Hans Kracker-Flex- eurotrash , hypocryte, drives a porxhe. BUT its just a cover. he really is driven along an age long curse, which he must nagate, only by acting like a douchbag. personally he would prefer to devote his life to collecting Beatles paraphernalia.

Nikolai the third Baron of Shpartz-the red baron as he is known in the semi-amature theater circle. hopes to bring ferns to their deserved popularity.

Avrahm Moriarty- the love child of a 80's eurotrash star. dreams of opening a quail farm. involved in a blood fued with a loss adjuster called Brenda Tetris.

Brenda Tetris - siffered greatly in her childhood, which toughned her up and made her a leading professional. has a peculiar phobia about tangerines. completely unaware of Avrahm Moriarity's existance indirectly owns an asbestos dump site.

Twarf, the Ashkashian- an official emmisery of the Guild of Oppressors. composes ultimatums , and edicts in verse form. his slaves bare on their skin those poems which he deemed to be worth preseving. covets rich asbestos deposits. emotionally attached to a producer of reality TV shows.

Commander Tony "Anchovy" Cardzinski - an inspector of nuclear silos. known throughout the nuclear deterence community for his moist brownies, which he shares in insoections. he earned his nickname the hard way...

Sarhadon of Ur. a decendant of the Issarian dynasty. practices yoga, and is creating a synthetic languages that he hopes will replace all languages . has intensly vivid memories of riding a war chariot.

Maze MacCorncorn- a sentient online farm simulator. lives in constant fear of locust. later in its life, it was possessed by a demon, who is very interested in origami.

don't judge a crook by its cover

when judging covers, if first you dont succeed, book book again.

judge a Don't by covering its book.

don't blow a judge's cover, Bookie.

Booker don't judge. he just covers up the mess.

"by thy cover i will know thee" (book of Judges, ch. III, l. 21

you can stretch the judge's skin over the book, but it makes a messy dust jacket.

don't judge an adaptation by its book.

let he who is without a cover, judge the first book.

you don't bring a book to a gunfight, you bring Judge Dread and take cover.

judge an ex-president by his cover, not his "book".

you can lead a book to cover, but you can't make it judge.

passing judgment is like passing gas, there are plenty of 'don't's and 'boo's but there is no cover.

don't judge a manhole by its cover.

cover me, oh, cover, don't judge me by my book.

no use closing the book cover, after judges ran out.

don't 'judge' a Brooke under the cover.

the book "the cover Don Judganni" is about being yourself.

no flowers, send, in the van.

from the hothouses,

from refrigerated storage.

dont send chrysanthemum,

no orchyds, no tulips, margolds,

no lilys, no lady's slippers,

no roses.

no more send these thihngs,

we wont accept, we can't.

it's closing time, here,

out of business,

can't even pay the rent anymore.

in fact the last of the stock,

all that's not wilted , YOU can take.

but at least we tried.

we opened the shop now we close.

should have sold chocolate.

or tacky knicknacks..

"it seems that i have underestimated your preperadnce for the duel. consider my suggestion that I shall forthwith set Megatron upon thee."

"I'm a randy fuck, if you look at level, you see my desk is higher then the rest, every time the Esmeralda comes to 'teach'..."

"Delta four six seven, climb to twenty thousand and maintain heading of two four eight. be advised that visibility is reduced and ILS is down. "

"is a tangerine an orange?! is a catfish a cat? is Megatron a teacher?"

"what if EVERYONE comes to school tomorow with lederhosen? "

"i dream of a field of wheat. those green-yellow stalks tightly sown, rising, shimmering , undulating in the soft breeze. clouds above me, in slow progress and the sun peeking, as I fuck you to a reddened-puple blushing hew, upon the piquee we frolic, as i downward thrust. my phallus shall be as a plough of unbending steel. as i work tirelessly, again and again, to penetrate your furrough. the blanket absorbing our force, leaving crisscross marks on your blushing, sweaty skin."

"i have enough money now to buy a bus pass. a solid investment in transportation, that shall vouchsafe my swift transport away from this accursed wasteland"

.

