Apr 04 2007

Memories from Life after Death (for RAW and T. McK.)

Published by Brian at 6:47 pm under fiction, essay, the_secrets, drugs, the_marvelous, agriculture

Essay by Brian Charles Clark

As Robert Anton Wilson (the man, the modality, the moonmeld) indicated in undisclosed locations known only to a select few, and the Dogon of West Africa have known for thousands of years, cheese is of alien origin. The phrase “the moon is made of green cheese” is not just smoke blowing from the door of an opium den. Rather, it is a literal truth, one a world-wide conspiracy has sought to suppress for many moons. Cows are robots from space, implanted with soulful stares that have but one purpose: to disarm and befuddle the planet Earth’s population into thinking that they, and other udder-bearing beasts, are the sole source of milk and milk by-products. Which, in fact, they are.

Bovinius astronomicus - an intelligence from outer space?So don’t be fooled any longer. Milk is manufactured on a planet orbiting the star Sirius (the Dog Star, but there’s a Cow Planet dancing around the Dog Star) and brought here (through what the physicists call a teathole) as a mind-control drug by a species of alien so far advanced that they can only be called hunter-gatherers. Even Terrance McKenna (the elf, the aether, the Erlenmeyer flask) was fooled into thinking that cheese is an Earth original. He thought that it was magic mushrooms that let him hear and communicate with the aliens, when it fact it was his prodigious humus and feta consumption that put him in touch with the Elves of the Aether.

Des Cartes saw through the consiriuscy (and Tom Robbins knew what Renee knew, as is revealed by his comment in Jitterbug Perfume that the ergotist had des cartes before des horses). Most people, blinded by the coy gaze of a robot “mammal” (i.e., a cow), think the big D wrote “cogito, ergo sum,” when in fact the line was “cottage cheese, ergo zoom!”, an epiphany of creamy proportions, his mind racing this whey and that. Jesus, too, that oily and unctuous “Christ”, was a shatterer of illusions, for which he was pegged up on a rude plank like some common thief or military spy. At the last he was heard to utter, “My Gouda, why hath thou foreskimmed me?” Until now, no sense has been made of that line and so it was narratized into something else entirely, perhaps a book or something.

But why all the mystery surrounding the alien origins of milk? After all, humans have for millennia known that they were being visited, tutored, impregnated, and otherwise toyed with by visitors from other planets. Who is behind this conspiracy (or, and I’m serious, con-sirius-cy)? My research has uncovered the following fact: We are the dupes of Wisconsin farmers and Michigan cereal manufacturers. While the proper role of grains in the history of humanity has been in the fermenting of beer and the making of millet tacos, this purpose has been undermined by clever aliens disguised as farmers from the North and named Ivar Nelson’s son’s son and such and all.

Wisconsin farmers are a race much older than previously believed, whose sole purpose here on Earth has been to clog the veins of right thinking hominids with transgenic alien fats. The leader of this tribe of pernicious Sirians (note the linguistic similarity between Sirius and cereal: coincidence? I think not.) is the legendary and gregariously gnomic John Harvey Kellogg, who lives among us still, for he is no man but a manray.

Kellogg was the inventor of the cornflake, a purveyor of the milk diet, and a health food nut bar none. He lives on in the form of T. Coraghessan Boyle, who gave himself away in his “novel” (or is it autobiography?), The Road to Wellville. The truth, my friends, is often stranger than fiction; do not be fooled.

The conspiracy continues to this day, with perhaps the best evidence being the persistent propaganda hurled forth by the duplicitous American Milk Board’s “Got Milk?” campaign. Showing individuals with their mouths full of gooey, chewy, sticky food, they reach for a sloshful container of milk, only to be frustrated by an empty carton. As proved by the French psychoanalyst Lacan, all consumption is born of frustration, that is, the desire to become the Other, to pass through the mirror into the One True Narrative.

The above was written in 2001. I have no idea what it means, but it fits in nicely with my new theory. My new theory, which I developed in conversation with scientists (many of them quite insane), is that plants have co-opted the human genome for their own selfish purposes. At first glance, tree huggers of all stripes will find this truly disastrous news, but, as I show in my treatise-in-progress on the subject (and, more generally, on addiction), being taken over by plants may not be such a bad thing. I mean, it’s kind of the ultimate victim argument, right? So stayed ’tooned for that.

One Response to “Memories from Life after Death (for RAW and T. McK.)”

  1. Puck » Stand Tall for Phenolson 06 Nov 2007 at 10:37 pm

    […] suggested before that plants are the ultimate selfish genies. Or geniuses. Red queens in green drag. One day soon, I […]

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