I’m turning into…

…a Giant Slug. It’s true. I’ve started leaving silver streaks down the stairs as I slither between kitchen and screen. My legs have atrophied into a squidgy tail, my arms are now little stumps with digits, and my head has sunk to just above my gelatinous tummy. One has to admire evolution; if it’s not needed, it falls off. And lets face it, I don’t need what I’ve lost. I hear people bang on about arms and legs and the good old days when they went skiing and rock climbing and stuff but what fool would suffer all that danger, pain, cold and rain when I can do it all via digits and a screen? I’ve got all the information I will ever need, every past performance and show, and I can fight wars past, present and future without a scratch. There’s enough TV in a single week to last a lifetime and I can play them again 24/7 on my iPlayer and iPod. I can see giant killer whales snaffle penguins, ants copulate and stags kill each other. I’m beginning to realise that’s the difference between humans and animals; they do physical things and we don’t need to anymore. I don’t even have to walk to the shops. As Christmas passes and we move into the 2010’s we will begin the decade of “Do it with digits.” No cars, no flights to the Alps, no holidays in the sun, just a nice warm lamp, microwave chips and a screen. No global warming and the solution to overpopulation, water and food shortages as we evolve past the slug stage to being digitally integrated. A human being will become a fully integrated, networked unit residing in a waterproof box the size of a portable radio. Complete nutrition fluid will be pumped down tubes and we will live forever. I can’t wait; those trips to the kitchen are getting quite tiring.

Prematurity.“

It cometh to passeth that I was a bit prematureth. God’s been in touch again. Apparently they were my thoughts. He says he is far too abstruse for the likes of me and anyway he doesn’t do words, so the book won’t be coming out. He says writing the ‘Word of God’ is a beginners mistake. It’s easily done but it’s like Pinky and Perky covering a Beyonce’ song. Won’t work; never has, never will. I’m like, “Well make it complicated why don’t you.” So I can’t use words, what then, am I supposed to draw pictures? Apparently pictures and stories are a bit better but even that’s not enough for His Godliness, oh no, he wants me to be as God is. I mean what does that mean, be as God is? And apparently God isn’t even a person, not even human. He’s definitely not Hugh Grant just to squash that particular rumour. He’s like this floaty floaty thing like air and everything, like derdy derdy der, oh there you are. And then you know something and then you don’t, or you know it isn’t proper knowing but you’re not sure, but sometimes you are. I mean that’s no way to run a cosmos, there should be proper chains of command, line managers and stuff. He laughed. So come on then, how are you organising all this?
“Consider the lilies of the field.” Oh don’t give me that old trollop, I’m a twenty-first century rodent. I’ve got cheese to fry, mouths to feed. He does like a bit of tuff talking I’ve found.
“Just because humans will be gone soon doesn’t mean you’ll get a step up boy-oe. We may skip a size and go straight to cockroaches.” I must say that came as a terrible shock. But Cockroaches are ugly ignorant bastards, they’re not a patch on mice!
“Word of God matey. I win.” Not that again. I suppose the lilies will be OK too eh. Teachers pets. ‘Teacher says you should copy us ‘cos we’re good and you’re not. Naaar.’
"Look at humans,” Do I have to, “they’ve read the runes and learnt how to play the sorcerer’s apprentice and now that millions of brooms are ruining the planet they’re like, ‘Oh what we going to do, what we going to do?’ Do you know what I do in situations like this?” What? “Downsize stupid.”

Prophet Stiffmouse.

I’m going to be a prophet. No more accountancy exams for me, no Jesus didn’t get a single GCSE, or Buddha. They just wandered about for a while and bam, Word of God. Mohammed wrote a book on his holidays when he was bored and bam, Word of God. The Ace of Trumps. Trumps are like that, any old shit and ‘Oh dear, I win.’ They’re like beliefs, another way of saying don’t even think about it. Nope that’s it, Trump of God. “But I put down the ace of diamonds.” Tuff, I win.”
“But daddy I love him, and he’s also a Muslim, we’re happy together.”
“Wrong sort, my belief, dishonour. Qur’an says so. Word of God. Must kill you. I win.” So being a prophet has its advantages. Oh hold on I’m just getting a message.
“Everyone must be nice to Stiffmouse. Anyone who upsets Stiffmouse must be killed. You must forward all your money immediately to Stiffmouse Inc. PO Box 1337, Ocean Boulevard, Los Angeles. I will be e-mailing Stiffmouse his own personal Word of God book later to sell on Amazon. Over and out.” Wow see, I am a prophet! I can’t wait for that book. I expect it will have something about virgins…
“PS. All virgins must lay down before Stiffmouse, in sexy underwear, desirous of a seeing too.” Oh my God see, another message.
So if you need anymore proof that God exists keep reading the Word of Stiffmouse, sorry, God.

