Jaye Latest

"Virtually everything in the McHajj story comes from a series of prolonged nightmares I have had with little mediation from my conscious mind. Life long exposure to advertising has caused me severe emotional trauma that has yet to be healed, very similar to what child abuse or growing up in an alcoholic family has done to so many others. The transcriptions of my nightmares that has resulted in the McHajj story remains, to this day, the only way I know how to alleviate the pain of what I have had to endure living in a capital intensive environment."

LNN Lone Nutter News: Mid-Summer Edition

Jaye Beldo

www.lonenutternews.blogspot.com

In This Issue:

Hot Summer/Pipe Line Wars/ A Stab in the Light/Bird Bloopers

Green Man/Earth Angel by Tom Cheetham

Word Origins Interview w/ Professor Anatoly Liberman by Jaye Beldo

*****

Greetings Friends,

The blaze of summer persists, even in the northern climes I'm currently occupying-the heat coming not from a relentless sun and ozone-less skies above, but rather the ever escalating profits oil companies are making while they continue to gut the earth unchecked. Such entropic gluttony shows no signs of fading away-rather, it is celebrated in the carnage of the ongoing pipe line wars masquerading as democratic jihads on 'terrorism'. Fortunately, there has been a much needed, cooling refuge in many of the books I've encountered recently such as Word Origins by Anatoly Liberman, who I recently interviewed for Pulse of the Twin Cities, Green Man/Earth Angel by Tom Cheetham and Love's Alchemy by David and Sabrineh Fideler (my review of their excellent translations of Persian poetry will appear in the Fall edition of Rain Taxi Review of Books). Delving into the heart of Islamic philosophy free of Wahhabi and other forms of menacing fanaticism through such works as The Sufi Path of Knowledge: Ibn al-Arabi's Metaphysics of Imagination by William C. Chittick has also proved to be a welcome respite from all the madness originating these days in the Middle East, although a recent encounter with The Approach of Armageddon? An Islamic Perspective by Shaykh Muhammad Hisham Kabbani was rather sobering in an end-time kind of way. Check out what he has to say about the esoteric significance of the coccyx from a Koranic perspective. Phew! This stuff can only be assimilated in minute doses unless you want to fry your Sufic neuro-circuits. Chanting La Illaha Ill Allah thousands of times throughout the day certainly helps prepare one for the intensity of this book. (available from: www.islamicsupremecouncil.org )

A Stab in the Light, my New Age murder mystery/thinly veiled MK autobiography seems to have stirred up the pot as well, even in the beginning phases of my attempts to market the thing in a roll-your-own publicity kind of way. One reader in South Africa sent me a series of dreams that she had while reading the novel, which is intriguing because I encoded many similar kinds of dreams that I was having into A Stab in the Light, dreams I suspect originated from the astral manipulations of negative occult sources, specifically from a debile, fugitive Chaos magician, a Golden Dawn Flunky who should really be acting his bald headed age these days instead of his sperm count considering how impotent his 'magick' really is. She seems to have immediately picked up on the real intent behind my writing of the novel in the first place: to expose the invisible forces at work in New Age ascencionist/Mind Control cults and elsewhere. Another reader claims to have experienced this 'blue electricity' shocking up through her arms when she picked it up for the first time and detected an entity that tried to prevent her from reading it, primarily by infecting her sinuses for about a week. My intuitive guess is that it was indeed an entity associated with the dark forces currently controlling the New Age and which also I tried to expose in the novel through various graphic and entertaining depictions. Another reader gave a copy of Stab to a young fashion model he was (is?) pursuing in hopes that it would prevent her from becoming a lesbian (I'm rather hard on feminist misandrists in the novel, putting it mildly). I haven't heard back from him on the results yet but I am certainly rooting for him as it would be a shame to see such a stunning beauty heading south wards in the sexuality department, at least if you were a guy.

Apparently, I've been deemed a 'Conspiracy Geek' in the August 2006 issue of Paranoia now on the stands, along with others like a crucified Adam Gorightly, Frank Berube, Mark Owen and Andy Lloyd sporting a truly geek looking hooded jacket. I suppose being a Conspiracy Geek is actually an honor considering the company I'm in, but I'm going to be careful of bragging about such a thing for now. This to Kenn Thomas (who also is included in the Geek article): Is that your Cialis saturated banana in the photo? I hope not....for the Civet Cat's sake.

And speaking of animals, please read the article on Animals, The Oversoul and Predicting Castrophes (sp?) in the same issue of Paranoia. It will remind you of just how intelligent critters are when it comes to picking up on disaster vibes and what we humans still need to learn from them at this late phase in the game. I'd like to see more of these kinds of articles in Paranoia, in hopes to reduce the level of fear pervading our world.

And now for a humourous, flighty and light hearted coda to this LNN intro: I recently joined a birders e-list as I've taken great interest in the profusion of avian life where I live-everything from Pheasant families to Ospreys marauding the waves of a nearby kettle lake. People started posting their 'bloopers', i.e. mis-sightings of birds-mistaking everything from plastic bags and snow covered garbage cans for actual birds. After reading about twenty of these bloopers, I grew restless and I posted the following to the list: Nothing can top Dick Cheney mistaking a lawyer for a quail. I actually received some encouraging replies from list members, reminding me that not everyone is a brain dead republican in the state where I live :)!

All the Best,

Jaye Beldo Lone Nutter News www.lonenutternews.blogspot.com

www.stabinthelight.com

Green Man, Earth Angel By Tom Cheetham

It seems to be a rather taboo topic these days to critically scrutinize the works of Carl Jung and their overall shortcomings, especially in regards to his so called 'empirical' approach to the unconscious and what appears, in retrospect, to be an intentional muddying of the dichotomies between soul and spirit. A suspiciously gushing homage such as the kind James Hillman offers in Thoughts of the Heart , a title he pilfered from the Sufis, also has done nothing for the furtherance of critical inquiry considering how he underhandedly attempts to get the reader to equate the French Islamic scholar Henry Corbin with Jung and Freud as somehow being on the same level of spiritual evolvement and sophistication. Considering how Jungian psychologists such as Hillman have virtually colonized the archetypes themselves, clients/patients are prevented from truly individuating on their own and developing any lasting autonomy free of a therapist. Fortunately, in Green Man, Earth Angel the author establishes Corbin as something other than a mere curio of Orientalism as most Jungians still regard him as, rather more as a profoundly important, original and independently viable scholar who has kept Islamic philosophy and archetypal psychology as well, at least in its originally unadulterated form, intact. Cheetham deftly clarifies Corbin's take on angelogy, theophany and other neglected or misunderstood topics in a way that will further one's appreciation of Islamic and Christian mysticism as feasible venues for spiritual and psychological development. The author helps to elucidate some of the more subtle points in Corbin's oeuvre in regards to what is called the 'black light' , a kind of radiant darkness that differs from the darkness of unconsciousness considering that it is a source of illumination, a realm in which one can meditate upon and gain entry into, if they are sufficiently prepared for the experience. Cheetham emphasizes that this light can fully connect us with the consciousness of the universe, a realm which exists in all of us and which has been perhaps deliberately neglected by Jungians and others who want to posit that this realm as something unknown, impossible for westerners to fully understand (which is a perfect prelude to the above mentioned colonization and dogmatic control of the archetypes) since spirit and soul are so hopelessly intertwined and dimmed in this realm. As stated in the excellent forward by Robert Sardello, the black light is something actually transcendent and yet palpable. It is time that occidentals integrate this light and orient themselves away beyond from the limiting definitions found in Jungian psychology and the apocalyptic assumptions found in many western philosophies and religions. Green Man, Earth Angel is highly recommend for anyone who is unfamiliar with not only Corbin's vast corpus but the subtleties of Christian mysticism and the importance of counterbalancing the fundamentalist drive towards endgame annihilation in both its Christian and Islamic forms.

Available from: www.sunypress.edu

Also highly recommended:

The World Turned Inside Out: Henry Corbin and Islamic Mysticism by Tom Cheetham

***** Henceforth, being googled is bootylicious—just ask Professor Anatoly

by Jaye Beldo

Anatoly Liberman, an internationally acclaimed linguistics professor at the University of Minnesota recently had his book “Word Origins... and How We Know Them” published by Oxford University Press as a kind of respite from a more extensive project, a multivolume etymological dictionary of English, which he has been patiently compiling over the last 20 years. “Word Origins” is chock full of intriguing, accessible insights into how our language has evolved, mutated and otherwise morphed over thousands of years. Recently Pulse interviewed the professor on the current status of language in the electronic age.

Pulse: What do you think will happen to language with the invention of the internet—specifically Google, text and instant messaging?

Anatoly: I don’t think language will undergo any radical changes. New words dealing with search processes have appeared and will keep appearing, but people will go on speaking as they have always done. Changes have occurred in some of our habits rather than in language. For example, most young people use only the online versions of great dictionaries, such as the OED and Webster, but thanks to the introduction of Google even such reference tools are no longer necessary: One can type in a word, add DEFINITION, and find out what the word means. The introduction of e-mail has changed somewhat the reliability of the latest written documents for linguists. Private letters tell us something about the latest trends in the informal ways of expression, but most people do not reread what they send their correspondents by e-mail and make countless mistakes that reflect only their careless writing. The unusual forms one encounters in e-mails are thus of little value for a linguist—They are mere typos. On the other hand, computers are equipped with spell checkers, so that the glaring illiteracy of many people is no longer so obvious.

Pulse: I’ve read reports from English teachers saying that their students are handing in essays that are written in chat room shorthand, i.e., C U L8R for See you later, and other forms of abbreviation used in text messaging. Isn’t this a form of mutation that could have dangerous consequences in the future?

Anatoly: Yes, I have seen such sentences too. The sign @ is especially popular (“See you @ dinner,” “We have a beautiful black c@,” and the like). But first of all, this playful nonsense affects only written English: AT and CAT are still pronounced as they have always been! Second, this type of writing seems to be confined to young adolescents who would like to sound funny but cannot think of a good joke. People grow out of such habits as they grow out of adolescent slang, which may sound “cool” @ 12 or even @ 15, but hardly later. Language is a garden. Nature and nurture exercise their influence on it. It grows “wildly,” but the gardener removes the weeds.

What forms should be classified with language weeds and who deserves the title of a gardener is a matter of opinion. Language users fight editors and teachers with great success, but maturity brings the realization of the fact that culture is worth acquiring and that jokes should not be silly. So I would not lose a minute of sleep over the sentences you cite, though I would not accept an essay written in this type of shorthand. Why should I consume wild oats even if others get no indigestion from them?

Pulse: Does it concern you that “google” has made it into the OED [Oxford English Dictionary]? Also “bootylicious,” a word with an etymology not very hard to trace considering it originates from a Hollywood singer that goes by the name of Beyonce.

Anatoly: Not really. This is a perennial problem. Lexicographers always fill dictionaries with obstructive rubbish. For nearly two centuries reviewers have been saying that words occurring only once in a work of some author, coinages whose sole aim is to make people laugh, hopelessly antiquated words, and so forth should not clutter dictionaries. Vulgar words had been avoided as a matter of course until our enlightened age made it clear that if the whole world knows a certain verb beginning with an f, it is silly for dictionary makers to ignore it. I think everything depends on the prospective user. The OED tries to be all-inclusive. Naturally, thousands of words stay out even of this mammoth reference work (countless technical terms and regional words, tons of slang, and the like), but, on the whole, it is a faithful transcript of the history of English vocabulary. Words universally known today may be forgotten in a few decades (one example is the names of the medications that are no longer used). I can well imagine that a new search machine will make the word google as antiquated as castor oil that was used in my childhood to cure indigestion. Future English-speakers will ask one another what is google, and no one will remember, because collective memory is amazingly short. My students do not understand the slang of the ’70s, and their parents do not understand contemporary slang. Anyone who reads “Oliver Twist” is puzzled by the thieves’ language that must have been clear to the Londoners of Dickens’ days. It may be a pity to feature bootylicious words that should not have been born. At one time BRUNCH aroused the wrath of highbrows—you may read about it in my book—but since they are there anyway, let them be recorded. ||

*****

Jaye Beldo writes for Paranoia Magazine, Pulse of the Twin Cities and has appeared on dozens of radio stations around the world such as BBC London, WGN Chicago and the Howard Stern Show. He can be reached at: Lonenutter@Aol.Com To order A Stab in the Light, go to: www.stabinthelightlcom

Lone Nutter News LNN Memorial Day Edition by

Jaye Beldo

Lonenutter@aol.com

In This Issue:

X-Zone: An Intuitive Perspective

The Anatomy of Evil in Our Time by Adam Michaelis

Political Ponerology by Andrew M. Lobaczewski

The Passion Code

Greetings LNN Reader,

While taking a morning jaunt on my bike to kick off the Memorial Day weekend, I could see all of the Iraq war dead floating around in the ethers above America, looking for some honorable means of discharge into higher,war free worlds, only to bounce off the oily cover of chem trails and HAARP generated scalar waves which deliberately prevented their escape. My spiritual guides revealed to me that General Hayden, with his oddly impish grin, plans to use some form of Golem technology now being concocted by his occult buddies at the Pentagon to insert these forlorn souls into the blow molded bodies of young and upcoming soldier mutants who will be promptly shipped off to the Middle East for deployment. Perhaps this is the real reason Hayden is now the director of the CIA since only he knows how to read the encrypted Yiddish incantations required to animate the soldiers into action once they hit the front lines. All of this may be old Yarmulke to some of you, but I do suggest opening your third eyes to take in the gruesome splendor of this hostage crises now playing in an astral plane near you.

And for those of you who just want to escape from family barbeques and garage sales this weekend, I offer you the latest edition of Lone Nutter News to while away your holiday with.

All the Best,

Jaye Beldo

*****

X-Zone: An Intuitive Perspective by

Jaye Beldo

On May 16th I appeared on Rob McConnell's X-Zone broadcast, an internationally syndicated affair that pervades the air waves in Canada, the Caribbean, South America , the U.S. and elsewhere. Since this was my first time doing a late night radio stint, I didn't quite know what to expect, so in order to counteract any possible weirdness, I drew the Eagle out of the Medicine Card deck and concentrated its Sagittarian energies into the broadcast medium during the hour or so that I was on the program.

As I infused the raptor's energy throughout the broadcast ether, the topics discussed ranged from how I dealt with Howard Stern's vampires while on the air with him, my novel A Stab in the Light recently published by Red Pill Press, and how I overcame alcoholism through psychic/intuitive development. All throughout, I found myself having to deal with the host's mechanical delivering of questions and subsequent interruptions which occurred just as I was about to make a point, or get to the crux of an argument. I've experienced this with other talk show hosts in the past and it appears to be an unconscious reaction mechanism to discourage any significant dialogue that can evolve and broaden a listener's perspective on things in a substantial way. What really threw me for a strange loop was when Rob cut me off as I was narrating a story about a trip to Northern India I had taken and where I met this so called spiritual aspirant who announced to the group that he was enlightened and wanted to go to Calcutta where 'they burn egos in big black pits'. Rob warned me to 'watch my language' and that the X-Zone was a 'family oriented program' thus derailing my synapses, preventing me from relaying to the audience the punch line to the Calcutta bound traveler which was: "Do you think you'll be able to find a pit big enough for your ego?" I found myself fast forwarding to when the guy offered to employ me as a writer for his lucrative phone sex business a few years later. Perhaps we should have talked more about the pictures of depleted uranium deformed babies that Rob has splashed all over his website-a form of overtly sadistic pornography IMHO. I guess that would have been more family friendly especially during that hour of the night when most kids are sleeping-at least in the western hemisphere. Many listeners have e-mailed me with comments on this bizarre interruption which really made no sense whatsoever on the level of rationality anyway. Perhaps he thought I said a forbidden word that rhymes with 'pit' although the seven second delay mechanism radio stations use would have bleeped that out. Very strange indeed.

Even stranger, was the intense psychic fallout afterwards, which most likely came from astral goons policing the psychic parabolic dish created by the focused attention of the listeners. It felt like I had been subjected to some sophisticated form of mind control even more sinister than the kind usually found in Clear Channel venues, which targets anyone who threatens to pull listeners out of the kind of dreadful, suspended animation which renders them passive and paranoid while listening to programs such as X-Zone. Now that I've got a better bead on this kind of occult manipulation, I think I'll be able to hold my ground more sufficiently in the future when doing gigs like this. This also applies to listeners of these programs as well-so make sure to pay attention to the manipulations of your subtle body so you can prevent yourself from falling into the collective mindset of morbid fascination, bewilderment when listening to twilight radio shows. If not that, then draw a card out of the medicine deck like the Coyote or Owl or perhaps even the Lynx , beam its energies into the matrix of the broadcast and see what happens.

*****

The Anatomy of Evil in Our Time

Adam Michaelis

It is rare to come across a book which describes the manipulations of the subtle body in a soundly objective way. Yet, in The Anatomy of Evil in Our Time we are offered much useful information in regards to how our aura and chakras can be distorted to cause us to become more susceptible to the whims of whoever/ whatever desires to control us. Remaining ignorant of these underhanded methods causes us to surrender our abilities to think/feel independently as well as to sacrifice our very 'I-nes' to evil. The author, a survivor of a corrupt Tibetan Buddhist cult shows how he aligned himself with the esoteric Christ (via Rudolf Steiner´s Anthroposophy) and managed to heal and break free from a fraudulent guru´s control of his energy body and mind as well. He demonstrates throughout how he did this, primarily by paying close attention to his emotions and warnings from his unconscious mind through a series of quite vivid dreams. More importantly, he writes about himself in the third person which further enables us (and Adam) to view what happened with some degree of disengagement, truly a necessary prerequisite if one wants to liberate themselves from subtle entanglements that are difficult to discern, let alone express.

While I found his exposé to be quite enlightening in regards to the many ways that evil can infiltrate our lives undetected, at times Michealis tends to posit this dichotomy between eastern and western religions, equating the former with evil throughout. Adam does emphasize the differences between various lineages such as Mahayana, Vajrayana, et. al., but perhaps should have stressed that, overall, it was Buddhism as brought to the west through such vectors as Theosophy that contributed to its inevitable corruption and cooptation by dark forces in this reviewer´s opinion. I make this point only because I spent time with Tibetan Buddhists in Northern India and they did not come across as being evil or manipulative at all. In fact they were some of the happiest people I’ve ever met-at least in some of the more remote monasteries I visited in Ladahk and Zanskar. Perhaps, this may have been an exception considering Tibetan Buddhism’s involvement with magic (having evolved out of the Bon-Po religion), fallen Lamas such as Chogyam Rinpoche and the Dalai Lama´s current posing as the Buddhist pope.

At times I thought the author dwelled for too long and in too great of detail on the manipulations of his own subtle body by the cult leader, keeping in mind that this kind of prolonged fixation could be yet another Luciferic/Ahrimanic trapping, i.e., to entice someone to perpetually figure out what is going on and further deplete them of energy since no real resolution can ever be made except at the level of the heart and not the intellect. Yet, I found the author’s insights to be quite refreshing, profound and inspiring as well. Not many people have the gifts that Adam Michaelis possesses in terms of overall awareness of invisible influences and an ability to objectify/analyze them as well as to effectively articulate them. There are many genuinely insightful observations that make this a highly valuable book to read and thoroughly study. In fact, I would call it an essential spiritual survival manual for our times.

Michaelis ends The Anatomy of Evil in Our Time on a strong note with an impressive argument on par with the theologian Paul Tillich, defending the Christian virtues of faith, hope and charity as the best things that we can ally ourselves with, contrasting this with the overall negation of life (and soul) found in Buddhist philosophy. Frankly, I was expecting some kind of pessimistic finale but found myself quite moved by his line of reasoning, indicating the validity and substance of a deep connection to the esoteric Christ and how aligning with this force is perhaps one of the best ways to overcome the encroachments of Lucifer/Ahriman, Sorath and other forms of evil in our time. For anyone interested in how cult control is maintained on the level of the subtle body, whether it be through Tibetan Buddhism, Scientology or the latest doomsday cult, I would most recommend The Anatomy of Evil in Our Time. Reading this work will bring forth latent powers of perception within you that you will most benefit from for a long time to come in a protective and liberating kind of way.

check out Adam's website at: http://www.sitecenter.dk/adam-michaelis/looks/sitemap.nhtml

Political Ponerology: A science on the nature of evil adjusted for political purposes

Andrew M. Lobaczewski

What is ponerology? According to some definitions, it means the study of evil, as it is related to the Greek word poneros or 'one whose mind tends towards evil'. The author, a clinical psychologist who endured years of living in communist Poland makes sure to emphasize throughout Political Ponerology that it is a scientific and not a theological approach to evil that he is developing. He certainly had many opportunities to do his field work in this area, having suffered amidst what he calls 'pathocrats', i.e., those who instinctually subscribe to delusional thinking and occupy positions of prominence in governmental, corporate as well as military theaters. The author himself was subjected to having been arrested and interrogated several times throughout his career and even managed to question the secret police themselves, who admitted that they suffered some form of mental debility which enabled them to follow orders without questioning them. In one incident, Lobaczewski had to burn the only existing draft of Political Ponerology just prior to the secret police busting into his laboratory in search of subversive and potentially incendiary works. Many years later, a revised edition of his book was suppressed by the likes of Zbigniew Brezenski during the b-movie pathocrat Ronald Reagan's presidency.

