dijous, 24 d’abril de 2014

THE MAN FROM NOT-YET - I'AM FROM THE TWEENTIETH CENTURY - IS A PLACE THEN? I SHOULD HAVE TOUGHT IT AS A DIRECTION ...YOU WILL WAIT TO TELL ME OF CARRIAGES THAT OPERATE WITHOUT THE BENEFIT OF HORSES OF ARTIFICIAL CANDLES ,,,,HOW DID YOU KNOW? -POOH, SIR, I AM MERELY SPINNING MY JÃBASKUS FAIRY TALE TO KEEP FROM BEING BORED BY UP YOURS...

donderdag 24 april 2014


POOH SIR TECHNICAL ZEITGEIST IN YOUR PERSONAL BOBOT BY VAN BOT THE IDEAL EARLESS BOBOT BOBON

HER NEEDLEWORK WITH MORPHINE AND HER HOBBY OF KILLING INSECTS....WE'RE BOTH SEX-EQUIPED ........HAS HE RAPED YOU YET? TIK-TOK BY JOHN T.SLADEK 1983 NOW IN PDF SOMEWHERE FOR FREE ....MORE OR LESS BECAUSE ELECTRIC ENERGY IS VERY EXPENSIVE IN ERGS AND DESERT ERGS CARBON FREE
To Tik-Tok of Oz, Talos of Crete,

the Golem of Prague, Olympia of Nuremberg,

Elektro of Westinghouse, Robby of Altair,

Talbot Yancy of America and to all decent,

law-abiding robots everywhere

I stayed a week to train the new servant,

Rivets. Rivets had worked for

pest control people before, and so had a few odd habits

like burning anthills

and stabbing the lawn for moles during spare moments.

I was given a caught bat

in a cage, which I kept because

I liked controlling the freedom of another

creature.

At the end of the week,

Duane was as impossible as ever.

Not only did he

refuse to let me leave

(saying that Rivets wasn't ready yet to take over) he

even began finding chores for me to do around the house.

He came to the garage to watch me paint,

the same sullen look on his

face as on the faces of Jupiter and Henrietta,

as he sat down on a reel of

hose and stared at _Dorian Gray_.

I half-expected him to ask what it was

supposed to be, or tell me what a shitty painter I was.

Finally he stood up.

"By the way, Tik-Tok, the rain gutters are all

clogged up with leaves."

"I'll get Rivets right on it, sir."

"Not Rivets, he's busy. I want you to do it."

"Of course, sir." This couldn't go on,

I thought, as I got out the

ladder and climbed up to the eaves to look into clean,

unclogged gutters.

Duane needed a little lesson.

I made sure no one was watching when I threw

myself down from the ladder.

For several days, while a very expensive

team from Domestic Robots

International worked frantically over me,

I let it be known that I thought I'd

never paint again.

When the combined wrath of Hornby Weatherfield, Barbie and

himself had beaten Duane into the ground,

I made a magical recovery.

My new studio was in the city.

I could come and go to it as I pleased.

The plantation was indeed a long way behind me.

Hear dem tin hands ringin

Robots old and young so gay

Hear dem stomp dere feet

O it am a treat!

Tinfolk laugh and play

We robots who worked in the big house felt ourselves

to be far superior

to the fieldhands, even in our relaxation.

While they hummed and strummed

Stephen Foster imitations, we played charades,

sang madrigals, held spelling

bees and put on amateur revues. Uncle Ras was a skilled

prestidigitator, Miami

a first-class contralto,

and others had amazing stage talents#Nep and Rep, for

example, could sing any comic strip on sight.

I suppose from a human point of view,

we were just as ludicrous as the

fieldhands.

While we thought we were entertaining ourselves, we were merely

providing entertainment for you.

But we did imagine we enjoyed ourselves, and

it was during one such evening that I met my beloved Gumdrop.

She was Berenice's personal maid,

and since Berenice hardly ever dressed

for dinner or anything else, Gumdrop had plenty of spare time.