"he besmearched the illustrious name of our clan, which served his majesty loyally for generation past. by the gods, i invoke the wrath of Seth, let him succumb to the sea of sorrows that awaits him in the afterlife"

"take this vial, child, and drink. everyone will assume you dead, and then you can escape with your beloved"

"i shall sell thee an oil lamp, which has a long spout. once you rub the lamp, a jeeni will appear , and he shall taketh Megatron away"

"if Megatron had a nickle for every awful ppt he's made. he will still be a poor , pathetic loser. we shall bury him in quicklime , once the grades are in. "

"dear sirs. i would like to take the oppoetunity of addressing you in a matter which seems to have escaped your attention. the railway schedule , published in December, has ommited the mention of the terminal station for passangers on the Cany-Olstridgeshire line. I have it on good aurhority that on the evening of january seventh, the train passed the proposed terminus at three O'clock in the morning, pulling lit and occupied passanger carts of both first and second class. this happened again a fourthnight later, and since has reoccured consistantly once every third night. i think this can mean no other thing than that certain clandestaine elements of the railworkers' union, have been appropriating both funds , rolling stock and material to construct a monstrous weapon that will threaten our domination of the lower class. they must be stopped. for our safety and theirs as well. i would be happy to detail my findings and suspicions in greater depth if that what you require. "

"i take paper, a flat , two dimentional plain, and make a three dimentional ball out of it. my powers are infinite and soon i will revel in drinking your blood"

"humping , shtupping, tupping, fucking, coitousing, having, grinding, log jamming, all these and more i would like to try. come to me and bring a friend. "

"you can put a six-divet brick on an eight divet one. but it will still have a sharp ledge. this is how i feel . "

"today i would say, is of a "mixed fruit" juicy fruit level. definitely not "apple" . but megatron's class is definitely a "orange". "

"what's the problem with cooking AP algebra students in the oven?

-they stick to the pan"

"how do you get the paper to recall what you wrote"

"dear Megatron. i am a member of a large, prosperous family. we engage in many business ventures, such as extortion, drug trafficking and protection. i would like to offer you a historic opportunity..."

the army i will raise will have no guns.

they may have helmets, but the tomatoes we'll get pitched at us will get through.

'better get goggles on' i'll say, as i marshall them.

then, we will congregate.

one hand cobtrols the dials,

the other, hovers between the vertical and horizontal antennea.

the mummies from planet Fezvillon will stop dead in their place, and become unravelled, then their grey ash will blow in the wind.

Fezvillonians can't stand theramins.

to get the ball rolling, change is a major problem to handle logically. motion, for example, seems to be a seemless transition from place to place, yet it may be reducible to infinitely small, yet seperate states that would be to us, the observer as frozen snapshots. of course physics tells us that is not the case and there is no such thing as "frozen snapshots". but then , those bozos are just as confused about things as we do, having proven to the world that the more you know about locality, the less you know about trajectory.

so, change...

is a half rotten apple still an apple?

is blood dripping from a nose bleed, actually flowing?

is an uncooked egg whipped in a bowl an omlette?

is a penny saved truly a penny earned?

now we go to the restaurant sketch. the waiter delivered said meal, say a cheesburger, curly fries, and a soda.

you look at the splendor upon your table and become changed. your moderate hunger has turned to an emotional equivalent of the core collapse of a class IIb blue giant star.

you are clearly not the same as you were a monent ago.

you set upon the meal sending it into the event horizon. bit by bit you took it all in. the cheeseburger could not reach escape velocity.

now it is gone. so are the fries, the tiny dollop of salad and the soda. a cursory check would reveal some crumbs, and you collect them as well.

now, change again is occuring, you feel better about things. you have less fears about the melting glaciers or the over fished oceans, and microplastics in the food chain. why, this is madness!! you begin to see it all as an opportunity, rather than a disaster. all those plump balugas that will be much easier to spot, now that they have no ice to hide them.

you have underwent change.

but so has the burger. it was, at a certain point of its history, a series of ingredients; a cow, cheese , a nice piggy (oh, there was bacon, of course there was!!). some mustard flowers, a head of lettuce, a tomato, seseme, wheat, yeast, salt, sugar, water, strychnine...

and these fine ingredients where themselves a result if changes, upon changes upon changes, going back to that fateful moment, the the universe came to be, and immidietely stopped being as it was-it too changed.

