dukeofuke

OPEN WIDE!

A TRUE
STORY












BEING THE QUIXOTIC MISADVENTURES
OF THE BOOB TUBE BUDDHA

BY
DAVID KING





























“AND THEN THOSE WHO WENT BEFORE
AND THOSE WHO FOLLOWED CRIED
OUT, SAYING ‘HOSANNA! BLESSED
IS HE WHO COMES IN THE NAME OF THE LORD!
BLESSED IS THE KINGDOM OF OUR FATHER,
DAVID, THAT IS COMING!’”
-MARK 11: 9-10





“AND THEY SHALL SERVE THE
LORD THEIR GOD AND DAVID,
THEIR KING, WHOM I WILL
RAISE UP UNTO THEM.”
- JEREMIAH 30:9



“AND DAVID MY SERVANT SHALL
BE KING OVER THEM.”
-EZEKIEL 37:24










THE DAVIDIC KING

I’m not quite sure when I first realized I was the New Messiah- the fact was revealed to me gradually, in literary riddles and televised clues, which unraveled before me as I waxed and waned between conviction and confusion.

I suppose now, in retrospect, that it was obvious from the very beginning- from the miraculous nature of my conception to my auspicious mastery of teletranscendic techniques at the age of merely three- but I myself was utterly oblivious to my calling until the autumn of my eighteenth year, whereupon I stumbled across a trampled religious tract shuffled in amongst the fallen leaves beneath me. Snatching it up for a sacrilegious snicker I flipped it open to a random page, across which a heading read:

WHEN WILL THE DAVIDIC KING ARRIVE?

According to the pamphlet a sequel to the savior is slated to arrive during mankind’s final days, as the world wobbles wearily, wracked with war. However, this new and improved redeemer wouldn’t be some wimpy hippy we could slap around like the last one- no, this would be a two-fisted action Messiah, hurling Ninja stars and whooping ass, the hardest boiled of all dicks, a wise-cracking knight of the .45, well acquainted with the song of a slug and the slithery hiss of a swiftly thrown knife.
The wretched rulers of this world will be slouched in the leather chairs of their palatial parlors, buttered scone crumbs gathering in the greasy folds of their double chins, lazily surveying the rodential rabble rioting far below.
“Excuse me- there’s someone here to see you” the meek voice of their manservant, Moe Middlemanagement, will squeak over the intercom.
“Tell ‘em to fuck off!” the leaders will bark as they adjust the 14-year-old Guatemalan sex slaves on their laps.
“They seem quite adamant to see you sir!’
The towering oak doors suddenly thunder, exploding in an eruption of splinters, and the bloated bureaucrats and portly Plutocrats abruptly find themselves confronted by the horrific Hurlothrumbos of the Savior Squad.
Promptly subjugated into submission with cattle prods and stun guns, they will be dragged before the Throne of David, where the Anointed Anarchist of God sits, visiting judgment upon them.
“Please, we beseech thee!” the world leaders will plead, “Is it not enough that you have seduced our wives and devastated us with your witty bon mots? Show us pity!”
“So… it’s pity you crave now, is it?” The Davidic King will respond, abruptly producing a pair of Thompson submachine guns from the satin folds of his King cape.
The azure sky is rattled by the thunder of gunfire.
The world leaders noisily expel their bellyfuls of caviar and pate, collapsing into a heaving heap of blubbery naught.
The savior’s guns spummer and click.
“It’s a pity I’m out of ammo.”
The Davidic King slumps back into his throne, adjusting the bowtie on his tux and slugging back a martini, ruling Earth for a thousand years.

I pressed a fingertip across the heading’s ‘ic’.

WHEN WILL DAVID KING ARRIVE?

My head was haloed by autumnal light, shimmering through goldenyellowed leaves behind me, as I lifted my face in a goofy grin, cigarette dangling from my lip.

Ironically I found discovering my name in a random religious tract little more than an amusing coincidence at the time.
I would soon learn, however, that nothing is random, there are no coincidences, and that I was the Davidic King.
I was at the right place at the end times.