Prohibition. The follow on?

Remember Star Wars, the Dark side, Luke Stiffmouse, Skywalker’s trusty rodent? No? It wasn’t a big part. Well let me tell you, Death Stars cost money, big money. Even Darth couldn’t do it on his own what with his bad chest and all. I bet you’ve never even thought about the Storm Trooper wage bill! Imagine the trembling accountant who had to ask, “But Mr Vader, how are we going to pay for it all?” and in a sickening wheeze came the reply, “Prohibition George.” Vader explains,

“In the

beginning

the Jedi were

good. So good they

needed to protect themselves

from bad things. So they invented

Prohibition. But they still did bad things

because they had freedom of choice and that.

So the Empire sold them bad things and took their

money. That George is how we pay for all this shit.”

“But we need more to pay for the new planet blaster.”
“Then ramp up the supply of narcotics numbskull.” Zzzermm, tschitsss, padump.
“Oh sorry I didn’t mean to do that.”
Anyway so it was in the beginning. Well not actually the beginning, a bit afterwards, but definitely a long time ago.
But the rebels led by Luke and his mouse fought back, Ferrrrss, kmow, mernamerna. They were losing. In desperation Luke stood up, “We must stop doing these bad things. Our money is paying for the evil Empire!”
“Oh man drugs are the only way to make television interesting!”
Obi-wan appeared, “Trust the force Luke.” “But they’ll all do bad things!” “So let the fuckers die Luke, they’ll soon learn. Stop looking after them.” So it was that Luke made all bad things legal.
When Darth Vader heard the news he was distraught. His evil empire would crumble without the money from the illegal supply of bad things. He transported himself to Jedi HQ in Stroud to see Skywalker.
“I am your father Luke. Huurrrs.”
“Well that explains it all dun it! All those ‘don’t do this and don’t do that.’ I believed you father!” A tear welled up in Luke’s eye, “and now you are rich on the profits of supplying all those bad things!”
“Son, huurrrs, I was young, I had your education to pay for. Huurrrs. Join me Luke. You’ll be just the same when Princess Lia starts nagging you for an extention.”
“But she’s my sister.” “OK I’ll sell you a nice Polynesian girl.”
“No Vader, you are no longer my father, anyway I’ve made Polynesian girls legal now. And I get the tax on them. Hah!” Luke swiped him with his light sabre.
The man lay broken on the floor. “Ah taxation. Why didn’t I think of that.” Padump.

Stiffdog undercover.

Stiffdog undercover.