and now the food, or its aggregated, historically formed constituants are gone. at least as they were just recently. changed into a soup of masticated solids, in a wash of acids and enzymes, which also were derived through change..

now the waiter approcheth. he sees that you are finished and inquires if you would require anything else. obviously, this is a trick question. you are not required to eat any more, though you could do another burger or ten. no. he is hinting, subtly that you either order more stuff, or ask for the bill, because this is the lunch hour, and they woukd like to seat other patrons, after they cleaned the upholstery.

this hint, has not been unnoticed by you, and now you undergo more change: do i feel the existential need to have more food, or perhaps a drink, OR shoukd you ask for the bill? you are clearly not the same as you were a moment ago, as doubts and schemes wash over your conciencness. you might even become resentful that the waiter has chosen to imply things rather than to speak directly. perhaps you will do well to add more possibilities, such as spitefully staying for another few hours, and ordering only water.

such changes you have gone through, and more to come, because you are EVENTUALLY presented with the bill. it is now that you face the greatest of the questions: the bill is in a way a formal contract, between you and the restaurant, where they provide you with goods and YOU provide them with money.

however this is a problem: as we established, the person you are at the moment is certainly not equal to the person that ordered the hamburger and soda. it could be that you are not that person at all.

it could be that whoever had ordered the hamburger , was presented not with a hamburger, with cheese and lovely, lovely bacon, but with iingredients that were merely formed into a hamburger. if that is true the owners of the restaurant had promissed something that they could not possibly deliver-a hamburger that is NOT mere ingredients that were subjected to change. that would be a case of gross false-advertising! moreover, you are asked to pay the restaurant a price, in either electronic or physically acceptable legal tender. however here again is another crisis, because the money that you are supposed to hand over is certainly a result of change, and soon should be subjected to more change as it ceases to be one of your possessions and becomes the owners. clearly you are asked to transfer ownership which something that is not the same as giving them YOUR money!!

morally, you feel outraged that the transfer of unchanged goods in exchange for your personal posessions did not only fail to include you, presently in the transaction, but it involved fraud, false advertising, and is not even possible!!

the waiter himself, you can see has undergone change. he is certainly, not the same as he was when he took your order, if that even occured. he is now upset, that you are "making trouble" for him, and is legitimately worried that the whole social contract, onwhich society is based is about to come apart at the seams. while this is not your concern, you can't help be sympathetic to the anxiety of the waiter, and at the same time feel caution in admitting fault , and struggle to discerne the motivation of this individual, who through personal changes has come to collaborate so eagerly with rhe fraudulent owner.

what is to be done then?

when will a solution present itself?

will you possibly be YOU when such a solution appear?

I'm thinking hard on fitting the dinsey song Let it go" with the words for "Green eggs and ham"

would you like green eggs and ham,

no i wouldn't, Sam-i-am!

would you, could you here or there?

no i wouldn't, Anywhere!

could you eat them on the train

would you eat them in a tree,

no i wouldn't, Sam, you let me be.

not with a fox

not in a box,

i don't like green eggs and ham,

not in a house

not with a mouse,

you see...

i don't like, i don't want

i won't eat green eggs and ham

i don't like, i don't like,

i don't like them, Sam-i-am

i won't eat, sam, now let me be...

not with a goat..

the cold never bothered me anyway..

and here it stops. this is just a cheap thrill. an escape from the pain and ambiguity i feel, after reading the prompt about boxing a gox.

because, while gox boxing is by no means a sport limited to rules or regulations, it is nonetheless a way of life, which gox share willingly, but zealously protect. gox (as a plural form) are extremists. they would not eschew brutal breaking of their own strict boxing traditions, in defence of these very traditions. their narrowmindedness has needless to say, caused a great deal of violence. i used to think that the boxing of goxes, was as distant an issue to me as the quality of ink, to be served to a well-kept Yink.

that all changed, when i bought a Zans. a Zans, as advertised, was good for opening cans. being useless at cooking, i open many cans , and so i bought into the Zans dream. and like all fantasies, it was a lie!!!

