in the wilderness to better break through to music-spirits. In this heightened state, they are highly suggestible and trade their wealth at a high disadvantage to themselves.
Just Figured Out Lady Gaga is Not an X-Men Character
Wait, so Lady Gaga isn’t a comic book character? Dang. Who knew…What? No I heard her name all over the place and I knew all kinds of girls and gay dudes were into her, but I thought she was a fictional member of the X-men or something. Like “Electrica.” Huh? Oh, sorrrrr-yyyy. “Electra.”…of course I know “Electronic–Electra,’s” not part of the X-men. You need to relax brother, I’m not talking about your birth mother here. I thought America was still a free country, but I guess you can’t not pay attention to some pop star and then accidentally mistake her for not a real person without the question police kicking in your door in the middle of the night. Look I got things to do on my own. Hassles that I deal with–and the last thing I need is you coming down on me in defense of some person that you’ll never meet. Do you have any idea how rich that woman is? Here’s a hint, she could buy us both as man slaves if she wanted to. No, I don’t think there’s a “very good chance” of that happening! Well yes, I do suppose in a “futuristic totalitarian wasteland,” where Lady Gaga and “other celebrities” survive devastating world war in a “rich person’s only” underground city, then return to the surface to “conquer and enslave us regular Joes” with “hyper-advanced mind-weapons” there’s a chance of that happening. Well look, I would love to continue this Spanish Inquisition reenactment, but I got better things to do all day then memorize trivia about Lady Gaga. Yeesh.
Hunting My Child
“A page from the memoirs of a man”
Jeremiah’s leg hurt. It was hot and he had been running for hours. He wasn’t running anywhere in particular. He just had to keep moving. The old man on the property would find him otherwise. If he stayed in one place too long, he was a goner. Like the others. His foot caught on an outcropped root sending his mangled figure to the dirt with a thud. Off in the distance, birds sounded. The old man was near. He had to keep moving.
Just then a tiger roared and it was dangerously close to his face. Its eyes charged bright with yellow fire. It wrinkled its nose beneath a shrewd, predator’s gaze. Jeremiah held contact while slowly moving his hand toward the carved up, pointed stick in his waistband. The tiger growled lowly and flexed its shoulder muscles, then lowered its head.
Jeremiah parted his lips, and poured out a softly sung Navajo lullaby: Tee-ah-ha-waaannna me-yip-yip-yee-ti-ha…The tiger cocked its head and whipped its tail spastically. It dug at the ground with its paws and backed up in something similar to a mating ritual. Jeremiah continued, his eyes now shut, raising his voice ..oh-hatta-say-namma-lay-laaallaaa…
The tiger rolled on to its back and exposed its furry, soft stomach. Jeremiah held his carved stick in hand. His fingernails were scummy. A shot rang out and the stick splintered from his grip. The tiger snapped to its feet and growled at Jeremiah, the Navajo lullaby now forgotten.
“I see you’ve met Sasha,” called the old man, decked out in khaki safari garb. He calmly reloaded his elephant musket. “Had her since she was a cub. If there’s an animal more stubborn than the Indian mud-tiger, I’ve not met it.” Sasha purred at his side, nuzzled at his right thigh.
“You win old man. Might as well do me in now.”
“Such sad words, but true nevertheless.” He leveled his elephant gun with Jeremiah’s eyes, pulled back the hammer and squinted. His tongue tip poked out from between his shiny old man lips. Jeremiah tapped into his secret Navajo vocal pitch, silent to humans, heard only by the animals.
“Not so hard my dear sweet Sasha. You’ll have your fill soon enough.” The secret sounds in Jeremiah’s throat thumped into the tiger’s subconscious. Nee-ya-ahahahaana-may-ooooo…
“Your mother was a witch. Good bye, my son—Sasha?” The tiger sank its teeth into the old man’s hip and the bones crunched like wet twigs. “Aaaaaahh!!” blood poured from his gaping wound like dessert sauce and he collapsed to the ground.
The old man made a kissing motion with his lips, an old Slavic belief that if one got injured, repeatedly kissing the air would summon healing wound-angels. Instead Sasha bit off his arm and whipped it around like a chew toy. His kisses became less frequent as the blood drained from his body.
“Well played…old boy.” Jeremiah shooed the tiger away and cradled the old man in his arms. He pet his cheeks, as was custom in the Navajo tradition. Teee-aaah-nahah-sha-sha-sha-ocha-meee. Jeremiah kissed his dying father on each of his open eyes. He brought his own eyelids down to each of the old man’s ear lobes and blinked so as to brush his lashes over the now dead flesh. Kiwan-anahah-sha-sha-sha-ocha…
Weak Nights Local Access: Community Crafts Forum
Art collective/cult MirthFair appears on local access to unveil their newest piece.
Tags: Local Access, Videos
New T-Shirt Combines My Two Favorites Things: Tie-dye and Gandhi
Wow Janet, you really went for it this time didn’t you? We remember how you would always talk about how life worked on “Planet Janet,” but no one ever thought you’d commit those words to your own customized shirt. No, yeah–it looks great. It’s so YOU. The peace sign, the mustard yellow and red tie-dye streaks. The way you managed to make yourself look like a walking head shop. Seriously, what kind of moron still sports the peace sign?
Hey, and what do you know, you put a Gandhi quote on the back of your tie-dye cut off sleeve shirt. I get it. I also get how comic sans is by far the most appropriate font to commemorate a man like Gandhi. Your arms are in such great shape too–for a woman with a really short haircut like yours, this is a really good look. I gotta say, life is starting to sound pretty good on Planet Janet. Gandhi’s change in the world was peace and sacrifice, yours was making a dumb ass tie-dye shirt.