The author throughout Political Ponerology emphasizes that this pioneering science can be effectively used to perceive evil without succumbing to its powers, even to trace its very etiology. As I read this unusually original work, I kept getting the feeling that evil could actually be perceived on the biological level. I even strongly suspect that there are actual ponerological viruses that would take something like a Royal Rife microscope to recognize, viruses that perhaps emerge through some kind of sub quantum back door and then take over the cellular body of the host undetected. These viruses could very well cause the lesions in the frontal areas of the cerebral cortexes in the brains of such pathocrats as Stalin and Hitler, lesions which enabled these tyrants to kill millions of people with nary a pang of conscience. Whether I was tapping into some vital imaginal realm or not, I found reading Political Ponerology to be most inspiring in terms of developing a protective perspective in regards to the dynamics of evil. While some passages in Political Ponerology are initially hard to grasp, primarily because of their abstract nature, Lobaczewski does provide some tangible examples from his life under communist rule to back up his innovative and heretical ideas. As an example, a pathocrat was introduced as a 'faculty' member in the school that he was attending, one who inevitably infected a considerable percentage of the student body with his rabid ideology. Fortunately, the author charted out the various stages of this mass infection with the critical and objective thinking of a scientist, employing a kind of point of view that enabled him to soundly resist ponreological indoctrination and keep his sanity and humaneness intact. Developing such acumen to perceive the various stages of evil's infiltration and takeover of a host is crucial to our mental health and the author offers us ways in which this can be done with our current pathological leaders such as George W. Bush, Dick Cheney and Alberto Gonzales to name a few. When Political Ponerology is approached with a willingness to further understand evil and a desire to increase ones ability to ward it off, it will become quickly self evident just how important and vanguard this work really is. The science that the author so effectively describes demands to be incorporated into university curriculums (esp. in business, psychology and political science departments ) since it encourages heightening ones perceptions of how evil cloaks its presence, perhaps virally and spreads en masse. Political Ponerology is profoundly inspiring in regards to deepening our understanding the dynamics of evil and how it infects not only our leaders, but the billions of 'true believers' unconsciously following orders as well.

Available from: www.redpillpress.com

Also check out the Signs of the Times blog: http://www.cassiopaea.org/cass/political_ponerology_lobaczewski.htm

The Passion Code: Second Coming to a Theater Near You by

Jaye Beldo

The other night I dreamed that Mel Gibson and Ron Howard aka Opie collaborated on a summer blockbuster called The Passion Code to be released on June 6th, 2006. In it, a crucified bachelor Jesus takes on a Married-with-Children Jesus clone in a 120 minute battle royal on par with the kind of knock down, drag out fights usually found in Godzilla vs. Mothra movies. The crucified Jesus's cross, fastened to a kind of armored vehicle with tank treads and jet wings on it was remote controlled by his disciples who attempted to shoot Mr. and Mrs. Christ and their holy yard apes who attempted to flee to Southern France and establish the Merovingian dynasty. The family man Christ countered the attacks of the crucified one by Kung Fu-ing his obviously immortal enemy into submission somewhere near the friendly confines of Rennes le Chateau. An abundance of Hollywood formula was thrown into the mix: a topless Mary Magdalene drove her hubby all the way to Vatican square in a blood red Hummer convertible, but not before a few sultry back seat sex scenes along the way (Jesus demonstrated to her all the Kama Sutra tricks he learned while sojourning through India during his 'missing years'). All the while, single/dead /risen Jesus teleported above them, venting his sexual frustration doing barrel rolls and other aerial tricks on his cross that would have made air show pilots envious. In a rather grueling second act, Christ Dad leaves his kids with Mary, goes to Mecca and translates the entire Koran into Aramaic in one fell swoop and sends it back into the B.C.E. past and directly into the brittle subtext of the Dead Sea scrolls where it would later be….well….decoded by some Hollywood bound author. Prior to waking up, I did get a glimpse of the film's coda: The winner of this action packed, messianic mêlée would be dressed up like Osama bin Laden, get a seat on the Supreme Court of Israel and would then invite the Bush family to his 'last supper', no doubt to be shown in full in the inevitable sequel to The Passion Code.

Stay tuned for further dream developments.

***** Jaye Beldo writes for Paranoia Magazine, Magical Blend and Pulse of the Twin Cities. He has appeared on BBC and Capitol Radio London, WGN Chicago and The Howard Stern show. He is the author of the New Age Murder mystery A Stab in the Light available at: www.redpillpress.com and can be reached at Lonenutter@aol.com or www.lonenutternews.blogspot.com

Lone Nutter News LNN Spring Equinox Edition

Jaye Beldo Lonenutter@aol.com

In This Issue:

2012: The Return of Quetzacoatl by Daniel Pinchbeck

Secrets of the Holy Lance by Jerry E. Smith and George Piccard

***** Greetings Readers,

Here's the spring time edition of LNN, resonant with the energies of Aries, a much welcome fire sign indeed after such a maudlin and watery travail through maternally lamenting Pisces. And with the arrival of spring, perhaps some actual hope will appear on a horizon far too clouded by the criminal transgressions of the Bush administration who are appearing more and more like toddlers unable to think their way out of their own playpen. Maybe I shouldn't complain about what is happening in America, but rather go out and buy Deepak Chopra's new meditation machine which surely will zap subversive thoughts out of my head, kind of like the device used in the movie Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind to erase all memories of bad relationships. Or perhaps I should become a card carrying member of the Transhumanist movement, first by having myself injected with a Verichip, then shamanically journeying into the depths of its nano-circuitry prior to some altruistic, videotaped immolation outside of Homeland Security headquarters. Neither option is too appealing at the moment sorry to say, so I have transcended the collective apathy/angst pervading our land, proof of which is right here, in another uplifting edition of Lone Nutter News. The next issue will appear on the summer solstice, in my on going attempt to reconnect with the earth and its imperiled cycles.

Best,

Jaye Beldo Lonenutter@Aol.Com

P.S. Check out the article on chem trails I wrote and was published in Pulse of the Twin Cities at: http://pulsetc.com/article.php?sid=2348 Many thanks to Pulse editor Sid Pranke for having the courage to defy the 'no tell' policy of corporate media and run the piece.

***** 2012: The Return of Quetzalcoatl

by Daniel Pinchbeck

Blasting one's brain open with hallucinogens is dangerous business these days. Unlike the sixties when there was less interference as one crossed dimensional boundaries, today's venturer into the psychedelic unknown is faced with a perilous gauntlet ranging from encounters with negative ETs, unsettling insights into the deeper aspects of the Matrix, to more down to earth problems such as the sheer illegality of most mind altering substances. However, Daniel Pinchbeck, armed with the street wisdom of a native New Yorker, faced head on these hazards on many levels and has thrived sufficiently enough to write about them in his appealing entheologue 2012: The Return of Quetzalcoatl. From initiatory Iboga trips in Gabon, Africa, dabblings in DMT and the little known DPT, to participating in rituals found in the syncretic Daime religion in South America, the author pulls off a remarkable feat of interweaving autobiography with the deep and pervading transformations currently underway, collectively speaking. It is as if the author has already acclimatized, with rare foresight and openness, to the shift that 2012 promises, where many claim that time will somehow end and corrupt power structures dissipate, all by the winter solstice of that year. However, Daniel is careful not to buy into the myriads of illusory belief systems he writes about and that is what makes his book attractively novel for halluci-nauts as well as the more pedestrian of seekers amongst us. Most commendable, in this reviewer's opinion, is Pinchbeck's refusal to get enamored by the various personages he interacts with. As an example, he resists the calendrical charisma of Jose Arguelles and provides us with a thoroughly rational appraisal of the shortcomings of his 13 moon agenda which the purveyor of Harmonic Convergence day claims is the only thing that will save our planet. Pinchbeck also makes a sobering assessment of the Burning Man festival, quick to see the darkness and dysfunction within such a 'celebratory' venue, especially by participants who have no interest whatsoever in respecting indigenous spirituality. Anyone who can survive crop circle hopping in England without getting programmed, sit in on conferences where the likes of disinformants like Dolores Cannon, author of The Custodians speak, obviously has a kind of urbane, post modern toughness which is most attractive considering the otherwise wayward and seductive fields the author has chosen to explore. But Pinchbeck isn't an armored coated skeptic at all times. He risks making himself quite vulnerable through his trips, a commendable thing these days, considering how defensive and terminally bunged people are now. He doesn't shy away from telling us how he imperiled his own family, which seems to have suffered from his solo experimentations that required frequent travel to exotic locales filled with alluring and temptingly trans-dimensional players. He articulates deep insights, garnered during his trips, into parental conditioning by sketching his upbringing into the mix: his father was an embittered and alienated artist exiled in a loft in So-Ho in the fifties and sixties, his mother, a beatnik intellectual who once dated Jack Kerouac. Throughout his book, one gets the impression that he is quite sincere in his inner quests and is not packaging some formula to sell us. He aptly quotes the philosopher Jean Geber:

"All work, the genuine work which we must achieve, is that which is most difficult and painful: the work on ourselves. If we do not freely take upon ourselves this pre-acceptance of the pain and torment, they will be visited upon us in an otherwise necessary individual and universal collapse. Anyone disassociated from his origin and his spiritually sensed task acts against origin. Anyone who acts against it has neither a today nor a tomorrow."

2012: The Return of Quetzalcoatl should emerge at the forefront in the world of entheogenic literature, considering its fine balance of trip description, the willing suspension of belief and the reconciling thread of hope the author shares with us not only through his unpremeditated channeling of such eminences as Quetzalcoatl himself who indeed has promised to return, but through his own intimate and at time trying experiences when confronting the numinous. Pinchbeck offers us an anticipation of better things, but does not try to blot out the more dire scenarios forecasted with the sugar frosting of New Age clichés and other forms of verbal uplift.

Check out: www.breakingopenthehead.com

*****

Secrets of the Holy Lance:

The Spear of Destiny in History & Legend by Jerry E. Smith and George Piccard

It is an axiom of magic that anyone attempting a major power grab can tip the odds in their favor if they possess some resonantly archetypal object upon which to concentrate their intent. If enough dread and fascination can be evoked in the enemy through an amulet or talisman, victory, whether in the boardroom, battlefield or campaign trail, becomes inevitable. The lance that was used to pierce Christ as he hung on the cross is one such coveted item. Jesus's blood, which flowed from the wound just below his heart, somehow supercharged the weapon that the Roman centurion Longinus used to pierce him, infusing it with a dreadful, plasmatic numinosity. Afterwards, this reliquary capacitor was employed by the likes of Constantine, Charlemagne, Barbarossa and even Attila the Hun in their quests for supremacy and control.

The spear's obvious potency and the consequences of its possession by some of history's heaviest of hitters are engagingly described in Secrets of the Holy Lance: The Spear of Destiny in History and Legend. The authors Jerry E. Smith and George Picard push the possibility that it indeed has influenced everything from religious conversion, victory in war and even quantum physics which they use to parallel some of the spear's supernatural dynamics. Considering the world wrecking deeds done by the spear's last official beholder, Adolph Hitler, it may very well radiate some kind supernatural nimbus that entranced him and many others into committing unspeakable acts.

Secrets of the Holy Lance sports a nice balance between historical exposition and speculation as to what the talisman really entails. In the opening chapter, an eerie travelogue with great cinematic potential, describes the Hartmann expedition to ‘Station 211’ in Antarctica, the secret Nazi underground base which housed many Third Reich treasures and possibly the lance itself. In a later chapter, we are taken into the realms of pre-history where the authors posit that the spear was originally forged by the blacksmith Tubal-Cain, making intriguing, primordial connections with some of the ‘memory‘ metals that the military has recently developed, metals that are capable of snapping back to their original forms no matter how they are manipulated (and are possibly used in the construction of UFOs). Then we are taken right into the nightmare crux of World War II and the possession of the lance by the SS who then used it to evoke Ahrimanic powers in attempt to realize the Thousand Year Reich. Perhaps the lance was used to open up demonic vortexes that even the Nazis couldn't control, hence their downfall. The authors observe: "Is it but a cruel irony that this relic of the Passion became the scepter of conquerors? We are left to ask how and why the instrument of St. Longinus' compassion became the obsession of men who were devoid of humanity? What cursed object is this Spear?"

While the Heilige Lanze supposedly rests in the Hoffburg Palace in Vienna at present, the authors remind us of the very likely possibility that a mere replica of the spear is currently ogled by thousands of unaware tourists, while the real thing perhaps rests in the sweaty, palpitating hands of a once and future tyrant. Could it be George W. Bush that is currently brandishing the lance? Would he even know what to do with such a potentially malefic amulet? Submitting to its overwhelming power, he would probably get on his hands and knees, begging Jeff Gannon to wear it as a Strap-On during one of their ultra private press conferences. Or perhaps Karl Rove is being instructed on how to point it at the 2012 Stargate about to open up, in attempt to sabotage its universally transformative potentials. Regardless of who or what now has possession of Longinus’s spear, Secrets of the Holy Lance is sure to fire up your apocalyptic imagination sufficiently enough to illuminate your own paths into futures unknown.

Available at: www.adventuresunlimitedpress.com

***** Jaye Beldo writes for Disinfo.Com, the Konformist, Paranoia Magazine and Pulse of the Twin Cities. He has discussed his work on BBC Radio London, WGN Radio Chicago and the Howard Stern show. He can be reached at: Lonenutter@Aol.Com

The Christ Conspiracy

Review by

Jaye Beldo

"I take great glee in telling the truth." Acharya S. author of 'The Christ Conspiracy: The Greatest Story ever Sold' told me. In her controversial tome, she claims that Jesus Christ never existed, that the God Man/Man God was simply a bit of stagecraft caprice, a mere fabrication of the Roman Aristocracy to keep the unwashed masses down as well as out for the count of their long lasting reign. She surely provides an impressive smorgasbord of erudite evidence supporting her claim to the truth. A scan of the book's bibliography which includes such amazing oddities as Anacalypsis by Godfrey Higgins as well as the works of GRS Mead and Sir James Frazer will prove that. But aside from her obviously fecund and thorough scholarship to back up her forensic claim, what exactly is the truth she is so sure of conveying to us?

I suggest, to counter her stake in an ultimate Christ Hoax where the Lamb of God's wool has been pulled over our eyes for the last 2K years, is that if Jesus was indeed a mere fabrication, we should then give profound thanks to the fabricators and not despise them as cavalier perpetrators of a great lie. No, we should not thank them for the institutionalized horrors that 'Christ-Insanity' has generated over the centuries, such as the Catholic Church and its inhumane inquisitions, but rather for the wily hatchers's profoundly brilliant if not deliciously nefarious imaginations. I don't think Acharya realizes what it would take to create such a story in the first place. I doubt that you or I could ever conjure up such a tale, even on our best tall tale day out on the back porch with a pint of whiskey, a two by four and a whittling knife. It would take one hell of a sophisticated imagination to pull the Christ story out of the air of heaven, let alone to disseminate the information in a convincing way and make it seem so dramatically real. If it really was that they indeed pulled off the Jesus con, then Kyrie Kudos to those crooks!

One need only to appreciate the art, music, poetry and literature that the Christ Mythos has generated over the centuries ranging from Bach's 'Jesu: The Joy of Man's Desiring' to El Greco's 'Assumption of the Virgin' to the vibrant Byzantine Mosaics to the breathless grandeur of 12th C. French Cathedrals. One need only to meditate for a few quiet moments on Leonardo's St. Ann and his tormentors or even Holbein's stark cartoon The Body of the Dead Christ in the Tomb. How about considering the little shop of horrors found in the visions of Colette of Corbie, the 15 C. Fransican reformer, where Christ appeared to her as a dish of 'carved-up flesh like that of a child.' (see this described in the work 'The Female body and Religious Practice in the Later Middle Ages' by Caroline Walker Bynum in ZONE Fragments for a History of the Human body Part One) God, without the Christ, we wouldn't have Frank Zappa's song, St. Alfonso's Pancake Breakfast! Without the Christ cozenage, we would have virtually none of these masterpieces of art,vision and parody. History, as well as our hearts, would be pretty barren places without them.

No mere conspirators bent on world control could inspire artists, poets, troubadours, bards and musicians for so many centuries if there wasn't something so catalytically spiritual in the Christ Mythos itself. Perhaps this is the pearl of irony that has been hidden away for so long and thanks to Acharya's efforts has now come out. I suggest that a little bit of light, something spiritually genuine, purely inspired, came out of these Imperial damage control dispatches Archaya convincingly describes and miraculously insinuated itself into the official storyline like the descent of the Dove into the lord at the Baptism of Jesus himself.

No cabal could compel people aspiring to love and freedom to align themselves to the Christ archetype in so many astonishingly strange and esoteric ways and risk facing persecution by the official church. No Tyrant spin doctors could have created such things as charity, forgiveness, the ability to ward off evil, the desire to help others if the light hadn't escaped through the chink in their propaganda armor to not only expose them but to benignly betray them as being highly vulnerable to their own game. I sense that these apocalyptic engineers will someday resurrect if not liberate themselves if we let them simply by acknowledging the favors they have unintentionally given us. I already see the ascent of the PR thugs at Hill and Knowlton and other lie agencies into the love and light of eternity.

Perhaps Acharya will someday set aside her totalizing polemic against the Christ myth and consider the esoteric dimensions of his mystery. I suggest she experience the works of Rudolph Steiner for a momentary change of perspective. I suggest she meditate on the Christ consciousness grid of the earth as spelled out in Bob Frisell's book, Something in this Book is True as a possible means to ward off the negative NWO matrix. Maybe a consideration of optimist Barbara Marx Hubbard's work 'Revelations' is in store as a part of her future scholarly endeavors. I only suggest these works because I worry that Ms. S will inevitably join the likes of Frederick Crews who has devoted his life to crucifying poor ol' Sigmund Freud or that she'll join the 'School of Resentment' as Harold Bloom names the legions of loveless deconstructionists and revisionist hacks that plague our Politically Correct Universities. I trust that Acharya is more intelligent, more sensitive than that.

Jaye Beldo is a writer and intuitive counselor. He can reached at: Netnous@ol.com

Autumn Book Reviews: Part I

Jaye Beldo Netnous@Aol.Com

In This Issue:

The Nero Prediction by Humphry Knipe

Cities of Dreams by Stan Gooch

Beyond the Bleep: the definitive unauthorized guide to What the Bleep Do We Know!? by Alexandra Bruce

*****

Greetings Readers,

Here are the latest, autumnal reviews of some very worthwhile titles indeed. If matrix malaise is deadening your world more than usual, I suggest countering such miasmic oppression by imbibing in these most fortifying and enlightening reads. As always, please support independent publishers/authors by actually going out or online to buy their books.

Warm Regards,

Jaye Beldo

*****

The Nero Prediction By Humphry Knipe

It is rather rare these days to encounter a historical novel that successfully evokes the spirit of bygone epochs. Not since Marguerite Yourcenar and her novel Memoirs of Hadrian has there been much of anything that actually places the reader, spirit and soul, in the time period written about. One could blame the pervasive firewall that positivist, nineteenth century scholarship set up to prevent access to once living traditions or perhaps to our own senses atrophied by computers and television. However, the cause of our incapacity or unwillingness to fully appreciate and experience things historical, becomes quite moot when one encounters a work of such consistently high caliber as The Nero Prediction. Knipe so fruitfully evokes the dreadful, constellated world of the hubristic, yet musical emperor, making for a most vivifying and engaging read. Nero comes to us through the perspective of Epaphroditus, a slave who was brought to the emperor's mother, who somehow foresaw her son's providence written in the stars. After some skillful, careerist maneuverings that impress the cunning, cut throat Nero afterwards, Epaphroditus quickly becomes a kind of astrological yes man to the emperor, who is constantly scanning the skies, like his mother, for signs of stellar import in regards to his reign and of course, the fate of Rome. The author brings the Italic characters to such astonishing life, primarily through reviving the lost art of writing good dialogue, a capability that few contemporary authors possess these days. The verbal exchanges between the characters are actually more effective at evoking the peculiarities of the time period they lived in, more so than the physical descriptions of personae and locales, although these are quite excellent in themselves. It is obvious that Knipe has a very well developed ear for detail and no doubt could actually extend the range of his hearing beyond the physical and listen to the characters speaking out from an otherwise deeply entombed past. In fact, Humphry so believably conjures up the Romanesque world, that it is most likely that he did this through the extensive study of the actual natal charts of Nero (which are included in the appendix, along with a treatise on Neronian astrology) rather than through the usually arid and one dimensional venues of academic scholarship. Such a unique approach allows the reader, homeopathically, to appreciate how the Romans themselves not only heavily relied on astrology to determine their strategies of gaining ultimate power, but fully let the planets express themselves through them in archonic and frequently catastrophic ways. It is unsettling to realize just how morbidly dependant the ancients were on liver readers, soothsayers and of course astrologers. Such a folly ridden addiction to various forms of divination no doubt was one of the major causes of the downfall of ancient Rome, considering that steering an empire away from disaster by using free will didn't stand much of a natal chance during such malefically aspected times.