One would assume that I would have been graced with the holy hocus pocus powers of my Messianic predecessor-
but, alas, I possess neither the digital dexterity or thaumaturgical skill required to execute his miraculous fish tricks or water walk stunts. My supernatural skills are limited to a few clumsy card tricks (performed with the aid of a shaved deck) and the rather dubious ability to transform water into urine.
I was, however, born during a much more critical time, the tail end of the atomic age- and this was the advantage I held over all the superheroes and saints of the past who, as venerable as they may be, had all scattered off the stage during the most crucial act of the play.
Perhaps that is why I have been compensated with such an overwhelming arsenal of holy high-tech gadgetry, the very least of which would make Moses’ burning bush seem little more than flamboyant topiary.
I have, at my disposal, such amusements as hurdy gurdeys, chronoscopes, and dizzascopes- a bewildering ‘Boom Box’ (which can capture sounds from the air and, via mysterious manipulations of electromagnetism, imprison them forever upon delicate strips of brown ribbon), a phenomenal ‘Phonograph’ (which can evoke the ghost of John Lennon by running a golden needle across the fingerprint thin grooves of a rotating discus), and titillating ‘Pornographs’ (dimly evoking erotic pleasures with mammararily manipulated airbrushed airheads), all capable of lifting even the most jaded individual into unprecedented realms of delight upon the wings of Elysian waggish whimsicality.
But even the greatest of these was a mere bauble compared to the most astonishing automation in my arsenal- a Mephistophelean mechanism which could pluck phantoms from the immutable ethers, digest them in a belly of airless space, and project them across a mystic lookingglass. Within it’s torrid mists I could discern mystic divinations and madcap epiphanies perpetrated through the medium of a phantasmagoric lantern emitting a flame of spectral blue, and actually recreate grand cosmological events with startling scientific accuracy, all by merely manipulating it’s knobs.
I had access to the greatest gift ever bestowed to man by God, and this cabalistic apparatus was so essential to my Messianic mission that my success or failure in this endeavor hinged solely on my ability to master it’s medium.

In short, I had access to a 27-inch color screen television set.