Stiffdog’s just back from interviewing Bo at the White House with this chilling exclusive. “Wuff everybody. Bo is good, you know, looking forward to Christmas dog biscuits and that but he’s been listening in. Did you know that humans have three world economies, the state, the criminal and the terrorist? It’s like the first is in green dollars and the other two are in dark dollars; like dark matter, you can’t put your finger on it but it has to be there somewhere. Well they also count in trillions. The criminal economy is straightforward, sex, drugs, fake goods, crime etc, but the terrorist economy is murkier. There are always people who want things doing they can’t do themselves because it wouldn’t look good on their résumé. They can’t use criminals because they’re immoral so they need people who are so passionate about something they’ll do anything ‘for the cause’. Now world governments always need stuff doing they can’t be seen to be involved in. Enter terrorist economics. The CIA for instance has been funding terrorist activity since World War II all over the world, the Far East, South America, Sadam Hussein, Osama Ben Laden etc, often arming and funding them with profits from the local drugs trade. See the Iran-Contra Affair. They simply couch what they wanted doing in the terms of the poor unsuspecting believers beliefs.
But the problem when dealing with ‘believers’ is they may start doing what you want because it coincides with what they want but they usually carry on doing what they want even when it diverges from what you want. So Ben Laden, by now well connected into the dark dollar economies, starts biting the hand that he used to work for in the name of Islamic fundamentalism and goes a smidgen too far on 9/11. Bush retaliates by passing legislation on money laundering and stuff, which cuts the green dollar off from the dark dollar and removes the latter from the American economy and the US finds a hole in its numbers.
Meanwhile the Talaban and el-Qaeda backed by dark dollars continue fighting for Islam in Islamic countries that in general don’t want them against green dollar backed US troops. The suicide bomber is actually fighting not for Islam but the terrorist economy. But increasingly the dark terrorist economy is drifting towards the criminal economy as they come to rely more and more on funding from narcotics. The poor suicide bomber, in a surreal play on the World Wars, is dying to be replaced by poppy fields. Maybe if this was pointed out to him he might not be so keen to strap on his exploding cummerbund.
Bo says dogs would play it differently. “1/ stop talking about threats to National security because the criminal/terrorist alliance isn’t interested in states. 2/ legalise drugs so nation states take control of the narcotics trade and turn dark dollars back to green, and 3/ interrupt dark money movements. And for God sake make people realise this isn’t an idealistic struggle anymore, it’s just about dark economics!” With thanks to Loretta Napoleoni, research economist.

Sailing by.

I fear I’m entertained out. Like the Queen would feel at the end of a Royal Variety Performance that lasted fifty years. Radio 4 has the news which is depressing, Radio 1 has Radio 1 DJs who are depressing, Classic FM, who assume its audience is made up of people who regularly say “I don’t believe it!” and so run adds for incontinence pads, is also depressing. On TV soaps, sitcoms and drama are depressing, especially Holyoaks! ‘Phone in to make me rich’ programs with audiences overdosed on e make me sick. Hiphop makes me want to shoot myself and MOR overproduced pop is, yes it’s depressing. Anything with David Tennant in is OK though. It’s not that they’re bad, apart from Holyoaks and hiphop, it’s just that I’ve listened to and watched so much TV and radio over the years I’m beginning to hate it. Thousands and thousands of hours just gawping, it’s not good for my posture. I mean even goldfish swim around in their bowl, “Oh there’s the settee, the fireplace, the window. Oh there’s the settee, the fireplace, the window. Oh there’s the settee, the fireplace, the window.” That’s what it feels like, “Oh there’s the X Factor, Big Brother, News at 10. Oh there’s the X Factor, Big Brother, News at 10.” I am not a goldfish! And now there’s iPods with a thousand apps. You want a wank? There’s an app for that. You want the Conservative front bench put down? You’ve guessed it. I don’t want apps! I don’t want musak 24/7 that I hear but don’t listen to. Lift voices are OK though; they’re quite pleasant to talk to. So this Christmas raise a glass to the end of entertainment. In the commercial breaks of course. ('Sailing by', by the way, is the last piece of music on Radio 4 to signal the end of the day)

Happy Xmas Interfacial

As it’s nearing Christmas, in the spirit of said season of good cheer I’m going to dedicate this entry to Stiffmouse Blog’s only follower. Happy Christmas ‘interfacial’, whoever you are. So Inter, how’s your year been? You don’t mind me calling you Inter do you? But I guess these must remain rhetorical questions. I mean I’m not blaming you. Silence is golden, we all talk far too much don’t we. Another rhetorical question. There goes my urge to reach out, to make contact. And this silence I’m hearing is somehow God like. Like a prayer, maybe answered but never discussed. In fact I’m rather favouring it. How wise I might appear if I don’t open my mouth. And in some sense it might prove true. Someone might come to me with a problem, I would say nothing, they would ponder, make a suggestion. I would say nothing. They, as they are the supreme living authority on their problem and its solution would progress from suggestion to suggestion until some rightness appeared to them. They would smile and thank me for my insightfulness. Someone expecting a rebuke might, hearing silence, come to know better their own misdemeanour. Someone clinging to me for some necessity of their own, in hearing silence, might have to find their own substance to fill that requirement, just as someone eager for learning might learn.
So thank you Inter for your insight, you are indeed far wiser than I.
Just don’t get in touch, OK.