Zans sit in your kitchen, taking most of the space, and not only are they very bad at opening cans, but even if they do, it would be only the kind that has a lid (like an instant coffee can). i complained about this to the manufacturer, demanding my money back. i received no reply. when i threatened legal action, for false advertising , i got worse...

oh, i'll not soon forget it..

it was a rainy day, i was sitting by the window, unhappy about the weather and the Zans in my kitchen grumping along stupidly, as Zans do when feeling satisfaction and work fulfillment. there certainly was nothing to be proud of, i can tell you. that very morning i tooka risk and tried that beast again, hoping it will open a can of onefish. oh the calamity of it!! i climbed the ladder, hinged the can against the Zan's curved horn...well, i nearly lost a finger and was covered in redfish oil. worst yet, the dumb beast (the Zans, i mean) would not move even a bit, when i tried to mop things up !!

but then..

then there was a knock on the door.

i don't want to talk about those hats, or the Things i saw . that's not the point. i'll cut it short, and say that among the riffraff that now was demonstrating against me in a very inappropriate way, was noticably, a heavy- built gox. gloves all laced up and eager to pounce.

so much for the noble sport of boxing! a peoperly lathered gox in the prime of their life, is definitely something to fear, when it tells you that you do not need a refund after all. in the end, after they messed up my house, and took the Zans, and left me the cleaning up to do. i knew better than call the police. they have better things to do.

now, i am all for self expression, and for ethnic diversity, but the extremism of gox, and their readiness to commit violence, is appaling to me. and so is the hypocrisy of all those who defend their "art" while dismissing the fact that while they PRACTICE their art in the gym, they readily EMPLOY it in the street.

i realize that i am drifing close to becoming what i hate. it is hard for me to not see the terror that gox spread, and yet the refusal of many conservatives AND liberals to condemn the root of it-boxing in general and unparalleled ease withwhich boxing gloves are sold. perhaps i am driven in my fears in to the verge of hate speech. but tell me, how would anyone who wears boxing gloves at all times be seen as non violent?

i say to you, that i am not espousing acceptance of persecution against gox. nor do i see a way to remove them from our midst. only perhaps, that the availability of boxing gloves should be restricted, that the violence they so relish be shunned culturally instead of glamorizing it. and most of all, that law enforcement will be more effective in restricting boxing to the arena. a gox who box may do so, only in situations where they spar with equal, WILLING opponents. they may keep their gloves, upon their hands in the rain or on the train, in the street or in the peat. but they must be subject to the same rules of assult and public disturbance as everyone else.

finally, i want to say, that in recent years, the availability of boxing gloves to children is becoming more prevalent. this disturbs me greatly. as that kids, who are barly able to read, or know the deeper consequences of their actions, are given gloves by their parents, and shown those ritualized movements that should hold meaning only to a gox.

On a misty morn, he walks the street

a chain of meats he carry

to the merchant's wife, to bring her aid,

and dares he not to tarry.

The merchant's wife requires foods

and more she needs of Frank

the chain of bangers, coiled for her

he rushed in weather, dank.

Some bangers she requested, true

and she had asked for more

the open door to her boudoir

gave clue to her implore.

"I say, you have my produce, m'lady

what more of me you seek?"

"I'll have another sausage, man

a footlong savory link."

And so he showed his hidden gift

the merchant's wife, was pleased.

she ordered daily rations hence,

and served her household, these.

Her husband did not mind, it seems

to have no foul nor pork.

engrossed he was in counting coin

and spent all thought on work.

And so in bliss, the merchant's wife

received Frank's inventory

but their lives changes as entered he,

the bard, to change the story.

A bard he was, a poet skilled,

in rhyming cobbled, verse.

invited he, 't merchant's house

with parchment, writ in terce.

Presented he the balad short,

and as she read she smiled.

and thus the bard, enchanted he,

his humors thus beguilled.

Applied his quill and wrote her more,

of wond'rous things of hew

it was, of course a subtle glint

a literary clue.

And read she well and found his heart

alluded 'twixt his lines

she gave him food and kisses,

and in bed they sat and dined.

One day she served him sausage links,

in linen sheets they laid,

t'was then they heard a clamor,

remonstrations of the maid.

They hurried, coverd naked flesh,

in cloth, and woolen dress.

and met the injured sausage-smith

Who saw her hair a mess.