Available at: www.processmediainc.com

Publishing Date: December 15th, 2005

*****

Cities of Dreams: When Women Ruled the Earth

Stan Gooch

Who is Stan Gooch? An unjustly ostracized scholar who has written a very compelling and substantial book called Cities of Dreams: When Women Ruled the Earth, some of which posits that the Neanderthals, based on much neglected evidence, were more advanced than the barbaric, hairy man apes that they are usually depicted as, possessed language skills and also a very sophisticated understanding of the cosmos which they oriented their lives by. However, Stan adequately challenges the enforced presumptions of delinquent archaeologists, anthropologists and assorted cardboard academics who currently maintain the bastion of the orthodox/materialist belief system. The supposedly clean separation between Neanderthal and Cro-Magnon species, for starters, is effectively dismissed by Gooch, who perseveres throughout Cities of Dreams by developing and sustaining arguments that are both impressive and actually quite thrilling, primarily because of the unique clarity in which he presents his views and also the evidence that he provides to back up his claims. When an author has such a deep sense of resonance with the subject matter he has chosen to investigate as Gooch obviously does, evoking such things as long forgotten Paleolithic inscapes becomes quite natural and this is what makes Cities of Dreams such a delightful read. The author reminds us of such things as universal burial practices, which are evidenced by the ubiquity of the use of red ochre (hematite) in funerary rites, the amazing similarities of myths around the world concerning the origins of the Pleaides constellation (the seven sisters are always pursued by unsolicited suitors or animals) and the labyrinthine/lunar origins of ritual dance (some which mimic the construction of a spider's web of all things) Gooch rises above the shortsightedness of many a tenured boob and offers us such a refreshing perspective on our ice age forebears that it becomes difficult to dismiss his ideas as many within the matrix police system have tried to do in recent times. After reading this work, one can fully see the shortcomings of those deluded enough to assume that modern humans are at the very pinnacle of evolution and why they are so insistent on preserving this outright lie for future generations. More importantly, we have a perfect opportunity to bypass the matrix via Stan's book and directly access the worlds he has explored, worlds encoded in stone,dance, mazes, song and spiders's webs as well.

Available from: Aulis Books

*****

Beyond the Bleep: The definitive unauthorized guide to What the Bleep Do We Know!?

Alexandra Bruce

Packaging quantum physics for the masses inevitably draws forth many a paradox. In the independent film What the Bleep Do We Know these paradoxes become difficult to dismiss and beg scrutiny by anyone who wants to gain a deeper, unbiased understanding of the science it attempts to explain. Having viewed the film, I found it nearly impossible not to regard Bleep other than as a clever bit of New Age propaganda aimed at aging boomers looking for another optimism fix. The intermittent cameos of noted physicists such as Gomit Aswami, the anesthesiologist Stuart Hameroff and philosopher David Albert, amongst others, spliced in with computer animations reminiscent of toe fungus medication commercials, a pathetic sub-plot involving a deaf woman who carries a cell-phone around with her during her photo assignments only left me addled, angry and hardly inspired at all to delve further into the wondrous realm of cutting edge physics, a physics that could very well assist us in the full realization of free energy and perhaps even world peace.

Yet, one must admire the wild financial success the independent film has enjoyed. The producers obviously had enough promotional savvy to deliver a product that continues to sell well in spite of the utter ire it has evoked from such heavy science hitters as Richard Dawkins and many others. Much of the controversy the film has generated seems to have been deliberately intended as well. Many of the physics luminaries that appeared in Bleep complain of how they were edited into the final product to make it look like they were promoters of the Ramtha cult, a cult which figures prominently in Bleep via JZ Knight who channels the 30,000 year old homophobe entity and has made millions of dollars in the process. Apparently, F.A. Wolf, the esteemed quantum physicist who has written such books as The Spiritual Universe and Taking the Quantum Leap actually endorses the Ramtha School of Enlightenment and often appears there to lecture along with many of the other physicists who appeared in Bleep.

Fortunately, in Alexandra Bruce's much welcome book Beyond the Bleep: The Definitive Unauthorized Guide to What the Bleep Do We Know, the hit film is addressed from a rather middle ground standpoint, enabling the reader to get a much better grasp on the science the film ultimately fails to adequately describe. Quantum physics is given much more in depth elaboration in Beyond the Bleep, enabling the reader to grasp some of the more arcane and difficult aspects of quantum phenomena. Bruce's depiction of John Hagelin, presidential hopeful and member of Transcendental Meditation founder Maharishi Mahesh Yogi's Natural Law party is not quite as neutral however. Hagelin, has actually lobbied the U.S. Government in the past in hopes to funnel money into his patently whacked project of creating a 'Vedic defense shield' in which eight thousand meditators, 'one square root of one percent of the planetary population' would be deployed to create 'world peace'. Apparently, each 'shield meditator' would have to invest in over 100,000 dollars worth of TM products in order to qualify. The TM cult, the author informs, is apparently bent on world domination.

Beyond the Bleep is recommended for anyone left perplexed, dismayed or downright disgusted by the film. Alexandra's unauthorized guide will assist you in gaining a much clearer understanding of everything from Dr. Emoto's water molecules, Candice Pert's discoveries of molecular origin of our emotions as well as the tribulations of scientists like her who have dared to challenge the orthodoxy and the materialist repercussions they have suffered. The book will assist anyone who desires to delve into the convoluted worlds of quantum physics, the 'Create Your Own Reality' paradigm so beloved by New Agers and neurology as well, allowing them to emerge from such a wondrous trip enlightened and more importantly, unscathed by the underhanded indoctrination the film tends to induce in many of its followers .

available from: www.disinfo.com

*****

Jaye Beldo writes for Paranoia Magazine, Disinfo.Com, The Konformist. He can be reached at: Netnous@aol.com

Autumn Book Reviews: Part II by

Jaye Beldo Netnous@Aol.Com

In this Issue:

Beyond 2012 Catastrophe or Ecstasy: A Complete Guide to End-of-Time Predictions by Geoff Stray

UFOs, PSI and Spiritual Evolution by Christopher Humphrey Ph.D.

The Lucid Dreaming Kit by Bradley Thompson

*****

Greetings Friends,

Here is the last of my autumnal offerings in the book review department. I’ll be sending out my Top Ten list for 2005 in a few days. Once again, please support independent publishers and their authors this ‘holiday’ season by buying books-as-gifts for your friends and family.

Warm Regards,

Jaye Beldo *****

Beyond 2012 Catastrophe or Ecstasy: A Complete Guide to End-of-Time Predictions by Geoff Stray

After the let down of countless apocalyptical hopefuls in regards to the fulfillment of prophecies in 2000 A.D., many are now training their predictive crosshairs on a cosmic event only a few years away: December 21, 2012. According to the Mayans, this is a most significant date indeed as we then align with the 'galactic center' and all hell or heaven supposedly will break loose. Time itself may very well collapse, along with corrupt power structures found within governments, media conglomerates, trans-national corporations and monotheistic institutions to boot. The date has certainly captured the imagination of New Agers, astrologers, clairvoyants, entheo-nauts, occultists and even a few cutting edge cosmologists such as John Major Jenkins, author of Mayan Cosmogenesis. Yet, with the dismaying array of catastrophic and retributive possibilities at hand, we are still left with a pervading sense of uncertainty as to what exactly will happen.

In Beyond 2012 Catastrophe or Ecstasy: A complete Guide to End-of-Time Predictions, a rather dizzying smorgasbord of 2012 scenarios that may greet us on the winter solstice of that year is offered. Fortunately, the author doesn't fear monger in his response to the advanced waves coming in from galactic central. He pretty much allows the reader sufficient head space to contemplate the myriads of potential outcomes at hand. Culled mostly from web sites, the writings of well known authors such as Graham Hancock, Andrew Collins and others, Stray has spent over twenty years in compiling the plethora of information on 2012 mythologies found in his copious book. Hopi fifth world prophecies, the supposed Dogon/Sirius connection and other indigenous takes on the coming event are included along with more contemporary inventions such as Terrence McKenna's intriguing and brilliant Time Wave Zero. McKenna speculated that the I-Ching really functioned as a kind of lunar calendar and ran the hexagrams through a series of mathematical processes to come up with 'time waves' to show the cycles involved. I found Stray's description of the procedure McKenna used to develop his unique software program quite lucid and easy to understand. Time Wave Zero is probably the most sophisticated and user friendly approach to the 2012 mystery in this reviewers opinion and I certainly recommend that readers delve further into McKenna‘s divinatory opus via Beyond 2012.

Also within this profuse end time encyclopedia are highly dubious spin artists attempting to veil the true import of 2012 , whether it is a retributive dimensional shift into a kind of detergent ecstasy or all out calamity which conflagrates the planet and humanity as well. One eminent con artist in particular is the pseudo-scholar Zecharia Sitchin whose suspect mis-interpretations of Sumerian cuneiform writings has been justly exposed by one Michael S. Heisner on his website: www.sitchiniswrong.com In this reviewers opinion, Sitchin gets more page space in Beyond 2012 than he really deserves. Yet considering how well his books sell and the obvious need of many people to believe in elliptically scoundrel planets such as Nibiru/Planet X and humans –as- Annunaki- manufactured- slaves, this is certainly quite understandable. I'm also wary of the much hyped crop circle phenomena which many interpret as sublime, extraterrestrial artistry, hinting at the 'positive' transformations to come. According to Brian Desborough, author of They Cast No Shadows and Blueprint for a Better World, most crop circles should be avoided at all costs as many have actually proved to be radioactive, causing people who have been foolish enough to perform rituals in them, sleep in them or even just to visit them on an afternoon outing to develop long term illnesses such as leukemia (see pgs. 361-63 in They Cast No Shadows for more information). I suggest to the reader who may not be aware of the various disinformation agents in prophet's clothing to use their own intuitions and common sense as a form of guidance instead of impulsively subscribing to any of the belief systems offered up in Beyond 2012.

Perhaps 2012, if we survive whatever emergence and/or collapse that is surely to come, will function as a kind of nexus, rather than an omega point, integrating the past, present and future into a much awaited eternal now that somehow resonates with the core essence of the galactic center, either literally, symbolically or both. At this point, it is rather difficult to ascertain however considering the myriads of predictions at hand. Geoff Stray’s Beyond 2012 at least can be used as a kind of useful field guide to orient us in the right direction, if we approach it with an open mind and much discretion as well.

Available at:

www.vitalsignpublishing.co.uk

*****

UFOs, PSI and Spiritual Evolution by Christopher Humphrey Ph.D.

Many enthusiasts of interstellar travel tend to neglect the actual mechanics involved, especially when the distances covered are measured in light years. It would take something like 16,000 years just to get to our 'near by' neighbor of Alpha Centauri at 4.3 light years distance, using present day technology. A neutrino physicist proved, through his extensive calculations, that it would take all of the energy that our sun has ever produced or will produce just to reach the ‘Warp One’ that the Star Trek Enterprise is depicted as accelerating to in the over rated TV series. While faster than light travel is a possibility, it certainly puts into question the use of physical vehicles as a means to achieve it. Author Christopher Humphrey has given a considerable amount of thought to such problems and offers some unique alternatives which may help to bridge the obvious distance gap: space travel via our spiritual bodies. He additionally posits that only 'spiritually advanced' beings would be capable of instantaneous travel over the span of light years.

While I found much of what he says quite engaging, relevant and timely, considering the pervasion of UFO disinformation that we are bombarded with at present, Humphrey tends to habitually drop a chosen subject matter before it is sufficiently developed and goes off on these flighty, pardon the pun, digressions which are interesting nonetheless, but tend to weaken any cohesive argument that would bolster his overall theories of non-physical travel through space. (I'm noticing this tendency quite a bit these days in many other authors as well and may well be indicative of the effects of computers and other electronic mediums on our overall attention spans). As an example, the author posits that de Broglie waves are a probable medium for PSI abilities especially in regards to Uri Geller's spoon bending and clock stopping abilities. But Humphrey then fails to provide any kind of substantial metaphorical analogy enabling a reader not well versed in the physics involved to grasp specifically what he is saying. If Humphrey could provide some kind of imagistic parallel to the de Broglie wave carrier medium phenomena , it would make it much easier for the reader to not only understand but also to intuitively use the waves themselves and actualize any nascent PSI abilities that they may have within them. He also digresses from a compelling description of the work of the historian Arnold Toynbee in a similar way. After a brief summation of Toynbee's work involving pattern recognition within various historical epochs, the author drops the matter altogether and takes a completely unrelated tack, leaving the reader hanging in some never land of indeterminacy. In addition, some of the conclusions the author makes during his frequent diversionary flights are rather embarrassing. Here is one example:

"Incidentally, the main problem with Yoga, Buddhism and Hinduism is that they only want to escape the wheel of reincarnation and make no attempt to raise the level of their civilization. That is why Yogis never went to the stars. In India, they know about reincarnation, but only use that knowledge to justify the Caste system." Pg. 82

Humphrey obviously has not studied any of these spiritual paths in sufficient enough depth or breadth and resorts to gross generalizations such as cited above. Yogis had and have intimate knowledge of the stars, other planets and galaxies which is encoded in such works as the Vedas, indicating some form of superluminal travel to these distant locales. One scholar even showed that the measurements from the earth to the sun described in one ancient sacred text from India were uncannily accurate in comparison with more recent measurements using modern scientific equipment. Humphrey has obviously has not read the works of such luminaries as Nityananda or Meher Baba who totally disdained the caste system and would often work directly with the untouchable caste, providing them with shelter, food , clothes and hospitals as well. Nor has he looked into the social and political gains made by many Buddhist activists along the way. It is also sorely evident that the author has not even considered the possibility of interstellar travel via Vimana craft which are described in detail in such works as the Mahabharata and Ramayana.

I do believe that Humphrey has some truly valuable information and is concerned about such oppressive vectors as CSICOPS, Reductionist/Materialist Science in regards to their deliberately inhibiting the realization of interstellar travel via our spiritual bodies. He cites the works of individuals who are making valuable contributions to enhancing our spiritual awareness such as Ian Stevenson, author of the book 20 Cases Suggestive of Reincarnation and others as well. However, I would have given this book a much higher approval rating if something like an actual editor had gone through it and deleted much of the repetitious information and revised it into something more flowing, concise and cohesive.

*****

The Lucid Dreaming Kit by

Bradley Thompson

The ability to maintain awareness of a dream while dreaming seems to be considered difficult if not impossible by many people. How often do we take conscious action within a dream and steer it to a more favorable outcome? Not very often. The Lucid Dreaming Kit improves our chances of realizing lucidity in dreams using a fairly simple procedure. On one CD in the kit are instructions on how to proceed for a period of seven days in order to achieve maintain awareness during the sleep cycle. Using a digital watch with a an alarm setting on it, one is instructed to set it to beep at various intervals during designated nights . These‘interruptions’ some how provoke us to maintain consciousness during sleep and help us subliminally anticipate a coming dream without waking up and losing contact with it.

I particularly liked the accompanying audio CD which the author recommends to play just prior to sleep. The subliminally encoded, eighty minute soundtrack enabled me to achieve a lucid dream state on the very first night that I used it. Frankly, I was rather surprised because I’ve rarely had fully lucid dreams where I was in complete control from beginning to end. I've always had the assumption that one had to actually struggle for years to achieve thie lucid state.

In the dream, I found myself within a DNA molecule. When I instantly became aware that I was dreaming, I then took direct action and started repairing damaged telomeres, restoring the DNA to its original twenty two strands, marveling at the codon poetry that played out before me. I would float from location to location in this marvelously illuminated DNA coil and could choose where to go and what to do. I then realized, within the dream, that the DNA ‘molecule’ I was in, was really of universal dimensions, spanning vast distances of interstellar space. It was more like an infinite helix, I realized, when I further investigated and started traveling through it. Needless to say, I was most reluctant to have the dream end and woke up with a feeling that I had achieved something rather significant.

The experience was both refreshing and rather amazing as well. It did something peculiarly benign to my waking state consciousness throughout the following day, as if there was some kind of deeper connection and resonance with environments within and without me. I realized that repairing the universal DNA helped with making these deep connections and I actually physically felt better.

Included with the Lucid Dreaming Kit are a Lucid Dreaming screen saver for your computer, a PDF file which contains the day by day instructions the author recommends to follow in order to increase the chances of having a lucid dream and a dream log. (I recently received information from the Lucid Dreaming Kit creator that there is now a version of the audio CD that is eight hours long). The ease of use as well as the immediate effect the CDs had on my dream life has given me sufficient indication that Thompson's method does work effectively. I've tried other methods in the past to achieve lucid dreams such as Tibetan Dream Yoga but nothing so far has given me the quick results that the Lucid Dreaming Kit has. Check it out!

Available at:

www.lucid-dreaming-kit.com

Jaye Beldo writes for Associated Content, Central Sun Journal, Deep Fried Rice, Gnostic Liberation Front, The Parisian, The Sorel Lawncaster Gazette and many other high profile publications. He can be reached at: Netnous@Aol.Com

McHajj

Jaye C. Beldo

McHajj:
Part I

*Please note: The McHajj series you are about to read came to me directly via a series of disturbing dreams, dreams which continue to haunt me at present. These dreams, more like interminable nightmares, have resulted from life long exposure to advertising in the relentlessly predatory, capitalistic society that I'm haphazardly posited in. In order to deal with the severe psychological trauma such exposure has caused me, I have translated what my unconscious mind has directly conveyed to me into the story below. It is the only way I know how to cope with the constant trespassing into my psyche by the corporate powers which loom about in a most menacing and merciless fashion. Thank you for understanding my dilemma. BTW: I am currently starting a twelve step support group for those who may believe that they are victims of a similar kind of corporate psychological terrorism. I will provide more information in the near future...if there is one. Thank you!

Ronald McDonald saunters through the range country all alone, exiled from Playland. He comes upon the Marlboro Men, all maudlin, yet steadfast, sitting around a campfire. He tries clowning but cannot even eke one single grin. One offers him a smoke. Ronald reciprocates with Big Macs for all. They eat hamburgers and smoke, staring into the embers. Ronald lets out a conciliatory chuckle, but the others do not respond.

The next day, they mount the steeds and set out. In the course of their round-up, they encounter Joe Camel, the Pillsbury Doughboy, Colonel Saunders, California Raisins, the Hamburger Helper Hand, Charlie Tuna, Palmolive Madge, The Tidy Bowl Man, Mr. Clean and other iconomorphic cuties traversing the desert in search of greener test markets. All caravan across the wastes, drawn towards a mirage of the eternal milk pour shot. The posse grows in legion. They tour cancer wards, deforested tracts in South America, fished out oceans, tobacco farms with spent soil and carked farmers. They pass out campaign pamphlets to Jivaro Indians and work their way down to Tierra Del Fuego. A vote is to be cast for the next Messiah, since the first one (anthropos) cannot return, cannot get his sandaled foot or staff into Ogilvy's Madison Avenue door.

A vote is cast. Ronald wins. The Golden Arches of Triumph remain.

The division works its way towards Mecca. Upon reaching the ka'ba, Ronald ventures an entrance. With a grin he greets the twelfth Imam who patiently engraves upon a piece of plutonium the size and shape of a bowling ball. The Imam reads aloud what he has inscribed on Allah's favorite alloy:

In the Name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate,

Praise belongs to God, the Lord of all Being,

the all merciful, the All-compassionate

the Master of the Day of Doom.

A television in the North West corner runs a Prime Time Shi'ite Evangelist special. Oppenheimer makes a guest appearance. He quotes the Bhagavad Gita. The t.v. casts a debile numinosity, reminiscent of decaying isotopes over the interior of the ka'ba. The splendor of a thousand suns, however, lay dormant in the Imam's plutonium. Ronald offers the Imam a Big Mac, but is solemnly declined as the final filigrees are added to the stanza. Mr. McDonald shrugs his shoulders, skips over to the Southeast corner, kisses the black stone and savors its meteoric flavor. A tongue emerges from the stone. The stone tries to sing Allah's glory but Ronald begins to French kiss the stone. Allah's eyes open but he cannot recognize who is kissing him. Ronald tears his wig away and smears the make up off his face. The clown introduces himself to Allah and demands a sacrifice of every child watching Saturday morning cartoons in America. Cheers can be heard from as far away as Algiers. Outside, the Marlboro men gallop their horses around the Ka'ba, tossing cartons of cigarettes to the pilgrims, while Van Allen asteroids with angel wings hover above like Hummingbirds, forming a double helix pattern.

Joint-Chiefs-of-Staff in the War room at the Pentagon. A satellite picks up the action over in Mecca. All chiefs ponder the implications. 'Flexible Response' is briefly discussed.

While Ronald and Allah make out, the Imam carefully places the scripted ball into a missile's warhead compartment concealed directly beneath the center of the ka'ba. Ronald just laughs, fluffs his wig out and puts it back on. He fixes his make up and steps outside. It dawns on him that he forgot to takes his clown shoes off upon entering. But no one outside notices his disrespect. His secret would not be betrayed. The pilgrims fervently, ecstatically kiss the Pillsbury Doughboy, the Hamburger Helper hand, and the California Raisins. Joe Camel lets them take turns riding on his back. He circumambulates the ka'ba seven times. The Imam steps outside and climbs up the minaret and sings to the sky and all activity below stops. He holds in his hand the remote control launch button. Palmolive Madge noticed that the cuticles of the Middle Beast were hardened.

The legion works its way over the Great Wall of China and marches to the center of Tienanmen Square. All the cowboys, clowns, fuzzy little denizens of the west sit in front of a giant statue of Mao. Ronald runs his tongue over the plinth. It too tastes meteoric. Soon refugees from slave labor camps, both Tibetan and Chinese, clutching onto Mickey Mouse dolls are paraded past the icons. Ronald feels something. Yet his make-up won't betray his sorrow. The Pillsbury Doughboy deflates a little. The four fingered Hamburger Helper Hand offers to help but cannot grasp the situation. The Marlboro Men hand out cigarettes to the refugees but they are refused. All wait.