Now, I humbly concede that history will show that I was not the only human being with access to a color television set in the latter half of the twentieth century.
However, history will also show that Sir Isaac Newton was not the only one with access to an apple tree in the 17th century, nor that Albert Einstein was the only human with knowledge of the letters ‘E’ ‘M’ ‘C’ or the numeral ‘2’ in the year 1903.
I do believe, however, that history will verify the fact that I was the first person to utilize the device correctly, for it’s original intent, as a direct conduit between God and Man. That I was the first to discover this is astounding- God and television are so similar that the two have been mistaken for each other for decades- even as you read this millions sit prostrate at it’s alter, bathed in it’s ethereal blue light, bidding it’s decrees. Many cynics attribute this rampant deification to the spiritual and intellectual ennui of the latter half of the twentieth century, but this conclusion is fundamentally flawed. Although it is true that the world government has manipulated the Promethean flame of television’s transcendent technology to hypnotize an eerily receptive population into complacency, the sole reason for their success in this endeavor is due to the device’s inherent divinity. It is, in fact, an avatar- Dues ex machina- the material manifestation of the divine here on Earth to perform various sacred functions.
My father, David Harold King, was born in 1945- the year the hydrogen bomb was invented.
My mother, Regina Anne Seckbach, was born a year later- just as televisions were being introduced to the American public.
That the advent of the Atomic age and the Television age corresponded was no mere coincidence- God unleashed the Pandora’s box of both technologies simultaneously, one with the capability of ultimate destruction, the other with the capability of ultimate redemption, as the penultimate test of mankind’s merit.
Nor was it a coincidence that my dad, father of my destruction, was born with the bomb and that my mother, muse of my salvation, was born with TV., for, just as gold is formed in the furnace of supernovas, so was it that the key to unlocking the holy powers housed within the Cathode-ray (“He who has the key of David- he who opens and no one shuts”- Rev. 3: 7-8) was forged in their cataclysmic combination and collision.
If I succeeded in using the Key of David to unlock God from his box a great age of absurd enlightenment awaited-this wretched age of architorture fading like a bad dream. No more metallic monstrosities will collide on ugly paved gray- just bumper cars bouncing comically on dream streets, painted like fallen pressed rainbows. The blind will see, the mimes will speak. We will discard our business suits and power ties for pirate costumes superhero capes and giant chicken suits. No more football and monster trucks- just Baba Yaga witch huts strutting through enchanted suburbs of enormous Mother Goose boots upon their jaunting rubbery claws. We will free the go-go dancers from their cages and fill pyramids with philosophers who will contemplate the mysteries of the cosmos and Jack Lord’s hair. Corndog stands and a billion budding begonias will bloom on every corner, ice-cream truck melodies loopily intermingling with our contented sighs into a misquitoless sky cluttered with Chinese box kites, our every need attended to by aproned rotund robotic maids.
“For I recon that the sufferings of this present age are nothing compared to the glories to be revealed” Romans 8: 18.
However, if I failed, great horrors awaited:
H-bombs will bloom like sunbright carnations, scattering skyscrapers like confetti- rose trees will burst into flame, their amber embers dancing like demonic fireflies- the flippered freak descendants of our race will crawl through the gnarled rubble barking for brains, their flesh melting from their bones like ice cream from cones. Monstrous moths will fill the scorched skies, farting photons and birthing grotesque grubs the size of dump trucks. Zombies will trudge from house to house like Jehovah’s witnesses, banging on doors, the abysmal night dimly lit by the orange glow of their jackolantern eyes. Cadaver dogs will feast upon our flesh and take craps on discarded Picasso paintings. Then God shall swipe the slate clean of us, and begin anew with clairvoyant cockroaches and paranoid meat-eating plants.
Fortunately the Davidic Key (the teletranscendic technique) can be easily taught, and I shall now share with you the method of unlocking the full potential of your own RCA oracle.

HOW TO WATCH TV.

Safety precautions.
Television is the greatest tool bestowed upon mankind since fire but, like fire, it has as many destructive potentialities as constructive ones. It is therefore essential that the potential television viewer observe the following safety precautions:
The mysterious and magical medium which fuels the device ( the ‘electro-current’) can jolt feeble flesh into spasmodic soot in mere seconds, and the looking glass upon which images are projected houses a vacuum tube which, if punctured, can trigger an explosion, causing a reactive implosion which can shower a 12-foot radius with glass shred shrapnel. It is therefore imperative that the potential television viewer is covered completely in black electrical tape, leaving absolutely no flesh exposed, and that the television viewer resists the urge to hurl objects at the screen, no matter how overwhelming this impulse may seem at times.
One should note that the intellectual and spiritual damages the device may inflict are far more formidable than it’s physical hazards. Television, like the world, is superficially crass and banal, obsessed with materialism and celebrity gossip, poisoned with pap prattle and propaganda. Television has the tendency to lull it’s more passive viewers into highly susceptible trance, manipulated into believing that hugging can stop drug abuse, the covert crimes of the CIA are conducted in the name of Liberty, and that America is still a democracy. This effect, caused by the lullibying rhythms of Cathode-rays, was originally intended to facilitate mankind’s commune with the divine, unhindered by the cynical snickers of our frontal lobes. In order to glean the device’s loftier spiritual dimensions it is therefore imperative that the television viewer possess the following three things:
SAINTGRACE