A wild and savage mane she had,

untamed because of haste

and Frank was sure what had transpired,

His love she had misplaced.

And challnged he, the bard to meet,

and settle things of pride,

the bard had blinked but made ascent,

his honor he wont hide.

I knew them both, o friends of mine,

poor bard and gallant Frank,

they met again despite my tries,

along the riverbank.

I tried to bring them peace in song

and desperately strummed my lute,

but it was livid, hurtful stares,

it made my efforts mute.

Presented they the weapons, sharp,

their daggers; all they owned

they pounced upon another quick.

and soon, i heard a groan.

The bard was cut, his injury,

was deep and his blood flow

he fell upon the grass and lay

his eyes in pain aglow.

We rushed to help and comfort him,

he smiled then , as we nursed,

and said it did occur to him,

that Frank had done his wurst.

Before i begin my discourse in to the question of religion, i shall quote a long forgotten poem, which in many ways, demonstrates both the quest to be enlightened, and the dangers and hardships that arise along the way:

Itsy bitsy spider

Climbed up the water spout.

Down came the rain

and washed the spider out

Out came the sun

And dried the spider up

Itsy bitsy spider climbed up the water spout.

I struggle to restrain myself, from shedding a tear, yet i do not know why am i so moved?

Is it the innocence of the voracious predator, marred by  outrageous misfortune ?

Is it myself i see, in my feeble attempts at “climbing” , in searching for greater levels of understanding this world, yet facing calamity and ultimate failure?

Is it the delving into the psyche of the MISFORTUNATE arachnid, attempting to reconstruct their inner doubts, fears and hopes?

What was the spider looking for?

Why was he climbing this water spout?

Then i come to the question of the rain, that terrible tempest that cast that feeble eight legged creature (or perhaps less, considering the vicissitudes it has survived)  into the depths of the underbrush, to be beset by unimaginable dangers and pains, as the deluge raged and threatened to sweep it away.

How many spiders have gone this way and did not live to see the break of the sun as the wrathful clouds parted?

This event , like all events does not exist only from a singular perspective. The spider is but a portion of a greater tumult that had happened that day, it is observed by the poet, who neglects much of the other workings in this brief description. What of the other creatures? What of the bird in the tree? What of the slug? What of the earwig, the centipede, and the dung beetle? Their experience of things may be as consequential as that of the spider, and yet their ordeal is forgotten.

Thus we come to the question, of who is this poet? Is he a heartless, perhaps amused narrator, relishing the adversity and anguish of others? or Is he moved by the suffering around him, yet chooses to focus on a sole example-and if so, why was it the spider that was chosen and not the others? Is it the word of god that through divine inspiration or an act of miracle, caused this event to be forever transcribed in the great body of words known as literature?

When we look at the “question of religion“ , we are lost. We are lost in a sea of items. We could grasp at one, and lose the many. We could hold on to some structures that we observe and experience and yet fail to answer the questions in a satisfying way. Doubt is great.  And in the end we just go extinct.

If god was great? Would she allow our doubts to be great?

I have often wondered of such paradoxes. It is much more troubling to me to consider the ambiguity of the state of enlightenment , then to consider some immature paradoxes such as “could god create a boulder that he could not lift with all her strength?

The spider, perhaps has emotional motives. He seeks to climb the water spout, to find a place where he could find comfort, from all the misery it sees around. It knows that the “up” takes it to higher grounds, places where shadows are not cast, where predation is relatively rare. But it could be that the spider perhaps symbolically seeks that illusive clue, that irrational spark that will explain this life that its leading. Religion without a philosophical facet to it is just ritualistic behavior. The doubt and the wonder are the flower of this ancient seed.

Ah truly a flower it might be. Blooming brilliantly and fragile to troubles and arguments.

And  like with annual  plants, the flowering heralds the begging of the end of the life cycle. Many thinkers have met theology and with its meeting-abandoned it as it is part of their life.

I have oscillated greatly in  my life, spiritually speaking. I came from a place, were there was little formalized faith, where rituals of religion were mostly confined to food and its joys. These were vestigial rituals, held on for identity’s sake and not for furnishing one with a belief in a creator. Indeed, the question of god, of the afterlife, of the reason for things was seldom discussed, and if it was so discussed, it was done critically, or even scornfully.