McHajj

Part II

*Please note: The McHajj series you are about to read came to me directly via a series of disturbing dreams, dreams which continue to haunt me at present. These dreams, more like interminable nightmares, have resulted from life long exposure to advertising in the relentlessly predatory, capitalistic society that I'm haphazardly posited in. In order to deal with the severe psychological trauma such exposure has caused me, I have translated what my unconscious mind has directly conveyed to me into the story below. It is the only way I know how to cope with the constant trespassing into my psyche by the corporate powers which loom about in a most menacing and merciless fashion. Thank you for understanding my dilemma. BTW: I am currently starting a twelve step support group for those who may believe that they are victims of a similar kind of corporate psychological terrorism. I will provide more information in the near future...if there is one. Thank you!

Joe Stalin nudged Ronald McDonald, grateful that the clown had the chutzpah to invite him to his stag party. The cadre was a bit beaten and weather worn after the China tour. Mao never even showed. Ronald then made the announcement while passing through Cambodia that he was to marry. So a stop was decided, in Berlin, to celebrate before going back state side to the jubilant swarms.

On a stained and battered movie screen that had seen the likes of Caligari, Dr. Mabuse and Nosferatu, a flick starring Goddess Kali and the Virgin Mary played, for the umpteenth time that evening. In it, the Pope, all dolled up in a leather Teddy once owned by Madonna and clutching onto a sequin covered Crozier, watched the gals carpet munch each other. Kali's garland of severed heads, consisting of card carrying members of the United Nations trembled as she climaxed: each head speaking in tongues while an entourage of angels above listened in ears. Mission accomplished, the Virgin appeared demure, scanning her Rolodex, trying to decide which country next to infiltrate with Marian visions via NASA holography. Star Wars indeed.

"Jimmy Swaggart....eat your evangelical heart out.", was the Pope's only line. He delivered it deadpan enough to pass, but who pays attention to dialogue in skin flicks?

Down below, the cadre of commercial icons took on a luminous hue in the porn film light.

Pol Pot announced that the cake would soon be wheeled out. The Marlboro Men tossed some confetti. Joe Camel popped some champagne. All the lights were turned off and silence ensued. A Menorah floated in the darkness beneath an exit sign dimmed below code. It hovered around the theater, leaving sevenfold trails of candle light, which streaked and then formed into Hebrew letters : yod-he-vau-he, UFO's far more convincing than anything Spielberg has cinematically conjured for the masses. The candle flames/letters grew brighter causing the darkness to finally yield up its secret: A Golem had been guiding the Menorah all along. Instead of seven candle sticks there was a septet of finely molded, perfectly uniform wax Porky Pigs with wicks protruding from their snouts. But were they really 100% wax? They sizzled and crackled like some kind of animal fat, a fat which ran down and melted into the cracks in the Golem's thick earthy flesh. Ronald climbed up on the stage, made a wish and blew out the candles and chuckled. But an actor dressed up like Rabbi Loew came out of the wings and chided him. It wasn't a god damned birthday party. Ronald chuckled, bore the brunt of the catcalls from his fellow icons and signaled for the real cake to be wheeled out. An angel handed the Golem a trumpet and noticed the clayey android's breastplate: A Masonic pyramid with an eye in the apex.

Pol Pot signaled his military band to start playing along and the sounds of a million Cambodian skulls cracking in a hydraulic vice washed over the theater like a sonic flood. Joe Stalin wept as the ossified sonority echoed over the Siberian veldt of his soul.

The Golem sounded the first note on his horn, thus breaking Seal Number One: From out of the cake popped Barbara Walters in a bikini. There she was, the carnal frosting on the cake of test market destiny. Soon Berlin Gynecologists dressed like the sorrowful Young Werther, rushed in to see if the Hymen was still intact. It was. The real Mecca was finally reached. All were glad. A sacred pilgrimage spot was declared. Soon they'd be flocking to ABC's New York T.V. Studios and not to cleanse themselves of iniquities with the leftover bath water of Hugh Downs.

A mini-resurrection ensued in the cemeteries surrounding Berlin. All the young men Goethe conned into suicide rose from their mother's graves and began heading towards the theater. Would Gabriel lead the way for them? Or would it be Heine? Maybe Kafka himself would show them the short cuts through Berlin's sewage labyrinths? No, no compasses... they honed in merely by instinct. Once they arrived they were amiably greeted, but relegated to the last rows where the footlights from the stage barely shone.

The film ran again. Yet this time three dimensional like a holographic dodecahedron. Each facet contained an image, a precisely focused promise of salvation. On one facet of the screen was the land of the Houris, on another facet: the New Jerusalem, on another facet: Ashtar Command and other cinematic variations of the Chosen People Syndrome. Each promised land refracted kaliedoscopically like a disco light in which that scientologist John Travolta danced under so soulessly. The dodecahedron floated higher and higher up into the rafters and out through the roof and hovered over Berlin. Soon there were Muslims, Jews, Christians, Buddhists, Hindus all flocking to take in their personal slice of the flick.

Inside, the Rabbi pulled the plug on the projector and searched within the machine for what could possibly fabricate such a hideous illusion. All he found was a crystal, where the projector bulb should have been, a crystal holding the form of some kind of eschatological fractal yet to blossom.

The Marlboro Men ignored the No-Smoking signs and lit up. Barbara and Ronald did a little tango up on the stage in celebration of their union. No one would arrest them. No one would ask for their papers. All was steamy, sultry collusion across the board, that evening. There would be good stories to tell , yes, back on the range, of the strange pariahs abroad.

McHajj

Part III

The Pope gaped at the fuzzy icons hovering near his bedside. Were they angels? Reporters? Eager Cardinals insinuating heirdom? He closed his eyes once again. But when he whiffed the Chanel and heard the familiar burger chuckle, he offered up his hand, marbled with swollen veins and weakly gestured towards a water bowl on a table next to him. He motioned for the couple to genuflect. He dipped his fingers into the bowl and sprinkled their heads.

"I pronounce you husband and wife."

His debility allowed no more. With a weak wave of his hand, he transferred the remaining formalities to the Cardinals who gathered around the couple. Mr. Paul hadn't done a wedding since his moonlight job at I.G. Farben back in the thirties, when his Deutscheland comrades jibingly monikered him 'Quick Karol'. Deprived, he fell back into his pillow and even further, into a beatific, anesthetized daze, that neither of the newlyweds could fathom.

"Enough stress for one day." warned a doctor who entered the room as the tints of life faded from the Pope's visage. A wind sidled its way from the court yard below into the room and ruffled the groom's wig, as sensitive as a theophanic barometer. The bride took off her chador, looked for someone idle, distracted enough to interview. ABC would want something prime time enough to run back home. Maybe even milk it for a series.

"Our union may be his last communion." Barbara proclaimed solemnly to the cameras and beckoned for a close up. Ronald behind her waved and then mouthed, "Hi Mom."

But there was still pulse left in the Pope.

The Marlboro Men , Joe Camel , Palmolive Madge, the Pillsbury Doughboy, Reddy Kilowatt and the Tidy Bowl Man managed to get into the room upon hearing the Good News. The Pope came to for a moment and nodded. Joe Camel flicked a butt into the Baptismal bedpan and placed his hand on the Pope's forehead. The doctor leered at the reprobate Bactrian ungulate. He wondered if that camel had enough sisu to make it back to Bethlehem after he got done with him.

Not much time and a millennium spent without any unfolding of Papal revelation. Time for another counter reformation? No, no more Luthers to contest. So invisible, so blended in with the corporate architecture they are. No Hapsburgian Vectors to carry out orders from Rome. Not even a Jesuit at large to boot. Not like in the good ol' days of the Thirty Years War. No locust, no floods of blood, nothing from the Patmos camp either. Only vapid promises of holographic wish fulfillment dished out by NASA PR and HAARP. And that beast that equaled eighteen, no matter how you added it up? He was a no show as well. Only the icons. No back up generators had been aptly ordained to keep the stage lights going in case of global brown out.

They had no choice. They had to keep PJP II alive. Barbara worried about John's diminishing telepresence and pressured the doctor to operate. At least plastic surgery for they had no foundation to apply.

The doctor quickened to the maculate pall, the obvious onset of Parkinson's disease. But he began to muse. Why were there only pathologies named after baseball players and celebrities? Not one single religious figure had a disease named after him or her. The Doc could fake it, revise the etiology a little and dub it "Paulitis" and get a Noble Prize for curing it on the very day of diseases's world premiere. He eyed Ronald McDonald. Doc could read a blood type like a poker bluff. Just by the skin, even if it was covered with greasepaint. Ronald grasped the portent, telepathic aptitude heightened by the demands of the Hajj. He felt compelled to Jingle.

"You deserve a break today." He twittered into the Pope's ear. The Pope smiled as if receiving benediction from Number One.

The clown chuckled, rolled up his puffy sleeve. A nurse polished up his carotid artery with sanctified antiseptic and inserted the catheter. Barbara saw the transgression and began whispering, "Malpractice" over and over and her eyes brightened up a bit. She reached for her wireless. But the Pope immediately came to when Ronald's plasm hit his system. His eyes lit up like a pair of Golden Arches over a midnight parking lot. The veins and arteries snapped to attention, graciously receiving the fresh influx. Lymphatics sparked along with the neurons and axons and dendrites-the mossed neurology of an apocryphal avatar destined for immortality, He was fired up for another thousand years of the Reich-o-Rama. The infusion brought him to an upright position in the bed. Barbara thrust a microphone towards his lips.

Yet it was not enough. No one, except Ronald himself, knew it was cow's blood they'd been pumping into Ol' Karol, the Zyklon B colporteur.

The Pope faded back into the eternal folds of the bed. The pall returned. He began a coughing jag. He vomited up some hallowed, citrine pus from the pulmonary Rome housed in his rib cage. The doctor turned to the Marlboro Men.

"All for the want of a lung?"

One of the cowboys offered his tar sodden lung to keep the Pope alive. Surgery only took an hour. Yet it was not enough.

"Any volunteers for a liver transplant?"

Yes, one of the icons, Captain Morgan, the Rum Pirate offered his organ of life to keep the Pope going. Yet it was not enough.

"Any volunteers for a heart transplant?"

Joe Camel, a brave bactrian of integrity, sacrificed his pith to keep the Pope alive. John, Jerry and Jack Camel survived their famous brother and carried on with the good work to the delight of Philip-Morris. "See...See.." The tobacco magnates screamed as they watched the proceeding from their Virginia Headquarters, "There is such a thing as altruism!"

Palmolive Madge sacrificed her bone marrow. The Tidy Bowl man sacrificed his digestive tract and colon. The Pillsbury Doughboy had nothing humanly feasible to sacrifice but was there at the bedside, reassuring the Pope that he would rise again. During the revivification, the Papal henchmen , disappointed, worked their way out of the inner circle. The Pope was alive...would stay alive...forever...for there would be no shortage of organ donors. 1-800 numbers would flash and scroll at the bottom of every T,V, show like storm warnings. Blurbs on milk cartons and the back of trucks would beckon for donors to meet the insatiable need of fresh organs for our Pope. No wonder he threw sanctified fertility pills to the Third World. The black market would be glutted with organ donors! The Pope's immortality would generate more media revenue than any celebrity event in history.

Somewhere a lone Turkish gunman slouches towards a Bethlehem carved into a prison wall with his fingernails.

After remission, Pope John Paul Infinity, the Chiliastronaut of the 21st century, was deemed fit enough for the next shuttle mission. For the Newlyweds, a Honeymoon in space? Yes.

Geosynchronous orbit in a space station. The threesome would watch the apocalypse on earth through Pince Nez ,Opera Glasses and Zero Gravity champagne bubbles. And then off to the Pleiades to convert the aliens?

McHajj

Part IV

The Chosen Pupil

The centerpiece for the Newlywed's space station living room was a crystal pyramid, It rested, three feet high with its eye in the sky, in the center of a shallow ceramic bowl. Upon the hour, the Pope would come out, pour a champagne bucket filled with Serpent Piss fermented with goat smegma over the sculpture while humming, 'Fiddler on the Roof.' Once the bowl brimmed with the jaundiced Holy water, he would open some spigots screwed into the sides and fill up enough wine glasses for the guests who were convened at the table, waiting.

David Rockefeller drained his glass in one gulp and ignored the New Year toast all the guests imbibed. Some shadowed members of the P2 lodge in Italy sampled the brew but noticed nothing of its piquant character, so jaded with spirit initiations they were. Ronald McDonald politely sipped the reptilian vintage. Barbara declined, good mother that she was becoming. She pulled her chiffon maternity blouse emblazoned with the ABC logo away and her greasepainted groom played with her protruded navel as if it were some kind of Cold War red alert button.

It, when it arrived, in the dying sextet of seconds of 1999, would be the first zero gravity savior birthed in an orbital Bethlehem. Rockefeller, designated Wise Man Number One, switched on the ultra sound monitor so all the guests could scrutinize the young and upcoming embryo. Its pulse seemed to quicken every time they passed over the Dead Sea, even though they were far beyond the jurisdiction of the earth's electromagnetic field. Soon all the conspirants were doing the devil's tap on the table top in synch with the heart beat. The Pope kept on humming and kept on pouring his vile brew in hopes of upping the ante of the celebration.

As the crew got tipsy on the rounds of the potent cocktail, an argument ensued.

Where would the placenta be air dropped? On the Sphinx? On top of the Ka'ba? Borobudur? Stonehenge? How about skewering it on the obelisk in Washington, D.C.? It became a kind of board game challenge. It was getting time for some Robert's Rules of Order as no consensus was arrived at by this rogue congress. The only thing unaminous amongst them was that the yolk would not, under any circumstance, be freeze dried.

McPope ignored the fracas and scryed a tissue scrap through an ultra high powered microscope. He managed to filch the bit of fetal host through the Anchor woman's carnal portal, posing as resident gynecologist, without damaging the integrity of the savior. Zooming in on a maze of double helix protein chains, he marveled how they began to spin themselves into a kind of genetic grail. The Holy Roman Umpire scanned the inebriated guests and unnoticed, took a hypodermic needle out of his vestibule pocket and flooded the DNA with more of the consecrated wine his unquaffable cadre were gulping down so lasciviously. He switched the screen over to the microscope's point of view and the guests hushed, sobered up a bit and marveled at the display.

The Pope stepped up onto a little stage in front of the big screen T.V.which showed the DNA as it mutated at warp speed into a trinitarian helix pattern-a veritable genomic blue print of the Tri-Lateral commission. The members of the P-2 lodge were the first to take notice. Then the Pope clicked on his remote control, the numinous eye in the apex of the pyramid in the fountain opened up. The Masonic Cyclops looked around as if peering out of some forgotten b-movie. A viperous mannikin emerged from the punch and slithered up the pyramid and began pissing once again. Underneath the sculpture was the phrase: The Chosen Pupil, emblazoned in dark green neon.; Maybe the Pope's new grandson would be the true herald of the Novus Ordo Seclorum, the new telescope so to speak.

"The Apex is not a good place for a placenta...we don't want to obscure its view now do we?" The Pope asked. Rockefeller burst out laughing, fell off his chair and doubled up on the floor. "What about my Tri-Lateral Commission! I'll dissolve the order if this gets through. Where's Jeremy Rifkin when we need him? You didn't send him to a FEMA camp did you?"

The clown was too mesmerized by his wife's navel to take notice of the commotion. Barbara, feeling the first tremors of labor, stood up and excused herself. A door slid open allowing her to pass through to the maternity ward. It squeaked just like the ones on Star Trek. No one even noticed the cue. One of the P2 henchmen stepped out of his own shadow and approached the Pope as if preparing to be consecrated by the mobster.

"And when it's time to crucify again...this time on an Ankh....not a cross...right?" He challenged the Papal authority.

"We can work that in the script...as long as its self replicating." The Pope's eyes turned reptilian even though he hadn't even a sip of the ambrosia. He jabbed his Crozier into the floor for emphasis and his Canonicals began to take on the appearance of medieval armor. Soon the other icons emerged out of their space station quarters. The Pillsbury Doughboy hopped up on to the Pope's shoulder, puffed up and giggled. Some of the Marlboro Men who snuck on board flanked the Pope. One lassoed a P2 and dragged him up to the proscenium. One of the Camel brothers grabbed Rockefeller by the collar and forced him to kneel before the Pope. Soon some nurses wheeled out Barbara and under the camera lights she prepared for the birth. Ronald did some cartwheels and plucked a switch on, thus activating a global satellite which jammed all communications on earth. The Tidy Bowl man would emcee and announce the action. Cameras on.

The delivery was painless, nearly effortless. And the shining new born was put into the Pope's arms and not Ronald's...the clown didn't seem to mind..didn't really care about continuity, he was just along for the ride anyways. The Pope's eyes flared. And in the Ka'ba far below in Mecca the Imam put the final filigrees onto the ball of plutonium and invited the Party of Ali inside for one last look. One took a gavel and drove the warhead home as he pronounced the guilty verdict. And in China Mao did a jig with Stalin and Pol Pot. In Berlin, the Turks were cha-cha ing with the Neo-Nazi's. In Bosnia all looked up into the sky as the Marian radiation showered down upon them. And the gates of the prisons and asylums of the world were swung open. In Israel only love bombs exploded after the perennial peace treaties were signed.

The earth looked so pretty from the space station, all lit up like a Christmas Tree in Rockefeller Plaza. Rockefeller was still kneeling. He started kissing the Pope's feet. And the savior...the savior didn't even protest its expulsion from Barbara's paradisal uterus. There was no announcement from this barkless, hairless dog. Ronald comforted his wife who took no interest in her apocryphal spawn. She merely groped for a microphone, looked for a camera, thankful to be purged of all that weight.

The Pope took the child over to the Baptismal fount and immersed the creature for what seemed like a minute and at the Stroke of the milleniual Midnight pulled him out of the Serpent piss. He sat the infant on top of the Pyramid. The eye turned upward to catch a glimpse of this new Commander in Chief of the Federal Reserve. Cigars for all and everyone sang Auld Lang Zion.

But how would the savior be returned to the Earth? Would there be any reason to since the planet was becoming so conflagrated at the moment? The Pope laughed sardonically as he watched the Vatican evaporate in the wave of thermo-nuclear detonation billowing out of Mecca. But who could trust a t.v. screen? Maybe it wasn't real. In his dream, he hardly noticed that the space station broke free of the gravitational field and was quickly deviating from the planet. The magazine subscription was about to be canceled. The newborn nursed at the Pope's breast for he was its Mother Church....He was the portable Rome and now they were headed for Mars. The Face on Mars to be exact.

When they arrived, the cadre disbanded and set out to stake a claim. Where would the Mount Calvary be on this ochre stained planet? Where would the Via Dolorosa be?

The Pope surveyed the land in a Martian buggy and climbed up to the summit of the face . With Sleight of Hand he was able to filch the placenta and with newborn in one hand and placenta in the other he said a prayer in Martianese-it sounded Latin enough he supposed. He dropped the Placenta into the nostril of the face and a volcano began to erupt. He dune buggied away and watched as the volcano spewed and out came a lava of glowing green slime. It seemed to follow some ancient waterways hidden beneath the martian dust and filled these canals.

Soon a metropolis was born: the new and improved Vaticanopolis. The Pope held the newborn up to the sky and tore its space suit away-to toughen it up-he made a make shift cradle-manger for the creature and scanned the skies for a star...but aghast...he looked up....and on swift wings descended the icons, all of them released from the Pandora's box of a now flaming Madison Avenue back on earth. The very creatures who gave him a new lease on life, the very creatures he betrayed...the creatures who ensured his preservation-all of them-a legion of fallen angels , who once they hit the surface of the Planet, would vie for power. The Pope merely held up his Anhk, the always trusty apotropaic and they had to return to the remains of the earth.

McHajj

Part V

In his stately pleasure dome the Pope busied himself with a hobby with the newborn at his breast. On a papier- mache spread, a robot dinosaur marauded about. It gobbled up a little Jesus effigy, crunching the savory savior in its more than ample jaws. It gobbled up a Mohammed effigy at a makeshift Mecca around the bend. It hunted down Elohim, Zoraster, Buddha, Vishnu and other avatar hors d'oeuvres which seemed to grow out of the landscape like target mannequins at a rifle range. The Pope then pushed a button on his remote, causing the Dinosaur spin to around like a dog and defecate. His ecumenical chemists concocted special digestive juices for the model Saurian. He was anxious for the results of his latest scheme. It could bring salvation to Cuba. If all else failed it would make good fertilizer for his Chrysanthemums back in the Vatican.

Out came a resplendent turd which remained airborne to the amazement of the guests who lined up on either side of the model landscape. The turd jetted about, powered by god knows what, perhaps another miracle from within the Pope's sleeve. The button was pushed again and out came the faithful, emerging from the tufts and folds of the land, locomoting like plastic football players on an vibrating field of metal. They threw themselves at the feet of the fecal avatar.

"Exquisite." said one of the PR men from Hill and Knowlton. "We can get it out before Christmas easy. We've already rammed one of these through Congress before."

He reached over with a butter knife and spread some of the turd onto a biscuit and sampled it. "Piquant...not much aftertaste. Slap Barney or a Tele-Tubby on the can and it'll sell."

"Disney's on the phone....I smell litigation." Another PR warned.

"I wouldn't worry,.. they haven't the leverage that our Pope does...besides there's a loophole since the blueprints aren't even of the earth. Copywriter's haven't learned the art of astral travel.....yet."

"The only loophole we need is the one in this Ankh...... remember?" Another PR said and waved the loophole over the Pope's radio control. The dinosaur stopped in his tracks and waited for the next command.