‘Saintgrace’ refers to the supernatural gifts bestowed upon the pious few who have renounced the pleasures of this world, both material and sensual, in order to facilitate their spiritual pursuits. Although I have never formally taken the vows of poverty or chastity they have, nevertheless, been thrust upon me, by default, therefore entitling me to all the supernatural benefits of those who have.
It is essential that one transcends the world’s pull if one wishes to ascend into the lofty realms of God TV. A bursting belly bars passage through the flesh mirage barrage and nothing celestial can creep through the bird-dope daze of a tryptaphine trance. It would be easier for a sperm whale to squeeze through a syringe than for a rich man to partake in the sublime decrees of Deity TV.
Why is this?
Let us examine the apple.
In the entire pantheon of fruit there exists none nobler than the humble apple. Each apple is a saint, laying down it’s life in crabgrass and ragweed to sew the seeds for future generations. Each apple keeps a doctor away. And yet, historically, no fruit has been as maligned or vilified than the apple -pounded into pies, stomped into sauce- having been blamed for mankind’s fall from grace, a single bad one having spoiled the whole bunch.
Therefore it is of no small significance that God elected that humble fruit to reveal the elusive truths of his cosmic crazy glue through.
Look now, below:
It is 1652.
A pastoral pasture lies before us, misted with Monet lilies.
Sir Isaac Newton naps beside an apple tree, his powdered wig nested against the syrup drippy tree bark,
cartoon letter ‘Z’s lazily lifting into the fruit-fragranced breeze.
Above him, hidden within the green shade of the leaf canopy, an apple sways.
For a brief moment all the energies of the universe are focused upon the apple, exerting pressure upon it’s stem.
Abruptly the stem snaps- to the nearby aphids this sounds like a thunderclap, and the apple topples at 32.11 feet per second per second, knocking Newton on the noggin.
Newton is startled awake, his head haloed by twittering birds and his powdered wig lifted by his swelling fruit-induced bruise.
“Aha!” Newton thinks, “ I’ll bet that two bodies are attracted to each other with a force that is proportional to the product of their masses and inversely proportional to the square of the distance between them!”
Again, I must emphasize that it was not the pompous pomegranate, the vain-glorious fig, nor the pride puffed papaya, but the homely apple that invented gravity, thus saving all life on Earth from toppling to our deaths in the cold vacuum of space. This is because God adores the poor and humble, and holds little but disdain for the proud and powerful. Time and time again he reiterates this point:
As the Earth shook from the goose stomped tromp of Nazi jackboots God selected lovable little Albert Einstein to whisper secrets to. Einstein would lie on Freud’s dream-soaked therapy couch, imagining he was a beam of light rocketing through space towards a wind-up alarm clock. One afternoon he was suddenly jolted with the realization that you, me, and everything we see are atrophied energy masquerading as mass.
The gift of flight he gave to a pair of bicycle repairmen and he stole Mohammed Ali’s bike to make him the greatest boxer of all time.
As pompous professors of Princeton struggled to create a uniquely American form of music in the cobwebs of their academic halls that very sound was being born a thousand miles away in the gin-drenched bars and brothels of New Orleans, heralded by the patron angel of winds, saint Louie Armstrong.
In short- a dentist’s daughter in her daddy’s sports car will not be the next Billie Holliday, nor does the next Van Gogh reside in the 90210 zip code.
The bungled and botched are forced to forge the wings the quarterbacks and prom queens cannot.
Therefore, if you are rich, I must implore you to give all you own to the poor, immediately- or to me, via the publisher.
Done? Good.
Let us proceed.

