I’m not sure if I trust someone who is writing for the New York Times and is lecturing to me about the really, really real nature of reality. It’s Identity Politiks. Reality is lipstick on a pig. I love pigs. They fight back. When you go to kill them and gut them, they will attempt to bite you. They understand what a slaughterhouse is. We are the ones who choose not to understand or see what a slaughter house is. How bad is it. There are no words. Seeing one is something you will never ever forget. Why do homo sapiens do this. Killing all the animals and all their babies. We eat their babies. Once in a while I used to go fishing. But I have stopped. Have you ever seen a tourist in a row boat. They’re so fucking fat that they sink row boats. All we see are their fat little selves floating away to the ocean. The New York Times is buying some super expensive video cameras. It has to evolve into something. I suspect documentary stuff and mommy stuff like How To Read novels to your infant. Why do you think kids are krazy.

In Dirt Bike Town, the New York Times is a memory. Generalized dystopia did it in. It collapsed. Indifference did it in. It could not live up to its reputation, and government has let all the rioters in the door.

Of the New York Times. It is fiction. This is a novel. Everything in it is not true. It is a story. I made it up. A true story, but true to who.

I am writing that scene now. My whole gig with this publication (I have been denounced by readers who say I am tunneling under the wall, they would be right) is that their power is itself a politikal act. A verb, a verb, my kingdom for a verb.

This used to be the role of sex. It, too, was a politikal act. It does not lack for critics, but when the critics joined the revolution, it was just too much. Culture ended with bricks on the street. Walking down the sidewalk was dangerous. You’re either going to get blown up, or they’ll shoot you in the head like a watermelon.

What does it mean. Calm down, it means rape. Women and children. There’s your “real” mommies. Write about that. I’ve been raped numerous times. There is no language, no arch, no safe place. Who is immune to whom. They will rape us if they can. Usually, they can.

I do not know what a verb is.

A pox on verbs.

There is a curve to this story which is not unlike all the other stories in What Is Reality Land. I want to be Johnny Appleseed, but I am instead Johnny Peyote with his little bag of seeds so all mescaline can be free. He used to drop me off in the desert. I had nothing. I am a communist. I have zero tolerance for people who have more zero tolerance than I do, but I have zero tolerance of Them. All. They. Are the problem. The normals are ruthless. To escape them, I might let you climb up to my tin roof. You are near the canopy of these old, old beings. They were here hundreds of years ago. They’re telling you. Not showing you. That, too, is reality.

So, the New York Times is just a platform. Music videos are twenty steps ahead. They’ve been meat for a very long time. But there is something wrong with the New York Times because it fails to answer the very question it poses.

Since when did a paper pose anything. Since the Fall of Rome. Can we all just get along. No. We tried that one. It was a bed of nails. I want my own pillow. I do not want a hotel pillow. Culture and God or Gods is not reality. Ever since I was pronounced an idiot, people argue (not convincingly) that everyone sleeps on beds of nails. I chose sadomasochism because it’s dramatic. You can see it unfold in front of you. It is a writer’s trick. You saw the Majik Lady in half. She is described as “His Assistant.” You got the bunnies in your top hat. A bird. Flowers from your pet mouth, and America does not have penal colonies. Actually, it does. At any rate, it’s not in our reality. I am not with other autistics. I’m sorry. But there is no such thing. All we are is different. It is not a crime. We do not have to do all our shopping at night. We don’t need more AI because we are aready more AI.

Would you like to hear it rain. How many photons do you think there really are.