The Pope sped up the dinosaur with his remote and watched it climb up and over the mountain ranges of the world, gobbling up not only avatars but wannabe prophets, messiahs, visionaries of all creeds and persuasions. Our Godzilla.

"RAND will buy the rights to it...then we won't have to worry at all....at all! War Games are always in demand."

"China still has MFN status...it'll be cheap! Three cheers for Clinton and Gore."

"Dayton Hudson will retail the thing...let's stick to the prairie..keep it homey."

The Pope had to be helped away from the game, exhausted by the excitement, the prospects, and retired to his quarters. The others milled around the game board. A party seemed to be forming near a window in the dome. Some felt short changed by the display, others were merely perplexed, amused at the Pope's lack of tact.

"It needs some kind of continuity." A critic for People Magazine argued. "I mean what...I mean is that... it has to been serialized. Folks will grow bored with it. "

"So we need more Milk Bones for the T Rex....is that what you're saying?"

"Di...Bono..... Versace.... Kennedy... Floyd Kramer.... Denver... Kobain... Box Car Willie... hey...they're avatars in their own way...include them in the beast's regimen."

"It's all too confusing...all the channels we'll have to go through: The Royal Institute for International Affairs....."

"K-Tel."

Suddenly, in a spurt of autonomy, the Dinosaur started farting the song, "Candle in the Wind."

"Thanks for the Memento Mori." Madonna toasted the Dinosaur and guzzled her Spumanti and then wandered over to the window looking over the Martian landscape for another Oscar prospect.

"The Heritage Foundation"

"Ronco....just too many channels."

"What about public domain.....isn't that what death's all about?"

"I think you're on to something. We're getting a bead on this...get the Queen on the line and see if we can't get the Sinn Fein to take Prince Charles hostage, maybe drown his heirs in Guiness Stout....then blame it on the Loyalist Volunteer Force."

"Hey don't tire the dinosaur out...he needs love too!"

"O.K....wait everybody...we weren't invited up here to bamboozle the Pope into marketing this thing...what about sanctity?"

"You've got a point there....the sanctity issue. Hey...let's get out the thesaurus."

Having found one they scryed the following variations:

Devotion....reverence.....worship...divineness...venerableness

"Venerableness...hey that's good....like in Venerable Disease."

"What are you implying?"

"It's a venerable enterprise....now how can any earthling contest that?"

"We market the dinosaur and its meals and are impervious to litigation, infringement and all the other unpleasant inevitabilities of earth bound capitalism."

The thesaurus was snapped shut and a joie de vivre permeated the dome. One of the PRs dared to pluck the dinosaur off the field to examine it. He ran his pinky over its anus, cleaned the thing off on his Armani lapel. "You're an event horizon." He soliloquyed the hole and kissed it.

"Quit waxing maudlin will you....we're only here to scope this joint out...understand?"

"Are we?" The PR challenged. He placed the dinosaur back down and waved his hand over the model as if casting some lull over the populace. "We are insinuating ourselves into the diocese...nothing else."

"Have you ever tried to make jingles out of Latin...ones that'll stick? What language do you want to translate into the script? Urdhu?"

"Oh don't be so droll...this isn't the Upper West Side...we're on fucking Mars."

"Yeah...no one will hear us...right?"

"So what are you going to say during the breakfast report when we get back to New York...huh?"

"I've got something rehearsed...it'll sell."

"Look...Spielburg has lawyers the size of linebackers....even one scale off the back of one of his digital Brontosaurus is grounds for a Lawsuit."

"Remember the Veracity...I mean the..."

"Venerableness...what about it?"

"Well Venerableness has a nice ring to it...you still have that phone number of that down and out Broadway director?"

"Somewhere in my Holodex...what good is she, now that she's ruined?"

"She...has the key to many a costume."

"Last I heard about her she was doing Hugh Flint."

"See....works her way to the top...she could cat fight Fonda listening to the Spice Girls and Turner would give her Power of Attorney."

"Do we have the rights to a Paula Jones milk bone?"

"We have the rights to anything."

"Care to see the five sided pyramid?"

"No not tonight. Not with this reverie."

McHajj

Part VI

The fallen angel Ronald McDonald eyed Mickey Mouse suspectly but only for a moment. The affable rodent rictus molded so life like into the black fiberglass visage reassured him.. The Mouse screwed his head off to reveal the teenager within. He offered the head to Ronald as if it were a hunting trophy.

"You're gonna need this disguise when you cross the border." The defrocked Mickey squeaked.

Ronald sniffed the hollow of the head and winced.

"Well o.k. but what about the rest of me?" He gestured to his candy striped buffoon garb. "Won't this give me away?"

The teenager modulated back into baritone then smoothed his sweaty hair. "It's just Mexico...you don't need a real Passport." He said. He then began fingering a pimple on his chin. "Is there a Splurge machine around here? Third shift always make me thirsty. I need something X-Treme"

The Clown chuckled and put the head on. "Sure is dark in here....how do you put up with this day in and day out?" His voice echoed as if he were in a garbage can.

"In Mexico it's fifty cents an hour if they're lucky...I make at least eight times that much." The youth proudly stated.

The Marlboro Man demonstrated his finesse by jumping through a lasso, eventually working his way towards Mickey McDonald as a part of his rodeo routine. He even laughed a bit, but then caught himself and jammed a smoke in his lips. "You'd make a good lawyer for R.J. Reynolds. You just need yourself some pinstriped duds!" He suggested.

"Well that's a great idea Mr. Cowboy...then I really will be camouflaged! Viva La Virginia! Aaayeeee!" Ronald engaged in a Flamenco maneuver. The California Raisins mimicked the clown with a few prunish pirouettes and then climbed up on his shoes when he finally stopped and did a little tap dance routine.

"I didn't ask for a coronation ceremony." Ronald pleaded, but the festivities had already begun. Soon the other icons materialized from the airwaves.

Through the dust kicked up by all the feet at hand, emerged the Pillsbury Dough Boy. He climbed up on Ronald's shoulder, then perched himself on the ample mouse ear. "Soon a whole country will rise." He giggled as the Marlboro Man came over and pushed his navel in.

A third generation Gotti , nose clean, arrived and sacrificed his Bill Blass suit to the Clown. He then drove off naked in his black Lamborgini, throwing a briefcase out of the window. Ronald Mouse donned the suit and peered through the pinhole eyes of the costume head and discerned a procession in the distance, coming from the north. But it wasn't the Sudan he was scanning nor the Gobi. Only the outskirts of a Texas border town. Through the thermo-undulations of the distant mirage, on a makeshift palanquin, lay a dead Camel, it's head lolling obscenely with each advancement of the pallbearers. It's cartoon tongue was covered with flies. On top of him was some statutory harlot smoking a Camel. Her mascara tended to cake into the crevices of her eyes. Would having her be against the law or not? Only her digital cosmetician back in the editing room knew for sure.

When the procession neared, she dismounted, blew some smoke into the rodent's face, posed and walked around the mercenary buffoon. "Cute..very retro...I think it will do, but the shoes have to totally go." She summonsed one of the pallbearers to take off his Roccaboni's. They fit perfectly as if meant just for the Clown.

"I'm sad..." Ronald Mouse said, eyeing his footwear. "...now I'm obliged to take myself seriously."

"I'm outta here." The Teenager said, shedding the rest of his costume. He ran towards the edge of town on the outskirts. The Marlboro Man then pulled up the abandoned uniform around him and adjusted his cowboy Hat. He mounted his steed and started bullwhipping the Pallbearers: anorexic, morphinated fashion models, the Peg boys and Girls of the Calvin Klien Pirate State. The Floozie ran up to the tobacco yokel and pulled him off his mount just as his sadistic frenzy peaked. She started kissing him. Cowboys in mouse costumes turned her on. It was a perfect television moment. Regrettably, there were no cameras around.

Amidst the conflagration, a pick up truck arrived and out popped a couple of meat packers from a nearby factory farm. They had shotguns and pointed them at the Pallbearers. "Give us the goddamned Camel." Facing no resistance from the models, they threw ol' Joe in the back of their truck and headed back to the ranch. "We're gonna force feed this to Oprah Winfrey!!" They yee hawed away with their booty.

"I thought America was a democratic country." Ronald said, managing to ooze a tear out of the mouse eye where it absorbed into the hot velvet on the cheek. In spite of his sorrow, he looked rather dapper in his three piece suit and Mickey Mouse helmet.

"Don't forget this!" The California Raisins chorused. The dear little souls, all of them, managed to carry the Gotti briefcase over fifty yards of scorching mud flats, in a feat of synchronized strength and cooperation unmatched by any breed of ant. Ronald picked it up and clicked it open. Inside were high tech weapons: grenade launchers and other gleaming toys of destruction.

"They're just squirt guns." The Raisins reassured him and resumed their Rhumba back to California.

Enough of the decorum. It was high time to negotiate with the Mexican Government. There simply wasn't sufficient capital intensiveness in the Maquiladoras. The glory of NAFTA and GATT had already waned long ago. A pep talk for the chili pepper proletarians was in order. Ronald grew a bit paranoid. Was he being duped by his employers? Was he walking into a mouse trap? The feelings waned however as he realized that his mercy mission would be an inspiration to the Burger Faithful world wide. Maybe the Zapatista's would wise up and welcome him. Giant Mice were considered good omens to those folksy, museum piece people. So he was told. He fancied smoking some cigars with the guerrillas in the sultry jungles beyond the tourist conclaves and eating freshly caught fish smothered in fried bananas, all the while listening to the ocean waves and strums of the revolutionary guitar. Maybe Captain Morgan would arrive with a cache of Puerto Rican Rum. Maybe they'd sympathize and give him a red scarve and make him an honorary member of their tribe. He could then return to the Corporate lounge triumphant, where he could impress the fiscal lizards with his agile diplomacy.

It was the heat from the plastic mouse head that caused him to revery in such an unlilkely fashion. It took him less time to acclimatize to the small shoes and the restrictive clothing than it did to the head. But he quickly assumed a convincing gate, like a lobbyist working his way to the Capitol and waved goodbye to all his friends.

The Marlboro Man wrapped his arm around the heroin harlot and beckoned Ronald to come to them. Flooze X daubed some Obsession cologne on the Mouse's cheekbone and kissed him. She and the Cowboy turned and then walked into a sunset even though the time on the shooting script indicated high noon.

The Doughboy worked his way back towards headquarters. A trail of tears basted the would be croissant who browned up a bit in the sun. It was up to him alone to spread the Good News to the Yankees of Ronald's mission. He lost himself in a cumulus train of thought that floated above and saw something signaling to him in a kind of phosphorescent Morse code. From within the fluffy confines emerged an apparition.

The Doughboy sat down and giggled. His blue eyes brightened for a moment but then were cast in shadows as a revolutionary did indeed descend to the earth plane to greet him.

"All for the want of a dinner roll I suppose." The doughy homunculus quipped and bowed his head. "I see you don't have any hands either..."

"My friend...you don't understand...you shouldn't have let boss clown go. He will be in trouble. The cowboy would stand a better chance than any of you."

"Why don't you climb into the oven with me ...the cold war is over amigo."

"You do indeed warm my soul Doughboy. Thanks for reminding me. But I must tell you that his disguise won't work. He should have studied my dossiers concerning my Bolivia days. I could only hide out for so long dressed like a stiff."

"I beg your pardon Mr.Che..our clown knows what he is doing. I have confidence that his mission will succeed."

"But he doesn't know the ways of the south. He'll trip over some roots. The head may crack. A scorpion may sting him or a bat may bite him."

"Well what do you want me to do?"

"Ave Maria.....you're the expert in rising."

"No..no...not me..I am forever...uncooked....I'm unbakeable. My animators would be very angry if I turned up crusted for a shoot."

"Yes, I see...that is a problem. You couldn't articulate very well now could you? Maybe you need a disguise too. I could offer you my assistance. We could make a little suit for you too."

"Well I don't exactly trust you. Cuba is still Red after all these years and all that. Even if you are a ghost. No telling where El Nino will take you next."

"My country has many needs. We could use some instant dinner rolls...I will admit."

The Doughboy puffed up a bit and tipped his chef hat. "Does that mean we can lift the trade sanctions?"

"Well I suppose so...I'll run it by Monsieur Castro and see the next time I drift over his realm."

"Why do you care about Mexico anyway?'

"We are a global economy aren't we? Imagine if all your friends were Pinatas. You'd want your neighbors to help now and then wouldn't you? No telling what would spill out of the Charmin Toilet Paper Bear if he was wacked good. What if the Tidy Bowl man spilled his beans? You know what I mean? You wouldn't want your children eating his candy."

"O.K. I think you've convinced me. But it's already too late. Our clown has insinuated himself into the power structure....so you go and remember the Alamo and all that and say hello to Fidel for me.... I'll run it by the Board if I get a chance." The Doughboy sniffed.

McHajj

Part VII

Ronald McDonald parachuted into Taliban country. Disguised in a Chador, he navigated his way to Osama bin Laden's cave. The guards at the cave entrance spied Ronald's clown shoes and pointed their guns at him instantly.

"I'm just here to let you know that you can have it your way." Ronald said in fluent Arabic, so convincingly that the guards parted and invited him in, bowing respectfully as if he were the very prophet they had been waiting for. Ronald, reciprocating the respect, took off his wig and tossed the prop Chador aside. A towel was handed to him with a bowl of rosewater. He dipped the towel into the bowl and took his clown make up off. Without his disguise, except for a bit of greasepaint left on his nose, his true identity was revealed.

"Mr. William Casey." Bin said into his microphone. "So nice to see you again after all these years. We really thought you had perished from your so called brain tumor after that Iran-Contra shindig. But here you are before us...in all your immortal splendor. Or so it seems." Osama gestured to the man, placing his hand on his heart. "Before we begin, I'd like to conduct a little market research survey if you don't mind." Osama motioned for the ex-CIA head to have a seat before a table. McCasey sat down on the ground and crossed his legs. Osama then placed a bottle of Jack Daniels, a Beretta 9mm pistol and a bottle of RU-486 Abortion Pills on the table.

"Which of the these objects is the most truthful?" Osama asked. He puffed on a hookah, leering at William. The cave filled with clove scented hashish which sent William reeling into an instant contact high. He looked at each object thoughtfully, scrutinizing every detail that he could.

"I know what you're thinking..." Osama said. "You think it is a trick question...a trap."

"No..no...it is straightforward to me. But I believe there may be something that is lost in the translation." William replied, staring at some veiled object next to the others.

"What translation? You are speaking fluid Arabic. What do you mean?"

"I mean...what if I answer incorrectly? There may be cultural differences pertaining to what each of us thinks the truth is."

"Well, you'll have to glue the Buddha statues we blew up back together again.... piece by piece. We saved all the shrapnel. That isn't too terrible of a consequence now is it?"

"And if I answer correctly?"

Osama motioned for a delicately arabesqued curtain behind him to be pulled aside. There were three doors numbered 1, 2 and 3. Three anorexic models, Cindy Crawford type replicants, stood in front of each of the doors. A game show announcer came forth. Osama handed him the microphone.

"William...." The announcer said with a distinctly Hollywood, baritone camp. "You have a chance to win a valuable prize behind one of these doors. Simply choose which object is truthful and the corresponding door will be opened....if it is the correct one...the one corresponding to the absolute truth."

"Look I didn't come here to win anything. I came here to negotiate with you, your people. We are not the great satanic imperialists that you think we are. We are here to help you get back on your feet."

"And we are not the hashish crazed turban heads you make us out to be. For your information, I can read Urdhu poetry, do differential calculus on an abacus and play poker all at the same time. We invented the zero...don't you remember? Where would your Federal Reserve Bank be without zeros to play with? We translated Aristotle from Greek to Latin back in the 9th century. If it wasn't for us...you wouldn't have any Greek philosophers..none at all....to chew on. Just imagine how barren your universities would be."

Ronald William McCasey ignored Osama bin Laden. He resumed studying the objects before him as if he were preparing to make a checkmate move.

"Feel free to handle them." Osama reassured.

William put the bottle of abortion pills up to his ear and shook it. He shook his head and placed it back on the table. He picked up the bottle of Jack Daniels, opened it up and took a swig. He offered the bottle to Osama.

"Now we are getting somewhere." Osama said and took a swig. He gagged a bit but managed to swallow the booze.

"I think there is an object missing." William said, wits sharpened by the alchohol permeating his blood along with the THC. He picked up the gun and examined it. "You have no intention of giving me a prize at all. Do you?"

"With the whole world watching now....do you think I would cheat you? I've gotten enough bad press as it is." Osama took another swig and lit a Marlboro.

William pulled the magazine out of the Beretta. It was fully loaded. Hollow Points all the way. He slammed the magazine back in and pointed the gun at Bin Laden.

"If you point it at my heart and pull the trigger, perhaps you will finally know what the truth is. But on the other hand..."

The models grew restless and paced back and forth in front of the three doors. It was getting drafty in the cave. "Will you please get on with this." One of them yelled. "We want to go back home before the Stockholm Syndrome takes effect."

"I want to know what the fourth object is." William demanded. "...Or I drop the hammer."

"Very well...it is inevitable...so it says in the Koran anyway." Osama reached over and pulled a veil away. On the table next to the other three objects was the 2002 Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Calendar in its full, four color glory. William placed the gun back on the table. He took the abortion pills out, sprinkled them on the calendar. He placed the gun on top of the pills and poured some Jack Daniels over the pile to consecrate the offering. He sat back and smiled.

"You might as well open the door. I have found the truth."

Osama laughed sardonically. "Get your wig back on. You won't be able to handle the truth when it is revealed. None of your people ever will."

To complete the equation, door number one and door number three were opened simultaneously. Behind door number one stood a platoon of Contra soldiers waiting for orders. Behind door number three was an exquisite statue of the Shah of Iran made out of solid brass. He had the brazen serpent of Moses draped over his shoulders like a mink stole. The serpent squirmed about as if it had been speared with a bamboo fondue stick.

"Well my friend....you are lucky you came on our holy Friday. We have decided to give you what is behind door number two. Girls...the real prize please!"

One of the Cindy Crawford models tried to pull up the door but it was stuck. Her comrades in rouge came over and tried to help. But the door would not budge. Pools of blood seeped from underneath the door and began to flow past their sequined pumps and onto the game show stage.

William just grinned and took it all in. He could wait another fifteen years for the truth to be revealed if he had to.

McHajj

Part VIII

With the cooperative efforts of all three fashion models, door number two was finally raised. A Mossad agent,wearing a T-shirt with the slogan 'Israel is Innocent' emblazoned in crimson across the front, stood atop a papier-mâché facsimile of the Dome of the Rock. He posed like the Statue of Liberty, crowned with thorns. Instead of a torch, he held a blood covered knife. The blood dripped off of his upraised knife and trickled down his arm. He clutched the Koran to his chest and stared out of the cave which opened upon the Afghani panorama extending far away, into the beyond. A red haired Heifer, its neck cut wide open, expired its last breath and laid at the base of the dome. The malnourished Cindy Crawford replicant models rushed in and began butchering the calf, lusting for some fresh bovine sushi. The Marlboro Man rolled out a meat grinder and began making burger. Joe Camel, covered with calf's blood that dripped through some iron grating in the dome, crawled out from a little hole in the side of the makeshift rock and fired up a Weber gas grill.

"Mr. Casey....you have chosen wisely." Osama spoke into his microphone. "But before you claim your prize, I have one more question for you. Don't worry though....it has nothing to do with the truth or anything like that. Would you be willing to move the CIA, lox, stock and barrel, into the Temple of Solomon? American contractors have already made bids long before the calf was even born to build the temple. Such are the advantages of insider information." Osama said.

William grabbed the bottle of RU-486 pills off of the table and swallowed a couple. "And I'll bet that you thought it was going to be me that would give birth to the next Messiah."

"I'm so pleased that you still have a sense of humor Mr. Casey. But come now.... we must negotiate. I mean the United States of America spends over forty-billion dollars a year on surveillance and intelligence..but you still have not found me. Moving your little operation closer to home just might help your cause in finding the real enemy."

The Mossad agent stepped down from the dome, handed the knife to one of the models struggling to hack a triangle roast out of the calf with her razor sharp fingernails. He walked over and pulled up a chair with Osama and Casey. He tossed the Koran on the table, took a swig of Jack Daniels and lit a Marlboro. He paged through the Sports Illustrated calendar but wasn't all too impressed by the fare.

"Five Star Temple of Solomon Hotel...at least on the surface." The Mossad agent enticed the directorial clown, tossing the calendar aside and picking up the 9mm Beretta, examining the barrel. Holograms of the Somoza dictatorship hovered above his virtually burden free shoulders. He put the Beretta on top of the Koran and spun it around like a bottle. It pointed at Osama. The Mossad agent smiled and puckered up his lips. Osama reached over and kissed the Mossad agent fervently. The two became deeply aroused and pursued their amour further.

"Well..well..if it isn't the Zionic Man. We meet again." Casey said, sabotaging the ad lib love tryst in front of him. Blushing, he shook hands with the Mossad agent to squelch the mounting passion. "I see that you are having no trouble sleeping at night are you? You're lucky we didn't spill the beans on your funding of the fascist regimes in Taiwan, Argentina and.... "

"Enough out of you Casey. Do you realize that we stuck our necks out to cop some of Ariel's jism..." The Mossad agent interrupted. "... in order to conjure up the calf, not to mention greasing the palms of your Monsanto boys for an egg worthy enough to fertilize such an apocalypse. You owe me one Casey." The Mossad agent said, wiping his bloody hands on the front of his T-shirt. He picked up the Koran, opened it up and showed it to William. The Balfour Declaration, written in Arabic was on the inside cover.