THE WELDING GOGGLES OF THE ANTICHRIST

Television’s divinational nature is evident in it’s very name, which comes from ‘TELE’ (Greek for: ‘FAR’) and ‘VISION’ ( from the Latin ‘Videre’: ‘I SEE’).
Television uses two primary divinational techniques: Theomancy (prophesy revealed through oracle) and Psychomancy ( prophesy revealed by ghosts).
In order for television to be used properly a holy trinity of divinational techniques must be employed, the third being Cristallomantia- divination revealed within a mystic lens. Here is the reason why:
The bright light of God revealed can leave merely mortal eyes blind, toppling from divinity’s canopy like Icarus on melted wings. To the naked eye television static appears to be little more than a neon snow storm. It is therefore essential that the overwhelming Yin of television is counterbalanced with the negatively charged Yang of the Antichrist’s welding goggles.
The lenses of these goggles are an extremely dark green, creating the illusion that it’s wearer is trudging along the bottom of a moss-choked bog ( thus my frequent reference to them as ‘Bog Goggles’ or ‘Fish Spex’),
and tend to block out extemporaneous information, allowing only the most pertinent images to lift through the static.
Procuring these goggles can be an arduous task, in that it requires the potential television viewer to meet the self-proclaimed Antichrist at an Anti-Valentine’s day party, and for the Antichrist to bequeath ownership of the goggles to the viewer.
Fortunately I have fulfilled these obligations and now wear goggles so dark that my shins are bruised plumb purple from walking into fire hydrants. Such is the trickster nature of the Devil.
Now that you are hungry, horny, and wearing the appropriate eye gear we can proceed to the most essential tool for television watching:
A TELEVISION GUIDE

The Television Guide, of course, refers to the image printed upon the tab of acid you must ingest before watching TV. These images are visual representations of the spirit hosts within each tab, and these will serve as your transdimensional tour guides through your television watching experience.
NOTE: IT IS IMPOSSIBLE TO GLEAN ANYTHING EDIFYING, WHATSOEVER, ON TELEVISION WITHOUT FIRST INGESTING COPIOUS AMOUNTS OF HALLUCINOGENS.

RECOMMENDED TELEVISION GUIDES

Jiminy Cricket (aka ‘Beginner’s Acid’, ‘Baby Buffered Acid’)
This is an excellent guide for the viewer’s first trip out. Although lacking some of the epiphanal intensity of many more advanced forms of LSD, this guide will stroll beside you, merrily whistling, gently warning you when unscrupulous wolves are near.
Betty Boop (aka ‘Wonder Woman’)
Although the fairly innocuous image of Betty Boop has often been misconstrued as merely ‘cute’ the tabs of acid which bear her image are packed with the estrogen-laden punch of the Earth-Mother Gia. Many male users have been known to lactate spontaneously on the drug.
Superman
Printed in vivid red whites and blues this is by far the most intrinsically American form of LSD, instilling it’s users a feeling of Manifest Destiny and insatiable bouts of materialism. Communists are incapable of ingesting this drug; their bodies instantly reject it. There are only two known adverse side effects to this drug: The drug has often created the illusion in it’s users that they have the ability to fly, and users have been known to exhibit an extreme vulnerability to anything even vaguely resembling ‘Kryptonite’(i.e.: green glowing objects). Fortunately these side effects have a tendency to cancel one another out, and most users have been felled by traffic lights before tragically testing their abilities to fly.

INEFFECTIVE TELEVISION GUIDES

Cookie Monster
Is this even a drug at all? Drinking two lattes in rapid succession has been known to provoke more profound revelations. Rumored by many to be nothing more than paper dipped in Nyquil, this drug occasionally evokes the strange sensation that Jim Henson’s hand is up your ass, manipulating your every word, free will the dim memory of a preacher’s fading dream.
2) Pillsbury Doughboy
The patron saint of bland trips. Subtle sensations of ‘rising’ and having one’s belly poked by God, followed by fits of moronic giggling and the conviction one’s mind is being ‘baked’.
3) Danny Partridge (aka ‘Bubble Gum Blotter’)
This teenybopper drug, made popular in the early 1970’s, is a milder variation of the nearly neurotoxic ‘Happy Face’ ( see: DISCOURAGED TELEVISION GUIDES) and primarily effects the user’s aesthetic sensibilities. Within three hours of taking the drug it’s users suddenly find ‘Laugh-In’ reruns hilarious, Neil Diamond music ‘groovy’, and lava lamps ‘trippy’. The devastating after effects of this drug are responsible for 84% of the fashion abominations of the early-to-mid 70’s ( bell bottoms, pastel leisure suits, feathered hair, etc.).
4) Thor
The least effective of all the super-hero drugs; the impotent demigod of an antiquated Norse pantheon of Gods.