I acquired spiritualism during my life and lost it, regained it and cast it aside. Holding a belief is something that is hard to do consistently. There is no immediate need to be religious. No one checks if at a certain time you hold this belief or that. It is also not something that can really be akin to a habit, like brushing your teeth or doing the dishes.

And yet, you come back to it again and again. Or i do at least. There are times where i look upon things and see connections that are mystical and unexplainable. Connections that defy science, the imply destiny and plan.  Life is simply to crazy to just allow for science to explain it. even if i am aware of the gravitational curve of spacetime, or the reproductive cycle of angiosperms, i will need to fortify my being with a way to deal with the fact that things are so unexpected, and weird. I try to live my life reconciling the fact that tomorrow i may stand as ambassador to a hostile race of space flamingos. I fear that you mock this, scenario, but i assure you that it is not much stranger than things that happened. And that does not even begin to deal with dilemmas or with anguish.

And so , i strive to give the world a rational structure, but one that allows some unknown mystical connection that surpasses it all. yet as i observe these things, i immediately come to the realization that it is I who is experiencing these things, and not the things that are objectively connected. It is a subjective conclusion, and as such can not be imparted or hold meaning to others.

Yet here we go to the itsy bitsy spider again. Its ordeal is relatable, it seeks enlightenment, it seeks comfort , it falls in the storm, it raises once more through the lucky/providential event of its drying. We feel sympathy for the struggling spider. Knowing all too well the path it had gone through. The painful and wondrous arc that it had lived through.

The story of the spider also raises deeper questions. Why was it that an ardent, hopeful spider had to meet such a disaster?, after all, wasn’t it seeking to climb the water spout?  Was the break of the rainfall part of some grand plan, perhaps like the one of the biblical Job, who lost his entire family, his fortune and his health. Is that a lesson that we all must learn, and if so, why is it that this lesson is NOT learned, or is it that it is unlearnable ? Why do the fortunate not know of their fortune or disregard it? Why do many who had been “taught” still remain “unlearned”?

We can ask of god, Wouldn't there be a better way to settle this cosmos, and to impart the wisdom that we are potentially capable of , could there be a method that would be not as chaotic, tortuous and confusing?

I will not give much thought to rituals or organizations. That is a subject of sociology AND NOT theology. Cathedrals and circumcisions, prayer mats and incense are just props and stage directions on an artificial theatrical show. The witnesses and the partakers may act in goof faith, or may act in fear, or may act with greed or may act in heroism, of course, cruelty and waste are also commonplace aspect of these structures. But these behaviors are not confined to these institutions and so they prove , at least to me that religions are human constructions that POSSIBLY were created with some spiritualism in mind, and with good intentions, but with every other product of humans, it is far from any perfection of a way of life, which it presumes to have.

The spider did not need a mosque or a synagogue to attend. It needed no sermons or sacraments. It just climbed the water spout.

And that is all it had. If it achieved some understanding, if it felt, even fleetingly the heart of the creators then it attained it on its own.

I particularly take the spider’s quest t be meaningful . spiders are mostly solitary creatures. They may live in large congregations, yet they never rely on others for sustenance. And yet ,evidently they can aspire. They can hope .

And here, lastly is the truth of this poem. The spider aspired for something. The poem does not say that the spider lived happily ever after. It was subject to death and decay. Neither any otherworldly miracle transpire; the spider, once it had reached  the water spout, did not suddenly grow wings and take to the air. Nor did it compose a symphony or record the realizations that came to it. That was not something it was capable of.

Even with philosophy, even with art and music and literacy. The outpouring that could happen, will not be on its own the final influence that will bring comfort in the other. Only when the other is open and willing to be enlightened , shall it possibly become so. The free will, the agency of belief is often confined to a state of mind that is changeable and reversible.

At most, or better put, AT BEST, we could be the beneficiaries of these reports of subjective experiences, that also happen to be open momentarily to the possibility and in need of the existence of a creator, and being thus, we are able to find some tenuous web of things, as one constructed by an ambitious spider, that sustains us.