"Abracadabra." The Mossad agent said. He closed the book with great force. He opened it again and the letters were in Hebrew. He closed it and then opened it again. The letters were in Sanskrit.

"I'm not William Casey...I'm Ronald McDonald." The ex-CIA director said, unimpressed with the morphs. "Besides that...we owe you nothing. All of America thinks Osama did it. How much more breathing room do you need?"

"Gentlemen....please. There's a war going on .... don't you know?" Osama bin Laden reminded the two, speaking into the microphone for all the world to hear. "William please sign on the dotted line. It isn't as complicated as you think. Think of all the perques of having your headquarters in Jerusalem and not Virginia."

"Please Osama I'm supposed to be dead. I'm not up for a second coming if that's what you are hinting at."

"Well then....it's double or nothing. Girls....please!" Osama clapped his hands and his Harem of fashion models responded. Using the Mossad agent's knife, one of the models slit open the stomach of the red calf. Joe Camel dropped his spatula, pulled the Lamb of God out of the gash and held it up to the television camera lights. The Lamb bleated obscenely, humming an Andrew Lloyd Weber show tune in attempts to harmonize its incarnation with the surrounding covert cavern. Osama got up, ran over and put the microphone to the Lamb's mouth.

"The Lamb will be the showpiece of all time. Imagine what a tourist attraction it will be. A magnet for pilgrims. Just the boost we need." Osama sang along with the Lamb of God in perfect synchronization.

One of the models took the brazen serpent off the Shah of Iran's shoulders and stuffed it into the wound of the red calf. The serpent slithered a bit and disappeared into the carcass. The contra soldiers climbed up on the Dome of the Rock and posed, in Iwo Jima fashion as they planted a blue and white colored flag at its peak.

McHajj

Part IX

Ronald McDonald entered the lobby of the Bayer Corporation. He gave a Heil Hitler salute to the security cameras, did a 23 Skidoo and filtered himself through an array of three piece suits and into an elevator. The lobbyists barely contained their annoyance with his heavily hairsprayed, Frankincense scented wig which he shook to free it of the pistachio shells which it gathered back in Afghanistan. Ronald got off on the Board of Trustees floor. The lobbyists followed dutifully in his tracks and queued up behind him.

"Welcome Mr. McDonald." Fritz Ter Meer greeted the clown in the hallway, extending his trembling, liver spotted hand for Ronald to shake. "We realize you have had your share of engagements these days and want to thank you for respecting the urgency of the matter at hand. I trust your trip was a safe one."

"Everything is 1st Class on Air Force one your honor." The clown chuckled and did a hand free cartwheel into the boardroom. The lobbyists entered and crowded together like Lemmings on an L shaped sofa in a corner, putting their briefcases on the floor.

"Sorry to hear that you didn't win big on Osama's little makeshift Let's Make a Deal." George W. Bush lamented. "Just so you know, it was just a formality. You should know that those shows are always rigged." He sat next to wax replicas of I. G. Farben CEOs, nearly indistinguishable from his inanimate colleagues.

"Well,...Mr. Commander in Chief, I don't want to sound like I'm unpatriotic, but there are no winners in this war, rigged or not. "

"Oh...I wouldn't go that far. Apparently you lack martial seniority Mr. McDonald." George said. He got up and took a plastic Bic lighter out of his jacket pocket and lit the wicks on the tops of the wax statues heads's.

"There is more than one way to keep the flame burning."

Suddenly a holographic pedigree of the Bush family appeared behind him. Blazing in amber laser light, the pedigree betrayed, for all to see, the dubious, Aryanized blood lineage of the President. Fritz Ter Meer charged at the airborne indictment and swiped at it with a broom as if it were a cobweb. The pedigree merely moved aside, dodging the codger's attempts to eradicate it. Then the hologram changed,morphing into the financial pro forma of Bush/Bin-Laden family business deals, modulating cryptically into Sanskrit, Hebrew, Phoenician and then into English. One of the I.G. Farben Golems stood up and touched his fontanel flame upon the hologram and the whole thing flared itself into the CIA logo. The loge shone forth with an ever renewed brilliance. The eagle on the logo began preening its feathers and them resumed its assigned pose.

"Well, enough ceremony my friends. We need to get this mandatory immunization program rammed through Congress and into the carotid artery of every United States citizen." Fritz proclaimed and then kissed the animated golem on the lips who reciprocated the caress by extending his waxen arm and touching the thigh of the dubious board member with his fused together fingers. Holographs of WWII slave laborers appeared above them in response to the passion.

"We need to make it appealing to the American public. There are way too many NIMBYS out there that will make a squawk." A faceless lobbyist proclaimed.

"How about a free hamburger for a shot program?" Ronald suggested and did a pirouette, losing his balance and nearly crashing through a plate glass window overlooking Washington, D.C.

"No...it has to have an even broader appeal than that. People need to be convinced that they need the shots. Not to save their lives but rather....."

"To make themselves upwardly mobile in an age of terminal downsizing." One of the suits proclaimed, intoxicated by the prospect of his ad lib innovation. He broke away from the Lemming pack and started circling the table. "We aren't just immunizing people to prevent Small Pox or Ebola or whatever other trifling terroristic virus there is flitting about in the atmosphere. We are unconditionally offering our special serum, encoded with some very special DNA, free of charge, to the downtrodden."

"Whose?" Herr Meer shouted, obviously excited by the prospect. "We don't have the funds to make an expedition to Antarctica you know. Look what happened to Admiral Byrd. We need something closer to home."

"Well, you cannot get any closer than this." The Lobbyist said and produced a syringe from his breast pocket and stuck it into the animated Golem. He drew out a strange, syrupy substance from the veins of the mannequin. Without warning, he then plunged the syringe into Ronald McDonald's triceps and injected the clown with the ambrosia.

"God, how redundant." Another Lobbyist said., falling out of character. He was chastised into submission by his colleagues immediately.

"I suggest that you stretch your corporate attention spans a bit more my fellow Americans." The Lobbyist continued.

Ronald McDonald stood at attention and saluted. Suddenly, he grabbed two Mont Blanc pens and began ambidextrously writing on two separate notepads on the boardroom table to the amazement of all present. On the left hand pad he deftly inscribed the United States Constitution, using the identical calligraphic style that the original was drafted with. On the other notepad he inscribed an obscure law passed in 1886 ruling that a corporation is a person and entitled to the very same rights that a person has. He dropped the pens, ripped the pages off the notepads and crumbled them together into one wad. He tossed the wad, hitting George W. Bush on the forehead. The wad landed on the table in front of the President who mindlessly grabbed it and turned it over in his fingers.

"Is there enough plasma in the I.G. Farben Golem to make the rounds? We've got 280 million arms we've got to plunge this stuff into." George W. asked, unfolding the crumpled wad and smoothing the pages out on the table. The hologram persisted above his head, now morphing into a version of what Ronald McDonald had just written, the text fusing into a fluorescent mobius strip that extended upward through the building and up into the Ionosphere. The Ionosphere reciprocated the geometry of the documents and further charged its particles in its atmospheric provence, in global fashion.

McHajj

Part X

A spotlight trains upon a small circular stage three feet in diameter. An audience of a few select men surrounds this rotating platform on which the CIA logo is inscribed. From the left comes the Charmin Teddy Bear and from the right the Pillsbury Doughboy. They both mount the stage like little Sumo wrestlers and take a bow, losing their balance slightly as they spin around. The Charmin Teddy Bear acclimatizes to the centrifugal force, advances a few steps and grabs the Pillsbury Doughboy's arm, twists it and throws the inflated icon down to the mat. Soon the two are kissing and the Doughboy instantly submits, turning over on to his stomach, arching his back suggestively, spreading his boneless legs and stroking his featureless crotch. Adequately aroused by the invitation, the Charmin Bear carves a pentagram into the left buttock of the Doughboy with his claws. He then deeply augurs augurs the unbaked anus so dutifully offered up to him without a trace of expectation or regret.

In spite of the commercial transgression at hand, the lights brighten enough to reveal the audience more sufficiently. A miasma of lust hangs in the air. But not a single gentleman in this implicate Adult Entertainment Club plays pocket pool.

Ronald McDonald stops the stage via remote control, walks over and injects a mixture of methamphetamine, heroin, mescaline and crack cocaine into the Bear's testicles. The Pillsbury Doughboy receives a dose of pure DMT directly in his eyeball. The clown kneels down at the edge of the stage activating it back into rotation, caressing his icons, reassuring them of their place in the overall scheme of things before they careen into a Virtual Stratosphere far beyond the dimensional confines of Spook Central.

A Marlboro Man pulls the two apart and arranges them into the Tibetan Yab Yum position, helping the Charmin Bear into a Full Lotus Position, making sure his spine is straight to facilitate the unadulterated rise of capitalist kundalini. He places the tripping Doughboy on top, then kneels down next to Ronald. A single spot light trains on the Tantric couple as they reunite, vis-a-vis.

During this Unio Mystica, Anton La Vey emerges from the darkness of the agency's periphery, along with L. Ron Hubbard, Jack Parsons and Aleister Cowardly. They all surround the stage, kneel and then hold hands as a shaft of malignant green light extends upwards. The Charmin Bear and Doughboy simultaneously orgasm, the Bear's drug saturated semen fertilizing the Doughboy's anomalous, rectal ovum. A portal to an astral realm is opened, both within and without. The Doughboy vomits, an indication of successful impregnation. He will gestate the fetus colonically.

The Doughboy and the Charmin Bear fall away from each other in exhaustion.

"Boy...this Babalon Working sure takes a lot out of a guy!" The Pillsbury Doughboy exclaims. "Are we done yet?"

Mr. Whipple emerges from some additional darkness, carrying a bundle of folders which he surrounds the stage with. Colonel Sanders now emerges carrying a rack of blood samples which he places between the sexually spent icons laying on the stage, covered with costume sweat.

"Take a look Doughboy." Says the Bear with a resurgence of energy, enabling him to pick his lover up off the vomit covered stage to look. "These are the top secret classified files from the Dachau medical experiments. Bet you're dying to know what's in those vials."

Doughboy cannot bring himself to a giggle. He only quivers in anticipation as some lights within the stage turn on, filtering through not only the CIa logo, but the blood samples as well. The light cast from the vials illuminates the icons with a dirty red hue which swirls about like psychedelic oil lamps of a bygone era, as the stage continues to spin.

Mr. Whipple pulls out a roll of Toilet Paper and starts mummifying Jack Parsons, then circles the stage over and over again, mumbling some toxic incantation.

"Oh Boy!" The Doughboy exclaims. He wrestles free of the Charmin Teddy Bear and leaps into the arms of Anton La Vey who takes his pentagram necklace off and gives it to him. Doughboy puts the pentagram on and beams with pride.

"Will you be the godfather of my Moon Child...Mr. Anton?" The Pillsbury Doughboy asks hopefully, wiggling his butt in hopes that the Has Been Satanist would unconsciously reciprocate the code.

"Are you kidding? I'm trying to escape this astral franchise chain. Not get more deeply imbedded in it. I mean..each time a book of mine is sold, I turn over in my grave for Christ's sake! I don't believe in any of this crap."

"How about you Master Therion? What wilt thou do in the name of the law? Nothing is Permitted...Everything is Real. So how about it? Will you be my son's God-Daddy?"

"What good would your Moon Child do for me at this stage in my career? Help advise me during a magic war with Osama? I'm just a talent scout these days. Sorry."

Lafayette Ron picks up the Pillsbury Doughboy, cradling it in his arms. He starts spinning. The energy generated from the spin activates a Golden Dawn sefiroth which sprouts from his Fontanel. The sefiroth is wrapped in more toilet paper.

"How about you Mr. Hubbard? When my Moon Child is born OT maybe you can share some of those juicy top secrets you never wrote about. If you say yes...I'll name my full moon baby.... Mest."

"You better ask Tom Cruise or John Travolta. Sorry...but I'm out of the loop too."

A technician reaches up and turns off the video monitor in the Brookhaven Laboratory. He shuts down the ultra high powered, hyper-space electron microscope which enables his colleagues to witness the mascot nano-sodomy.

"I want this molecular sex show replicated en masse and put into the Bio-Terrorism serum when the next Anthrax outbreak is staged. Only Yogis who can reduce their consciousness to the subatomic level can ever know that the Babalon rite will be playing out simultaneously in the Red, White and Blue blood cells of every United States Citizen who gets the mandatory inoculation."

"We need to change the ending though. All those dinosaur occultists waltzing with the Pillsbury Doughboy Moon Child Mother? I don't think so." George W. Bush said. "We're a proactive administration. We need some Aquarian sensibility for a change."

"By any means necessary...in my opinion." The Brookhaven technician replied impatiently. "If we run them through another rehearsal again...they'll lose their spontaneity. I mean it is hard to get a Doughboy to vomit and come at the same time." He turned the video monitor back on. "Worse...they may figure out how to grow back to normal size and demand access rights to this dimension."

"Look! Anton is nursing the Moon Child!" George W. exclaimed pointing at the video monitor. "Maybe there is hope!"

"Rewind it to the birth and use that segment of the show as the basis for the central molecule of the serum. Make it a binding protein or something. Maybe replicate it as a DNA molecule that promises to heal the nation if everyone gets the microchip shot."

"Don't worry...we can rewind the tape at anytime and upload it to a transponder satellite. Any time a citizen gets out of line they'll be reminded of their allegiance to the New World Order by an astral gatekeeper specifically designed to home in on their genetic vibration."

"I want to be an Astral Gatekeeper." The Charmin Teddy Bear proclaimed from a molecule, obviously eavesdropping the conversation.

"I'm just as good an Enochian Yogi as John Dee was." The Doughboy said and did the Cobra asana effortlessly.

The electron microscope magnified them so all could see their cold blooded baby writhing in ecstacy like the Brazen Serpent of Moses, all swaddled up in Mr. Whipple's toilet paper, waiting to be let loose upon the world so it could climb the sefiroth still pulsating out of L. Ron Hubbard's head. It would take someone of the spiritual stature of the Tidy Bowl Man to get the serpent threaded properly on the Tree of Life however, before that could ever happen.

Mc Hajj

Part XI

New Jersey Pine Barrens. The Marlboro Man carries Ronald McDonald in his arms across the wastes and places him in the center of a circle made of pure powdered graphite. Tears cascade down his weathered cheeks and mix with the powder, forming a small black, syrupy pool. He pulls out a bugle from his rawhide knapsack and starts playing Taps. Soon Delta Force soldiers emerge, rappelling from Black Helicopters, crawling out from the woods, emerging from fox holes, clandestinely gathering around the dead clown. They lower their heads in respect, pointing their flame throwers, grenade launchers and machine guns away from the circus performer. Soon Palmolive Madge emerges, leading a chain gang of credit card carrying Anarchists, Poets, Chaos Accountants, Biker Dykes and other misfits of the all but forgotten fringe. Madge is dressed like Eva Peron and forces her prisoners to join hands with the Delta Force mourners, making the circle around Ronald McDonald even bigger. She takes out a bottle of dish detergent and squirts a chartreuse, carbonated orbit around the mourners. The detergent mixes with the graphite and creates an instant vortex.

Taps is finished and the Marlboro Man kneels down. He takes out a Bowie Knife and cuts a ten inch slit in McDonald's gut. Out of the bloodless tissue emerges a giant, shimmering, Faberge egg which hovers above the circle, spinning in prograde fashion, generating a deceptive golden light which blinds the prisoners, causing them to collapse in the dust. They writh around in agony, propelling into a malign dimension, a virtual Hollywood which extends quaquaversally, to infinity, having its tenuous umbilical cord attached to a terminal Fort Dix placenta far beyond their tangible grasp.

The dirty aura around this vaporous Tinsel Town is hard to penetrate without any guiding lights. The prisoners start to walk around wondering if it is a benign parallel universe or yet another 4-D con job like so many others currently glutting the multi-dimensional market.

"God... if only I can break my contract with OTO. I'm tired of being their fraudulent multiple personality stooge. I mean...I know I'm a prisoner of the lower astral plane and imbibe in all sorts of amateur Chaos magic through the Internet.... but....that icky egg business was all mine to begin with. I own the rights to the thing. I'm just waiting for the right time to emerge back into the light and confront the truth." A prisoner steps forth and proclaims, assuming leadership of the wayward group so desperate for orientation. He pulls out a Gucci briefcase and has his ginghamed squadron gather around.

"Speaking of the truth, the egg came straight out of Tyson Foods's bio tech labs. Some illegal migrant workers were forced to make the thing to begin with, far below minimum wage....I might add. They mixed Prozac, Viagra and Ritalin with Radioactive Nostoc and fed it to a transexual, albino hen who then laid the thing on July 20th 1969. The hen backmask incubated the thing for the next eleven years in the region of Alnitak, forwardly speaking. I didn't want to say anything....hurt any feelings. You know...I mean...what I really didn't want to tell you is that free love would come at such a price as this." The prisoner confesses and sheds a few Kimodo Dragon tears. He pulls out a contract and attempts to show his followers that he has full legal rights to the egg. But a sudden wind blows the contract out of his hands and into a waiting fountain six yards away. The contract turns into a fascsimile of the Rosetta Stone and sinks to the bottom, resting on a bed of pennies cast by well wishers of bygone dimensions. From above the pennies can be seen to spell out: ORION.

The prisoners work their way to the fountain. A giant, gleaming white chicken egg, 40 feet high, emerges from the waters. Their ad hoc leader beams with pride.

The egg has the Tyson Foods logo on it.

"Well....the trans-dimensional consciousness the egg was supposed to allow us to access....that was only sales pitch to get you all to come along for the ride since I didn't have any money to help you finance your illusions back then. I can say these things....now that I'm all used up...and have nothing to lose really....except for....except for.....my real identity. Whatever that may be." The maverick chicken cowboy confesses and sheds a few more lizard tears for effect. He takes a judges mallet imported from the Supreme Court and resting on the plinth of the egg's stand and taps the shell three times. The egg chimes like Big Ben in London but does not crack open.

"Sturdy sucker isn't it?" The Prisoner admits. "Has stood the test of time..."

Meanwhile, back in New Jersey, the Delta Force study the dilemma of the Tinsel Town tourists as they try to think their way out of the trans-dimensional paper bag.

"Pretty impotent bunch of nobodies if you ask me." A soldier observes and turns on his flame thrower, heating up the golden egg hovering above the dead Ronald McDonald. "Don't mean to cook the data...but I'm getting ants in my pants."

"No wonder they're too scared to confront the light of day." Another soldier observes prosaically, watching the rag tag crew jumping into the fountain, trying to flee the heat in their world.

"Cut them some slack." Palmolive Madge says and squirts dish detergent on the base camp egg as if to extinguish the flames, only to watch her ambrosia bubble up and smoke in the heat. "At least they don't have to stand trial like those SLA bank robbers." She says and starts to to a Fox Trot with the Marlboro Man. "Or go on tour again like Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young."

"Not yet." The Commander of the Delta Force says. "Listen you has been hippies....if you can't stand the heat...get out of the kitchen." He yells at the ardent egg and laughs. "Now turn up that flamethower full bore ....soldier!"

"Yes sir!!"

As the flames engulf the egg back in the Pine Barrens, Ronald McDonald opens his eyes and watches the inferno above him. Shaking himself out of the dream, he asks, "Is it a boy or girl?" He tries to raise his arms, eager to embrace the prodigal Phoenix yet to be hatched in Hollywood, watching the shelled mystery spin around and around, just out of his reach.

McHajj

Part XII

"Cook it good! I'm hungry for an Omelet!" The Delta Force Commander yells. The soldier concentrates the flame-thrower on the bottom of the egg and turns it up to full. Ronald McDonald tries to resurrect himself but the heat radiating from the egg pushes him back down. He cannot help but think that the bottom of the egg looks like the heat shield of a space capsule upon reentry into the earth's atmosphere. He blinks to make sure that it is real and then grabs a handful of New Jersey Pine Barren soil, sprinkling it on the Caesarian wound in his stomach.

Mrs. Olsen comes out of the woods with a silver tray, filled with cups of steaming Folger's Coffee. She hands them out to the soldiers. She puts one next to the clown.

"Having any luck?" She asks the Marlboro Man, backing away from the heat and offering him some coffee. The Marlboro Man lights a cigarette and shakes his head, tears nearly emerging from his denim blue eyes.

"Why so morose? I didn't time travel from 1969 for this kind of treatment..I mean you were still on television back then with your pardners. Weren't you?" Mrs. Olsen says and kisses the cowboy. "Come on now...it's the richest kind! Enjoy!" She forces a cup upon the cowboy who reluctantly takes it and starts whistling the Marlboro theme song.

As the Delta Force takes five and savors their Java, she turns around and hurls her pot of Instant Colombian Coffee at the ominous egg. Thus christened, it shatters, calcinated shrapnel cutting through the soldiers like a land mine in Afghanistan. Only the ad icons survive the decimation, reconstituting instantly, genetically wired for instant rejuvenation.

Above Ronald McDonald, hovers an oblong mirror which spins around.

"Careful now...it is a hyper-dimensional portal..." Palmolive Madge warns her companions, looking away as if the mirror were Medusa. "It may lead to Brookhaven Lab. Or maybe to Los Alamos. Or directly into the Eye of Horus." She squirts some dish detergent on the rotating mirror and suddenly it stops. The green syrup runs down the quicksilver surface and starts to congeal into a map of some city. "On the other hand....maybe not. Maybe we are simply supposed to look at it...and admire ourselves."