DISCOURAGED TELEVISION GUIDES

Dancing Bear
This dangerous form of LSD was actually created by the newly-formed DEA in the year 1968 and introduced into the counter-culture as a way of ferreting out the potentially politically subversive by inspiring it’s victims to wear filthy tie-die shirts, slather themselves with nearly toxic levels of petuli, and, ironically, actually purchasing ferrets. The drug, however, was far more damaging than even the DEA had anticipated- frontal lobes were seared to cinders and somehow it’s users were lulled into the fatal misconception that the bland country music produced by CIA-backed rock ensemble The Grateful Dead was actually mind-expanding psychedlia ( which it is, of course, not). Great scores of brilliant spirits were effectively wiped out from the political equation, opting instead to follow the Grateful Dead in filthy VW micro busses, each one painted to resemble technicolor vomit.

2) Skull and Crossbones ( aka ‘Brown Acid’, ‘Altamont Acid’)
This form of LSD was popularized by the Californian branch of the Hell’s Angels in the mid-to-late 1960’s, and later revitalized by Heavy Metal heads in the 1970’s and Goth Rock fans of the late 1980’s and early 1990’s.
Although many of the users of this drug purport to be Satanists Satan himself cannot stand this drug nor it’s advocates. By far one of the most lethal substances available to the public, this drug has been documented to vaporize nearly 80% of it’s user’s mental faculties in a single eight-hour trip, oddly inspiring it’s victims to wear leather and to decorate their dark and gloomy lairs with pseudo-‘spooky’ objects such as glow-in-the-dark skulls and posters of Satan devouring businessmen ( the latter being spectacularly ironic, as Satan himself simply ADORES businessmen).
Happy Face (aka ‘Disco Drug’, ‘Dick Clark’)
Concerned with the growing radicalism of pop music and it’s influence over the nation’s youth the government created this drug in the year 1977 to effectively destroy rock music, usurping it with the opiate-like diversion of mechanically-produced discothèque music. The government nearly succeeded; for two years the air waves were inundated with the chipmunk yelpings of the Bee Gees and the corporate-controlled committee-composed cacophony of soul-sapping muzak. Exacting nearly inestimable damage upon the American public, this demonic drug transformed an entire generation into ‘Jive Talking’ zombies. If ingested administer Bowie music immediately.
Ronald Reagan
Although intended as ironic, this form of LSD has been known to have alarmingly Republican side-effects.

Right now I am on Mighty Mouse- a rather effective hybrid of Superman and Jiminy Cricket. The Superman has inspired a feeling of invulnerability and omnipotency, but this is tempered with the playful cartoonishness of Jiminy Cricket, and thus I am not prone to take my super human abilities too seriously.

Mighty Mouse will enable me to negotiate the labyrinth of reality’s illusion towards the evasive golden cheese of epiphany within. I have ingested it with all the due reverence of the Eucharist, dissolving it upon my tongue and becoming as one with the cosmichrist. Revelations will be revealed, their pedals parting willingly- we will not need to pry them, the truth longs to clamor through the clutter.

Don your spex and tongue your tabs, boys and girls!
Prepare to be opened wide!

Oh no.
Even as I pop the knob I can hear it coming.
The gates of Heaven are guarded by the fires of Hell tonight.
At ten minutes to midnight a priest appears on TV, dressed in stiff car salesmen clothes, blue plaids, and he comments on some current event, extrapolating some vague unrelated moral from it, and then his mouth smiles while his paranoiac eyes lean over his cheeks and stare in terror into the camera lens, trying to imagine all the decadent atrocities being committed on the receiving end of his transmission. Orgies, heroin injections, glue sniffing, lord only knew what; and his smile seems to say: go to bed, you sick monkey molesters. Everyone else is asleep, all the good normal people. Why aren’t you? Why in God’s name are you awake at this unholy hour?
-God bless you, and good night.
His image fades. Now hell is unleashed.
After a long day of pimping colas and cars the television stumbles wearily into the early hours of morning, deliriously climaxing in a bombastic propogasm.
Jet planes are ejaculated, sputtering and spewed in metallic ‘V’ goose formation, spurting stars and stripes over amber fields of grain. Endless rows of expendable soldiers salute. Tinny tubas and trombones flatulate the national anthem as the fierce-eyed visage of an endangered bald eagle appears, superimposed upon a fluttering flag.
This is porno for patriots.
But this is obviously not intended for them; they have gone to bed hours ago, at a decent hour.
The only people still glued to their tubes are the sardonically subversive and the snickering stoned.
This particular piece of propagandic pap was actually created by the CIA (Cathode-ray Interference Association) to scatter anyone with an IQ over 80 away from their television tubes, lest they tune into the anarchistic decrees of Deity TV.
It is nearly 100 percent effective- anyone with a functioning frontal lobe is nearly driven mad by it, clenching their ears and screeching like mad monkeys jabbed with sharpened pencils- anything to drown out the obedient oboes and republican rhythms of this celluloid abomination.
But this bed of burning coals is a cake walk to me- Mighty Mouse is in the house! I can endure this, but must shield my ear drums against its siren song, lest I be seduced by it’s shallow symbolism and suddenly find myself inducted into the United States armed forces, any lingering traces of my individuality irrefragably erased.
The screen abruptly explodes with static, like a splash of cold water.
Suddenly the first wave of acid hits, toppling you, undertows threatening to tug you down to the wretched depths.
Wait- what are you doing? A grim image flashes: how others would see you now, the static reflected upon your goggles creating the bizarre illusion that your eyeballs have been transformed into madly swirling snowglobes. You now see your own pupils, dilated and reflected within your goggles, staring back at you in startled horror.
Fear flabbergasts you.
This is where most be people staring at television static through welding goggles at 3 am on LSD simply give up: DON’T.
This is all a very good sign: something which is about to be revealed to you is snarling for secrecy, slapping snow in your eyes. Verily I say unto thee: if that which is about to be revealed to you were revealed to all mankind all our turmoil and tribulations would cease.
If you have chosen your guide unwisely, against my advice, I wish you well, but fear the riptides now engulfing you will tear you from stem to stern- get thee hence to the sanctuary of an all-night Denny’s where you can sit in drooling awe over your moronic psuedo-epiphanies and retarded revelations which all somehow necessitate sculpting PlayDo Yin Yangs.
If, however, you have chosen wisely your Television Guide can now be evoked, thusly:
“Lo- great rodent of grand frommage masticulations- I beseech thee- substitute my fainting strength with your furry fearlessness!”
Suddenly you will sense the girding of your wind-whipped loins, strength surging through you in golden waves of cheese-colored courage.
Now- come, all you faithful, and enter:
Vague images lift through the static storm, forming letter ‘O’s and ‘V’s, before scattering like albino bees. The bacon hiss is haunted by the melancholy echoes of canned laughter, the residual memories of television’s broadcasting day.
The television is broadcasting nervous beta waves, warily dozing off in public, but soon it relaxes and alpha waves flow through the tube like a lilac-sweetened June breeze. The room around you dissolves into a peripheral fog and the static hiss, which moments ago clamored like the menacing tongues of a trillion snakes, now sighs and fades like the distant burble of a daydreaming brook, merrily, merrily.
Now I must implore you to turn your television off.
With a knob pop we are plunged into darkness, save for a fluttering white dot in the center of the screen.
Dear reader- for centuries mankind has suffered beneath the bungled cosmology of the Bible, with it’s evil apples and talking snakes, all metaphors taken literally by generations who have mistaken a menu for the meal.
Tonight we shall rend the veil and witness what has been obscured from mortal eyes since the time immortal: tonight we shall witness the beginnings of the universe and our kind, live and in living color, with the mere flip of a switch.