"It could be a wormhole leading to Fort Dix. I don't trust it." Father Nature says, puffing on a Corona cigar. He is covered with tobacco leaves and sports a Roman Toga. He quickly disappears back into the short lived ad campaign that gave birth to him in the first place only to be replaced by the Trix Rabbit who throws a handful of cereal into the mirror.

Ronald manages to right himself and walks over to the others. He sweeps the dirt off his albumin encrusted stomach and looks at himself through the maze of dark green lines. One line of mirror baked dish detergent has the word 'Sunset Strip' in gold lettering upon it.

"I gave birth to a map mirror?" He asks, disoriented upon sight of his reflective progeny. "What kind of Phoenix is this? That's the last time I'll ever let some misfit anarchists do a group meditation and try to create paradise. Serves them right to be trapped in Hollywood now. Maybe they'll appear in the next Billy Crystal or Robin Williams movie. One with no ending." Ronald says with a bitterness he cannot hide. "Infinite Billy Crystal...imagine it if you can."

"You're the goose that laid the golden egg...you should be happy!" Mrs. Olsen says, beaming pride. She sloshes some coffee on the mirror, washing away the cartographic portent Ronald discovered. "Now let's go!" Mrs. Olsen runs towards the mirror, jumps and then absorbs herself into its ubiquitous reflection. As she enters, the mirror spins back into the silver egg craft it always was when a baker's dozen of pineal glands were put on the meditative grindstone.

"Might as well...ain't nothing here in this dismal place. Probably a toxic dump underneath all of this for all I know." Ronald says and disappears into the mirror's calculated whirlpool. Soon the others follow until none are left. Only a field of dismembered Delta Force soldiers strewn to the perimeters of the war theater vista. There are not even any starving, squat exiled anarchists from NYC to strip them of their wallets, gold fillings and weapons.

"Hey Sarge..." A haggard looking Chaos Magician says, unable to grasp the nonlinear dynamics of the Tyson Foods Corporation Egg spinning above the Tinsel Town fountain. " Something's happening." He picks at a stubborn nose hair, trying to distract himself from the portent.

"How am I supposed to know what's going on? My modem is my periscope and there's no place to plug it in. I'm sorry. I'm a virtual nobody with out it." The leader says and starts spinning around as if mocking the orbit of the egg, only to get dizzy, Eustachian tube clogged with silicon.

"Sarge...the egg...it's starting to crack. It could be an ensigilization technique. Delta Force may be breaking into this dimension and putting a spell on us."

The leader ignores the admonitions. "I know you didn't have slave labor in mind when you hired them, so I forgive you for that Mr. Tyson. But really....hostilely taking over our egg and using it as your billboard...that's a bit too much. At least you can siphon your vulture fund and give us a little perque so we can get out of here." The leader confronts the egg, hopping up on the edge of the fountain. "We did create this egg now...didn't we?" He asks his group. "We have exclusive rights....don't we?"

He receives no response from his pathetic platoon.

A Biker Dyke comes near. She has a smegmatic gematria, gleaned from Naomi Wolf, hidden in a purple silk pouch. She takes it out of her pocket and tosses it into the fountain. She closes her eyes and concentrates.

"An etheric shadow time pattern is emerging." She says. "Its probability of taking over is rather high at the moment. Last thing we need now...now that we're trapped here."

"Shadow time? Is it in 4/4? I need something simple to tap my foot to."

A teenage computer hacker nears the fountain. The leader of the group starts shaking. "Don't need a modem in the wireless age Roger...." He says and pulls out a laptop and attempts to hack into the egg.

"Retroactive enchantment coming in....." He says, peering at some binumeral scintillation scrolling down his razor thin monitor. The scintillation turns into serpentine demons of black rubber. The pixel reptiles start to belch and smoke. The hacker starts shaking, eyes roll back into his head. Obligatory froth comes out of the corner of his mouth as well.

Suddenly the egg shatters. Ronald McDonald, Palmolive Madge and their colleagues hover above the fountain for a moment, then fall. Ripping off their clothes they start dancing around. Suddenly colored lights are activated and the fountain jets start spraying water through the sleazy, virtual hypersphere.

"We're a Chaos Thunderbolt!" All the ad icons sing at once in the key of G Major. They hold hands and zigzag their way through the ripples, doing the Bunny Hop and Shuggy Shu.

"Come on in...Mr. Hyper-Dimensional Hero!! The water's not too cold." Palmolive Madge beckons. I mean look at the non-dissipation we are sustaining!"

"Listen you commercial cretins...I realize that my software is obsolete, but I'd rather stay high and dry." The leader blurts out, unable to move.

Captain Morgan, the Rum Pirate descends from a Deus Ex Machina created, sleight of mind, by some faceless Golden Dawn stooge, implicately removed from the consequences of the scene and prods the egghead leader with his sword.

"Walk the plank Matey!! Dive into this ocean of your own making." Captain Morgan shoves the leader down the plank and into the brink. He takes a swig of rum and spews it over the water. The shards of the exploded egg float around like Styrofoam kickboards. Off into the deep end, the leader grabs onto one, unable to swim.

"It is only stochastic reality...nothing to worry about." Ronald McDonald tells the man overboard. "All you have to do is slow Planck Time down enough to make the light trying to shine from your heart stand still. Still enough to create droplets of flavored light which you can make essential aromatherapy oils from. Am I understood?"

"Quicken Planck Time." A Sufi poet says. "Not slow it down. Breathe a little Baraka into it for Allah's sake."

Roger starts to sink into the murk below as Ronald McDonald and the Sufi poet argue. The Marlboro Man grabs him and brings him back to the surface. The Cowboy pulls a blow molded demon out of his heart chakra. The demon squirms but cannot free himself. With his Bowie knife the Marlboro Man slits the throat of the astral rodent and spills its aluminum colored blood into the water. It congeals like droplets of oil. The lights in the fountain project through the oil slick and reflect off something shiny above, creating a marbled pattern in somber greys and blacks.

All present become immersed in this aerial Rorschach movie. A purely objective image, seen by all present appears: the execution of Falun Gong members in Tienenmen Square.

McHajj

Part XIII

As the hypo-dimensional New Jersey Pine Barrens anti-hero drowns in his own piss back in the Hollywood fountain, the ad icons take advantage of the moment and slip away from the plight via a sultry Brookhaven wormhole and instantly emerge at the base of Mount Arafat. Ronald McDonald and company join with the travel weary pilgrims and start to climb, hoping to fully reconcile the awful Hollywood experience, shedding themselves of the implicate iniquity of the place. But the Hajj pilgrims are dismayed when they discover that their sacred site has been co-opted by something most unlikely, something never before seen in their time tested, Koran. At the summit, three crosses are silhouetted in the morning light. Hanging on the left cross is the thief George W. Bush. On the right hand cross is the thief Jiang Zemin. The center cross is empty.

"Mr. McDonald....we've been waiting for you." Jiang Zemin says. "Hop aboard."

"I just got done with a Caesarian birth...and now you're asking me to be crucified? How much can a clown take in one day?"

"Do it for your country Ronald." George W. Bush commands.

"What country is that?" Ronald challenges.

"Hush hush...now is your time to step into the Globalization Limelight." Palmolive Madge says and pushes the clown towards the empty cross. "You're going to be the real hero of this war if you do what you are told."

Some Muslim pilgrims, recognizing the portent, prop a ladder against the crucifix. Without any further encouragement the clown climbs up and mounts himself on the cross. His wrists and ankles are expertly lashed to the sturdy fixture and he is left hanging, flanked by his newfound friends. Dr. Mengele appears, riding up Mount Arafat on a Bactrian camel. He pulls out his trusty Auschwitz First Aid Kit, opens it and proceeds to insert intravenous tubes in both Bush's and Zemin's arms. He then runs these tubes into the arms of the clown who barely winces when the catheters are plunged into his waiting veins. In a few minutes, the disparate blood types merge, mix and then spurt through the unhealed Caesarian wound. One by one the pilgrims take turns bathing in the never ending fountain of mixed blood squirting out of the clown's stomach. Ronald McDonald bleats like a Ram going to slaughter, commanding a simultaneous four octave range.

"He can never die for your sins." The Tidy Bowl Man says grimly through a megaphone, pointing at Ronald McDonald with a toilet bowl brush and beckoning more pilgrims to come forth for the mandatory WTO baptism.

"Bet you Hajj Honchos never figured that China was behind the 9-11 attacks." The Tidy Bowl man says in Arabic. "Aren't you a little suspicious that these two 'presidents' are meeting during your little hoe-down on this here mountain?"

"I need to get back to Hollywood." Ronald McDonald interrupts, squirming to get free. "My ragamuffin eggcraft friends are trapped in a perpendicular universe. I'm starting to feel their pain. I can't stand to see any more human rights violations."

"Oh...so our savior is feeling pain?" The Tidy Bowl Man takes a swig of Jack Daniels.

"I'll show you pain." The Tidy Bowl Man points to another set of crosses only fifty yards away. On the right cross is the thief Ariel Sharon. On the left cross is the thief Yassar Arafat. In the middle is the Marlboro Man, lashed into position with his own lasso. Mengele sighs, rides his camel over to the trio and does his deft intravenous wiring. Soon the Marlboro Man is squirting his special blend plasma over eager pilgrims running to the base of his cross and kneeling.

"Who suffers more...the cowboy or the clown?" The Tidy Bowl Man asks.

"There's no mystery over there. So don't read into it Mr. Tidy Bowl Man. You too Dr. Mengele." Ronald yells but is growing weaker from the blood loss.

"Check yourself clown....you're up their hanging for a reason....committing magic acts in public....driving the money launderers out of Mossad headquarters."

"Well, what about the Marlboro Man? Why is he hanging? Crimes against humanity?"

"Let's just say that he's an integral cell body between a very important neuron and dendrite."

"Does that mean that there'll be peace in the Middle East?"

"Never mind your People Magazine questions Bozo. The Marlboro Man is a buffer zone and nothing else. Now die and resurrect will you? The Tidy Bowl Man yells and takes another swig of whiskey. The ratings are all ready plummeting."

Upon cue, the Tyson Foods Corporation Egg Mobile descends from directly above and hovers ominously between the six crosses. As it spins, the egg generates an unearthly light that makes the Ark of the Covenant seem dull in comparison.

"Step right up to the greatest show on earth." The Tidy Bowl Man yells through the megaphone and draws even more pilgrims to the side show as the egg touches down.

"Gather round young and old alike. Time for a bedtime story."

The craft instantly cracks open and reconstituted Delta Force soldiers emerge from this slapdash Trojan Horse and descend upon the pilgrims as if it were D-day all over again, holding them all at bay with their weapons.

George W. Bush starts laughing. Zemin too. A soldier climbs up and pulls the intravenous tubes from their arms and cuts them down. Ronald is left hanging. Sharon and Arafat are cut down too. The Marlboro Man squirms on his cross as Mengele rides circles around him, yee-haa-ing himself into ecstasy as the Massacre of the Innocents takes place.

George, Jiang, Yassar and Ariel hold hands with Palmolive Madge, Dr. Mengele, Mrs. Olsen, The Tidy Bowl Man, forming a giant Love-In circle around the Tyson Egg. They run in the same direction as the egg's spin and absorb themselves into its beneficent light. Soon the global corporate heart chakra opens and universal compassion flows forth in all directions. The central casting characters melt in this universal empathy growing stronger and stronger as the egg rises higher in the sky. An intense, neon pink surrounds the craft. The egg rises even more, overlooking the entire Middle East. Transcending the ever intensifying love emanating from the egg, George W. Bush defies the Axis of Evil and pushes a button located on a secret dashboard. The egg explodes like a Daisy Cutter, decimating pilgrims for miles around, all the way to Mecca, Medina and beyond. The shockwaves of the blast are absorbed by the Ka'Ba where Ronald McDonald once made love to Allah. The blast travels all the way back to Hollywood and a fountain which barely spurts any water at all.

And now....only Ronald McDonald and the Marlboro man are left hanging on the barren hill. Which one will die and rise first? Perhaps only Allah will ever know for sure.

McHajj

Part XIV

"Grandpa Aleister...I'm scared." The Pillsbury Doughboy says, trembling as he is tucked in for the night. "I think I might get psychically attacked again."

"Psychic attack? What on earth is that?" Aleister asks, feigning wonderment as well as dismay.

"Oh Gosh! Well, it usually happens around three or four in the morning. These icky demons bleed through into my brain and I have the weirdest dreams."

"Like what?"

"I dreamed that...." The Doughboy starts to cry. "...that Mark Pauline sent one of his awful robot spiders to eat me alive. I tried telling him that I didn't do it..that it was..."

"Do what?" Grandpa Aleister held the Doughboy's hand.

"I tried to tell him that I wasn't the one who took off with SRL ticket proceeds after one of their performances." The Doughboy starts sobbing. "I have enough of my own dough as it is. Is this some kind of kooky weirdo Eye of Horus mind control that's homing in on my brain in the middle of the night?"

"That is a weird dream indeed." Aleister observes. "Did you confront the robot?"

"I couldn't. It scorched me with a musical flame thrower. It played 'Hamburger Lady' by Throbbing Gristle when it baked me to a crisp. Then I woke up. I was covered with sweat. I vomited up this little rubber Satan squeaking doggy toy."

"I don't think it will happen again. I'll simply reverse your current 93 and you'll wake up fresh as a rose in the morning. You need to take it easy. You're in your third trimester now....I mean any day now! Now hush my favorite little mother to be, it is time for your nightly placenta enema."

From under a gown, Aleister produces a turkey baster filled with some ruby hued alchemical douche and inserts it into the Doughboy's rectum. He waves a wand and bathes the moonchild fetus in this ambrosial mixture, then retires to his library to cram for his bar exam.

"I don't want this moonchild turd." The Doughboy pouts as he tries to retain the quintessential liquid in his ass, face growing more and more purple. Unable to incubate any longer, he throws the covers off and climbs out of bed. He sneaks behind a wax replica of Jimmy Page, climbs up on the neck of the musician's guitar and then darts out of an ivy covered window. He climbs down the side of the mansion, walks across a fog laden courtyard. After a time compressed segueway, he enters the Tower of Inverness and works his way up the spiral stairs. At the top, he starts yodeling like a Muezzin, beckoning to his compadres still hanging for their lives, far away, on Mount Arafat.

But no one answers his calls, for his friends have not risen yet. He scans the skies for an egg that could rescue him but nothing can be seen.

The Doughboy is about to break water. He finds a water closet in the tower. He goes in, sits down, squats and grunts. He looks between his legs and sees a shaft of light coming up the chute. It is a malignant green color. He can see that something is at the bottom of the hole. It is a revolving CIA logo. The light filters through the racks of blood filled vials.

"If you don't retain your moonchild until the proper astrological alignment...I'll eat the thing right now... like it was dog do sushi." The Charmin Teddy Bear says, spinning around on the stage, leering at his lover.

"I don't care what you do." The Doughboy yells down between his legs. He listens to his voice echo and then grunts some more and feels the moon child enter into his rectal birth canal. "I'm not looking forward to being a single parent when I get back to America. Besides....I'll have no visitation rights once you get me into divorce court and pressure me for alimony. You think I get paid to push dinner rolls on the American public?"

"That moonchild is needed to keep an astral gate open in our country. Hold it until the planets insure that baby's rising sign will be in Cancer and the sun sign will be Capricorn. The alignment is only a few minutes away as a matter of fact. " The toilet paper bear warns. "Grave consequences will come your way if you do not retain your baby until then."

"Like what?" The Doughboy challenges.

"Like being Martha Stewart's fall guy when K-Mart goes under and she has no place to dump her product line. Good luck filing for bankruptcy with Bush's new laws."

"That's grave? I'll play the stock market any day over this. I'll even become a day trader specializing in intangibles." The Doughboy grunts until his face is purple. The moonchild starts to emerge. It is a breech birth. The Doughboy reaches around and grabs onto the slimy fecal baby and yanks it out, defying the portent waiting at the bottom of the well. When he feels his progeny firm in his grip, he pulls it out from under his ass to inspect. It is a G.I. Joe doll. Only the martial figurine is bald and has a neatly trimmed goatee. Nothing standard issue about this toy. Nothing worth replicating en masse either.

"Say the kabbalistic formula....and your child will come to life."

The Doughboy looks up and sees Grandpa Aleister in the water closet doorway.

"It's icky. My child is icky. I don't like it at all. Certainly not a chip off the old Ka'Ba if you ask me. Besides...it smells...like a beached mermaid after three days in the Andalusian sun." The Doughboy holds his nose for emphasis. "Now throw this in the Loch so that Bessie can eat it."

"You're a bona fide Zelator Doughboy. You were merely being tested by the Charmin Teddy Bear. He spoke the truth. And now you only have to utter a few words and your goat child....will..will rule the world."

"Can I enter him into a child beauty pageant someday like Jon Benet Ramsey?"

"Your moonchild is already 'Best of Show'. You can milk the Crab Cake Kid for all it is worth....just make sure you start your tour in Hollywood....it is imperative. There's a certain fountain I suggest you go to for starters.

The magic incantation is uttered by Grandpa Aleister. The G.I. Joe comes to life and the Doughboy turns it over and gives it a good spanking.

"Where's Uncle L. Ron and Uncle Anton? Time to pass out the cigars!" The Doughboy examines his baby. "Are you sure this is our child. Doesn't look like either of us in my opinion. Kind of looks like Anton....only uglier."

Mr. Whipple particle beam accelerates from Brookhaven, materializes in the tower, takes the baby and swaddles it in toilet paper. The baby screams, revealing its Northern Pike like fangs and serpentine tongue. The plastic scales are so life like and the eyes glow red and green, blipping on a radar screen at some secret NORAD installation.

"Where's Roman Polanski when we need him? This could be the next global blockbuster. We could rake in more profits than Titanic did. Then I could afford to bribe the officials at the National Academy of Sciences to get my statue put in their foyer." Aleister dreams. "We need to get Ronald McDonald and the Marlboro Man off those crosses before they die. Let's go...let's go....to Allah Land we go!"

The Pillsbury Doughboy starts to cry again. "Oh....lord...why has thou forsaken me? Why couldn't I have given birth to a SMURF?"

McHajj

Part XV

"Trouble's a comin'." The Marlboro Man yells across the span separating the crosses on a deserted, decimated Mount Arafat, intravenous tubes dangling from his arms in the wind. Ronald McDonald shakes himself out of his crucified stupor and peers down the slope at the oncoming portent. Emerging from a dust devil, the Pillsbury Doughboy runs with Olympic agility, carrying a torch in one hand, his baby in the other. He tops out at the summit before the rest of the crew which lags behind, deliberately shrouded in the whirling cloud halfway up the mountain.

"I've got a surprise for you fellas." The Doughboy turns a few circles holding up his plastic progeny which hisses and squirms, exposed to the unrelenting Middle Eastern sun like a vampire without a place to hide. "Grandpa Aleister said that whichever one of you dies first...has to incarnate into my son here. It's the law."

"Great." Ronald McDonald says, his heart caving in even more. "I give birth to a creepy corporate egg somewhere in Joisey. I get fucked over in Hollywood by some misfit shamarchists that can't think their way out of a parallel universe and now my soul has to inhabit a G.I. Joe doll." Ronald takes a deep breath, pulls some prana in through his medulla oblongata and down his spinal column like a Kriya yogi. "The hell if I'm going to die first. I've got samadhi in my cross hairs. I ain't never coming back again."

A gunshot comes from the direction of the advancing dust devil. A 9 mm hollowpoint bullet slams into the clown's Ajna chakra and shatters his skull. L. Ron Hubbard emerges from the cloud, jams his high capacity Glock back into an alligator skin holster under his jacket and scans the sky above for satellite surveillance.

"That's what you think, jerk."

Ronald dies before the seven words can be uttered.

Aleister emerges from the dust devil and runs up to the base of Ronald McDonald's cross, pulls out his Ronco Necromonicon from under his gown, puts his dunce cap on and proceeds to lip synch some obscene incantations he finds buried in the appendix. The clown's soul spirals directly into the doll. G.I. Joe, sufficiently animated, howls like a Coyote and then squirms out of the Doughboy's hand. He rolls around in the sand, then runs over to the Marlboro Man and kneels at the base of his cross.

"You're so lucky....it could have been you." G.I. McDonald says to the Marlboro Man and breaks down weeping. "Now look at me."

"You're supposed to be tabula rasa...so shut up." The Marlboro Man retorts, unimpressed with the emotion.

The rest of the group emerges out of the dust devil: Anton, Jack Parsons and the Charmin Teddy Bear. Jack climbs up on Ronald McDonald's cross, pulls the rubber nose off the cadaver with a pop and wipes the grease paint away with a checkered flag snatched from Dale Earnhardt's coffin. He reaches in through the gaping bullet wound in the forehead and pulls out some half dollar sized piece of gristle with barbed tentacles and throws it towards his colleagues.

"So Mr. Casey.....the CIA's PR boys weren't lying now were they?" Jack says. He jumps down from the cross and wipes his hands in the sand. "Hate to tell you L. Ron, but you shot an honest man."

The Charmin Bear takes advantage of the distraction, runs over to G.I. Joe and block tackles him. He locks him in a Half Nelson. "This kid is mine." He declares and starts wrestling with the doll. G.I. Joe manages to break free of the Charmin Teddy Bear's grip and climbs the crucifix, walks out on the crossbeam and then sits on the Marlboro Man's shoulder.

"I'm the one that knocked up that Doughboy slut...he's mine." The Bear tries to climb up on the cross to claim his prize.

"Enough out of you." L. Ron says and puts the gun to the Charmin Teddy Bear's head. "If you don't stay in line...I'll make you clear. The inexpensive way."

"Leave him alone." Anton La Vey says. "Just a father's instinct...that's all. Listen everybody...I'm really getting weary of our dysfunctional little family. I think we all need some counseling or something. Maybe Forum would do us a world of good or Avatar."

"I'm going to ignore your overtly reactive mind Anton." L. Ron says and lets the bear go. "Hey Aleister." L. Ron yells. " We got the wrong man. Anything in your book that can exorcise Ronald McDonald's soul from this G.I. Joe?" He asks, barely able to hide his regret. He betrays the one single engram left in his brain, for a tear emerges from his eye.

Grandpa Aleister sits down and pages through his tattered Ronco Necronomicon. "Damn it Ronny...think before you shoot next time...will you? I can't ad lib these incantations. You don't know what kind of trouble they'll cause if I don't get them right."

"Don't tell me what do to you...you Luxor reject...you're the one that ripped me off. Not the other way around like all the conspiracy books say."

"Hey Ronny...is it true that you said, 'if you want to make a million dollars, start your own religion'?" G.I. Joe says from high above, mimicking the cowboy's voice. L. Ron turns around and drops the hammer of his Glock on the Marlboro Man. G.I. Joe loses his balance as the bullet pierces through the cowboy's heart and slams into the solid Mahogany crucifix. He somersaults all the way to the ground. L. Ron picks him up. He kisses the doll on the cheek.

"Yeah...it's true. I did say that." Mr. Hubbard confesses to G.I. Joe.

The Marlboro Man's excarnated soul filters through G.I. Joe's polysorbate 93 seasoned fontanel. Thus further enlivened, G.I. Joe climbs on top of L. Ron's Greek Sailor cap and raises his hands to the sky, palms upward.

Aleister faces towards L. Ron and shuts his book. "Chill out will you? If any of this gets leaked to Brookhaven we'll never get another gig for as long as we're trapped on the astral plane. This is not occult protocol at all."

"Hey you monkeys....I've got some bad news for you." Anton La Vey yells from the Marlboro Man's crucifix. He takes the cowboy's hat off and puts it on his bald head. He reaches into the vest pocket of the aborted Messiah and pulls out a tooled leather wallet. He pulls some plastic cards out, files through them and tosses a driver's license and credit cards at the feet of L. Ron and Aleister.

"And you thought the axis of evil didn't exist." Anton says, pulling the rubber mask off the impostor. "Where have all the cowboys gone?" He starts to sing and then climbs down from the crucifix to join the others.

Aleister picks up the driver's license. The mug shot is of someone he recognizes: Kim Jong II of North Korea. The alphabet used for the I.D. : Cyrillic. Plastic used for the laminate: otherworldly. He shows the I.D. to G.I. Joe who shakes his head in disgust. Anton puts on the rubber Marlboro Man mask and starts dancing. "Where have all the cowboys gone?" He sings, pretending to gallop like a horse around Kim Jong II hanging on the cross.

"Damn it Ronny...you shot the wrong man again! George W. is gonna be pissed off when he finds out that one of his best stooges has been iced." Aleister forewarns.

"On this day of the resurrection of our Lords, I declare myself General Joe." The Moonchild yells, warding off an incoming sirocco from Yemen with his voice.

Upon cue, Aleister, L. Ron, Anton, Jack P., the Pillsbury Doughboy, the Charmin Teddy Bear all line up and stand at attention. General Joe starts to pace back and forth, hands clasped behind his back. His soldiers automatically salute him. The Pillsbury Doughboy steps forward and hands him the torch and falls back in line.

"It is imperative that we short circuit god so that he won't kill Mr. Bush. Gurdjieff may be advising the Iraqi High Command so we do have to take the threat seriously. We need to mobilize our own special troops that are now hiding in underground vaults in the Pankisi Gorge if we're going to corral those camel jockeys. I know exactly what tricks Saddam has up his sleeve as well. He's got North Korean soldiers hiding up in British Columbia that will swoop down on the U.S.A. at the drop of his fez. Now that Kim Jong is out of the picture his soldiers are really up for grabs."

General Joe looks over the land spreading out from Mount Arafat and then turns to face his troop.

"L. Ron.... are we clear?"

"Sir..yes..sir!!"

"We'll then..gentleman....start your engines!" General Joe says waving the Olympic torch in triumph.

McHajj

Part XVII

P.S.: Part XVI of the McHajj series is available only through snail mail. I sent an imaginal version of it through the imaginal internet. Those of you that are telepathically tuned in should have gotten it by now.

The Pillsbury Doughboy genuflects in front of the Cardinal who parts his spandex canonicals for easy oral access. Readily erect, he commands his makeshift altar boy to come forth. Having no jaw muscles to speak of, the Doughboy doesn't have to struggle much to deep throat the Cardinal. He fellates gracefully, responsibly.

"Don't swallow my son. In the name of the lord....don't swallow." The Cardinal closes his eyes, enjoying his carnal bliss, unabashed, in front of the congregation. He is tempted to squeeze the Doughboy in his bare hands, but refrains from the Vatican approved albeit sadistic reflex.

"....And don't you think for one moment that this scandalous behavior on my part is mere sleight of hand. There is virtually nothing else relevant for the front page of our daily newspapers these days. Do you understand?"

Unable to answer, the Doughboy takes the sanctified membrane virilis in deeper but his nostrils are savagely pinched together, causing him to gag, thus tightening his throat muscles and thus causing the Cardinal to come on cue.

"Am I alive or am I dead?" Osama bin Laden says, bowing to a statue of Mother Mary high above the altar. "Only my hair stylist knows for sure I suppose."

"Who cares? Especially now that We the People have a much more serious threat of Pedophilia Terrorism plaguing our land. I've alerted the Pentagon that the very next fondling and/or misuse of statutory genitals by a Catholic priest will cause World War III." George W. proclaims.

"Is this the go ahead to microchip all the Catholics priests's testicles?

Even the pope's? Should make the consumer confidence index rise a bit. Enough to get America ready and willing for mass inoculations later on." An IBM executive corpse exhumed and imported from Germany proclaims.

"Now's the time to invest in Homeland Security." Ivan Boevsky whispers to Ariel Sharon who is too busy caressing Arafat's vulnerable thigh to care about the insider information.

"Zion is not a state. It is a place within everyone's heart."

"Don't swallow." The Cardinal forces the Doughboy over to a basin filled with anthrax powder. "Or you'll go to hell like all the other sinners that have dared to violate this church." He holds the Doughboy up to the basin. The Doughboy vomits up the holy semen from his sullied esophagus and anoints the sacred, bio-manufactured anthrax within.

"At least I'm not vomiting semen on a Daisy Cutter. No telling what kind of earthquake would rock the church if that happened." The Doughboy mutters to himself, a tear in his eye.

Altar boys begin mixing the concoction into dough and stuffing it into envelopes addressed to Peter Jennings, Tom Brokaw and Dan Rather.

Ronald McDonald processes down the center aisle, clutching onto an 8 mm movie projector. He sets the projector on the altar and plugs it in. The movie, projected upon the mylar rood screen, is most revealing: Enron executives walk hand in hand through the fog of America's amnesia only to discover Charles Keating and Oliver North stuffing bales of child pornography and laundered money into underground vaults in Colorado near a Coor's Brewery. Attorney General John Ashcroft holds a lantern and leads the group down into the vault's secret inner recesses where they discover Vatican bankers hanging their own laundered money out to dry. Colonel Powell is trapped in an Iron Maiden with a bas reliefed Martha Stewart, quaintly painted on the lid. The lid closes. Purple colored blood oozes out and pools around the Enron CEOs's shoes.They leave footprints behind as they exit, much like the ones that O.J. Simpson did so very long ago in a far distant eon.

The film jams in the gate. The heat from the projector bulb bubbles the celluloid beyond recognition. Ronald McDonald starts sobbing. "No one remembers, no one cares." The Marlboro Man climbs up on the altar and pats him on the back and helps him pull the film out of the projector. He pulls some scotch tape out of a snuff can and tries splicing the film back together.

"Wasn't that..." Kim Jong II begins to ask, squirming in the back pew with arms crossed. "... Jiang Zemin's love nest that we just saw?"

"Oh I wouldn't go that far. " Reverend Sun Myung Moon says, covering his face with the latest edition of the Washington Post. On the cover are detailed schematics describing China's involvement in 9-11. "It could have been the tunnels under the McMartin pre-school for all we know."

The Altar Boys grow impatient and begin handing the stamped and seventh sealed envelopes out to the congregation.

"May God love a Texan...." George W. says, examining an envelope. "...this one is addressed to Fatima. Who in hell is that?"

"That's mine. Give it to me." Osama bin Laden demands, pointing a .45 Magnum at George. "Only Islamics have true 20/20 Marian vision. You're blind as a bat on the Isle of Cyprus when it comes to prophecy. Now give it to me....."

"Now...now." The satisfied Cardinal reassures the congregation, speaking into a microphone. "We must not forget the Repentance Option the Pope has so catholically offered us at the recent summit meeting. We only need to be forgiving of each oth..."

Osama aims at the Cardinal's heart and pulls the trigger. The Cardinal collapses on the stage.

"Am I John Wilkes Booth or am I Gavrilo Princip? Am I Sirhan Sirhan or am I Lee Harvey Oswald? Am I Mark David Chapman or am I John Hinckley?" Osama ponders with futility, thus dropping the gun.

Yet no one rises to seize him, so stunned by the event they are. Osama's identity crises that is.

McHajj

Part XVIII

*Please note: The McHajj series you are about to read came to me directly via a series of disturbing dreams, dreams which continue to haunt me at present. These dreams, more like interminable nightmares, have resulted from life long exposure to advertising in the relentlessly predatory, capitalistic society that I'm haphazardly posited in. In order to deal with the severe psychological trauma such exposure has caused me, I have translated what my unconscious mind has directly conveyed to me into the story below. It is the only way I know how to cope with the constant trespassing into my psyche by the corporate powers which loom about in a most menacing and merciless fashion. Thank you for understanding my dilemma. BTW: I am currently starting a twelve step support group for those who may believe that they are victims of a similar kind of corporate psychological terrorism. I call this disorder:AAD (Advertising Affective Disorder) but know not where to go for help. Do you?

"So what am I?" Osama asks the motley congregation. "Alive or dead?"

A coffin is wheeled up the center aisle and parked near the altar. Blow mold polyethylene pudendas are embedded in the lid. Osama goes over and caresses one of the replica snatches and draws his hand back in disgust. He signals to Ronald McDonald who comes forth and covers the casket with a bloody, Full Figured Chador imported from Afghanistan and spins it around. Not receiving an answer, Osama fires a shot up into the dome of the church. The report, along with the ricocheting slug, echoes ad infinitum.

"Has an Imam ever been caught molesting a child in a Mosque?" Osama asks and paces back and forth near the dead Cardinal. Ronald McDonald, dizzy from the spinning begins to reel, lets go of the casket and falls to the ground. "How about a Rabbi in a Synagogue? Any prepubescent doodling of the Altar Boys there? How come that never makes the news?"

Someone sitting in the back pew raises his hand. Osama points to him and gives him a nod. "We'll make a deal with you Osama since we cannot possibly answer your rhetorical questions. How would you and the rest of your Al Qaeda hooligans like to take over the Roman Catholic Church lock, stock and Crozier?"

Osama scratches his temple with the .45 and rolls his eyes upward, towards Allah.

"If you agree...we give you full access to the Vatican shekel Laundromat if you know what I mean."

"There is always a catch Mr. Cheney. Let's hear it."

"You only have to give us the envelope addressed to Fatima that you are holding in your hand."

"Hah....never. I open this thing and I'll have the entire world genuflecting in the direction of Mecca. Such is the power of the Doughboy's seminal influence...such is the power of your Ames Iowa Strain of Anthrax. Surely your Carlyle Group knows all about that."

"Whatever. Osama....we are giving you the world. Why won't you take it? You'll have full access to the Vatican library deep down in the most secret recesses of the church. You can translate all those Latin texts back into Arabic then into Greek if you'd like. We won't ever bother you there. In fact you can do all of our books if you'd like."

"Only if we can sacrifice the Pope like an Albino Camel in a Mosque.....on Larry King Live will I ever consider your offer. And only if I am properly knighted by that schmaltzing Shiksa otherwise known as the Queen of England."

"Consider it done." Donkey Dick says. He gets up and walks to the casket, whisks away the Chador and opens the lid. Inside, the Pope, looking a bit waxen, fails to get aroused by the light.

"Look Dick...I never officially agreed to this deal. He's already dead." Osama says, sensing an immanent con job.

"That's what you think. Boys..."

Ronald McDonald gets up and closes the coffin lid. A Zyklon B tank is wheeled up to the altar, a tube is inserted into one of the blow mold replica BVM pudendas and a valve turned on. After a few seconds, the lid is opened again. The Pontiff comes to life and studies his predicament. He sits up in the casket and cracks his knuckles.

"They always say that the sense of smell evokes the most vivid of memories." The Pope says and starts to climb out of the casket with a grin on his face. "Boy are they right!"

Osama jumps off the altar and hands the Fatima envelope to the Pope and points the gun at him. "Open it." The wayward terrorist commands. "There's no other way out of this." The Pope is too weak to tear the envelop and starts to fall back into the coffin. Osama takes the envelope back.

"Mr. Osama, do we have a deal or not?" Cheney intervenes. "After all....he is alive."

"Only if a Shinto Priest does the sacrificing. He must ride him like a Camel and stab him in the throat while the Mormon Tabernacle Choir ululates, mocking the camel's death cries. The camel...I mean the Pope must spin counterclockwise, rapidly until the entire Tabernacle is covered with its blood. The dagger has to be made of virgin Titanium."

"Oh. Why?" Donkey Dick asks, scanning Osama for clues of subterfuge.

"Because we don't want to be the Catholic Church's designated sin eaters for eternity...that is why Richard. We just don't have the digestive enzymes if you know what I mean. I doubt that even a Boa Constrictor could break all your sins down properly."

The Pope takes advantage of the distraction, reaches up, grabs the envelope out of Osama's hands and manages to tear it open with his dentures. He dips his finger into the mixture and tastes it. Something akin to a divine revelation overcomes the Pope and he is surrounded by an aura of nacreous, pulsating gold.

"Osama is the hidden Imam." The Pope declares. "Fatima is his wife."

Ronald McDonald , seeing the threat to the future of America, shoves the Pope back into the coffin and slams the lid shut. He turns and wheels the casket out of the church. Osama is too baffled to act. The Pillsbury Doughboy jumps up and takes the gun out of his hand. But he has no one to point it at, for the entire congregation has collapsed to the floor. All except for Osama. It is Osama and the Doughboy, face to face.

"My little Shabbas Goy Golem." Osama says. "We are friends, no?'

"I'm Fatima....your wife. Don't you recognize me?" The Pillsbury Doughboy smiles and without hesitation, jumps up into the arms of Osama. He starts firing the gun in celebration of the reunion. Osama starts to walk, reverently, in the footsteps of the Once and Future King, out to a waiting crowd in Vatican Square.

McHajj

Part XIX

*Please Note: If you have been reading the McHajj series you are probably tired of scrolling through this disclaimer chapter after chapter. However, please bear with me. My AAD or Advertising Affective Disorder for those of you new to McHajj has now taken on metaphysical dimensions as you will see below. Madison Avenue has officially colonized the Supramental plane of consciousness. Not only have they invaded my unconscious mind but the lofty, trans-personal spiritual realms I strive so arduously to realize and integrate as well. I really have no place to escape now and am asking for your help. AAD is a serious disorder that may effect anyone living in a predatory capital intensive environment. I call it the silent affliction because millions may be suffering from AAD but know not what it is or where to go for help. Reading McHajj may be a good place for starters. Thank you for your concern! Corporate psychological trespassing in the form of advertising is a violation of our constitutional rights.

The pope in the casket is wheeled out into the noon time sun of Vatican Square. The milling crowd hushes instantly when they see the Pillsbury Doughboy and Osama behind Ronald McDonald. Osama jumps up on the casket, kisses and then holds the Doughboy high above him, for all to see.

"People of Rome.....we are no longer behind closed doors. We filibustered a deal that will be of great benefit to all of you." Osama yells in perfect Latin. Ronald McDonald opens the casket as Osama jumps off.

"I am now the Once and Future Pope. And in order to prove it, I will now raise Lazarus from the grave." Osama puts the Doughboy on his shoulder and then waves his hands like a stage magician. Slowly the pope rises from the casket, stands up, takes his canonicals off like a stripper and hands them to Osama, who puts them on. They fit the Al Qaeda CEO perfectly. Kenneth Lay, wearing a Bishop's costume, emerges from the crowd and hands Osama a Crozier. The pope weakly waves good-bye to the faithful, climbs back into the casket and Ronald McDonnell closes the lid. The Doughboy hops off of Osama's shoulder, goes over to the casket and pushes a button shaped like a crucifix. The casket is ejected straight upwards only to arc towards Mecca when it hits the ionosphere, leaving behind scintillating chem trails which modulate into rainbow hues causing the crowd to gasp in atmospheric wonder. On a giant video screen, all watch the casket crash land on top of the Ka'Ba. A security guard brings the naked, bone broken pope off of the giant cube and takes him inside where he curls up in a fetal position on the sacred meteorite within.

The crowd back in Rome is dead silent. Not even the doves in the belfry high above make a noise.

"Misericordia Domini inter pontem et fontem." The pope whispers to the sacred Ka'Ba stone and expires. Suddenly the pilgrims outside all stop their circling and genuflect towards Rome. Translated into a wave field equation: the Pope's ad lib mojo has Islam on its knees.

Osama hops back up on the bier, still smoking from the ejection of the pope. "Non sibi se omnibus." He says in Arabic and all present in Vatican Square start circumabulating the makeshift Allah in Canonicals. All the faithful in Mecca watch this metanoia on a giant video screen as well and fall silent, unable to grasp its portent.

Dick Cheney crawls out of the church, defying the debilitating effects of the Fatima Anthrax and starts walking towards Osama. He is followed by George W. When they reach the bier on which Osama stands, they are promptly knighted. Osama touches their shoulders with his Crozier.

"I now pronounce you man and wife."

"I told you we'd work out a deal Mr. Bin Laden. Now we want the serial rights to your mass conversion here. You've got a labor force at hand that is virtually unlimited. The market cap on this corporation will be astronomical. We just need to set up some sweat shops and we're in business. However, we need to have you face in the direction of Gaza now and spew out some of your Latin gibberish."

"But you misunderstand me. It is happening already." Osama says and points to the video screen. The Catholic Pilgrims in Mecca start migrating towards Israel, feeling the pull towards the new magnetic north on their spiritual compass.

"Well then, let it happen. Little do they know that they are really headed for Northern Ireland where they will be greeted by a nice Protestant army there just waiting to get even." George W. says and turns to high five Dick. "But if you give us full oil drilling rights in Afghanistan, we promise to divert them anywhere you want."

"Speaking of diverting....you're going to need to do some serious sleight of hand when your very own foreknowledge of 9-11 is investigated by the authorities." Osama says to George W.

"I had no foreknowledge of you, nor you of I." George W. says with fluid eloquence.

"People of Rome." Osama says in Arabic, then in Latin. "As your new Pope: Field Marshall von Laden I command you to take up arms for our Holy War." Osama points in the direction of China.

"Hold on von Laden. You leave China out of this. They never enter into the consciousness of the American masses anyways. I suggest diverting your army here to Russia. Georgia to be exact."

"....and Russia enters into the consciousness of the American masses? I doubt it. Start marching to Shanghai my people." Osama yells. "New episodes of Survivor will insure that you will remain unmolested."

"We just need some diplomacy here." Ronald McDonald chuckles. "I suggest we all convene in North Korea and air our differences. I mean...our franchise is on the endangered list for Christ's sake."

"Non omnis moriar."

"Huh? Who said that?" The Pillsbury Doughboy asks looking around for the source of the voice. On the video screen the naked pope is seen emerging from the Ka'Ba. But Mecca is empty. He starts circumambulating the Ka'ba, all alone, weeping.

"So you want me to send my army to America? Is that what you are saying?" Osama asks, getting the hint.

"Market cap.....remember the market cap." Dick Cheney winks at Osama.

"Don't worry...I'll give you Carte Blanche. But there needs to be a third conversion." Osama says, putting a Yarmulke on his head and dancing like the Fiddler on the Roof.

"But there are only two options for the third party." The Marlboro Man says walking towards the group. He starts snapping a bull whip. "There should be three." He says and sits on the bier. "Judaica should convert into Mormonism if you know what I mean. Just get the 2002 Winter Olympic committee to mumble some of that Latin towards sempiternal Zion and see what happens. We may all be able to kick back in seventh heaven after all."

"But you would have to make that third option available to the others to be fair?" The Doughboy says, catholically. "You'll probably have to use the 'by any means necessary' approach to get Zion to convert to Islam."

"No....that would not be my intent. I think that the after effects of the Harmonic Convergence in 1987 will insure world peace if we just allow our unconditional love to effervesce." Osama observes, using his newfound multidimensional perceptions, not to mention intuitive skills as well.

To be continued

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