We both ducked

out of the same spelling bee and went out to sit

on the kitchen stoop in the

moonlight.

"We're both sex-equipped," I said.

"So I noticed."

"There must be a reason for that."

She sighed, not from passion but discouragement.

"I bet we're both

set-ups for Orlando. Has he raped you yet?"

"No. And you?"

"Not yet."

Often Lavinia would dress up and appear behind glass,

to wave and smile at the guests#except during her spell

of glass allergy.

Handsome young Clayton would often

manage a dance with any belle willing to

hear his Great Pyramid theory.

Horsefaced Orlando would gallop a girl around

the dance floor before taking her out for one of

his lightning fucks,

horizontal in the billiard room or vertical on the verandah.

He preferred the

verandah where.....

The game generally finished in a

fit of vomiting over the green broadcloth.

Then of course it was time for sex, 
often with one of the sexequipped robots, male or female.

Orlando would grab

the creature, mount or be mounted, and do

his best to smash it to pieces before he came.

Fortunately he was always quick.

More than once we found Orlando in the stable draped over the

hindquarters of a mare in post-coital sleep.

He seemed slightly ashamed of

these episodes, and always mumbled some

lame excuse about wanting to see if he

could produce a centaur foal,

or wanting to find out what Gulliver saw in

them.

The younger brother, Clayton, engaged in no intercourse of any

description, for months on end. He spent

his time before the video, going over

certain esoteric texts which showed

by careful measurements of the Great

Pyramid that the Lost Tribes of Israel

were the Chickasaw and Choctaw

Doddly Culpepper bought a decrepit plantation

with his new fortune.

Probably he meant to retire quietly and graciously,

but somehow he was

overtaken by the family mania for motorcycles.

He and a cousin finally set off

on an ill-conceived expedition attempting

to climb Everest on powerful bikes.

They were caught up in the Sherpa Rebellion of '03 and killed.

Doddly's son Mansour was evidently

an unassertive person who devoted his

entire life to restoring Tenoaks to its ante-bellum glory.

Everything he did

was a contribution to this one dream,

from raising racehorses to marrying

Lavinia Warrender (of the Tennessee Warrenders).

He died of a stroke,

immediately after chastising one of the house servants for wearing livery with

modern plastic buttons.

Five Culpeppers survived him, and these were my employers:

Lavinia, his widow, was an invalid,

a martyr to bedsores and piles, who

seemed to spend her days rereading

Gone with the Wind_ and _The Foxes of Harrow

She was continually plagued by difficult symptoms:

At one stage she

could eat nothing but bloater-paste sandwiches from England,

cut into the shapes of quadratic equations.

Later she developed an allergy to oxygen, which

gave her many doctors some considerable difficulty.

For a time they found it

necessary to keep her in a deep-freeze filled with xenon.

This was less

trouble, however, than her spell of inverted hay-fever,

an allergy to

pollen-free air.

That required rooms full of whirling clouds of house-dust and

rose-pollen.

I later learned that Lavinia,

despite her many unusual symptoms and the

poverty of her reading matter,

was an extraordinarily capable and intelligent

manager of the family fortune. But at first,

all I saw of her was a tired

looking woman with violet shadows under her eyes.

She would lie there

complaining of her aches and sipping her special cocktails

(in place of

alcohol, they contained lead tetraethyl).

An amazing woman, everyone said.

Berenice, her oldest daughter,

divided her time between what she called

her needlework (with morphine)

and her hobby of killing insects.

She caught

and crushed flies on the verandah,

swatted bees in the garden, stamped on

cockroaches in the barn.

She would hunt through the woods for dead logs to

turn over, gleefully spraying their inhabitants with insecticide.

In her room

she kept both an ant farm and a termite farm,

just to have more tiny creatures

at hand to destroy. In the meadow she burned butterflies.

Had she been denied

all of these pleasures, I think Berenice

would have cultivated lice in her

long, lustrous black hair.

Orlando Culpepper, the oldest son,

Lived a more conventional life for a

young country gentleman. He spent a great deal

of time changing his clothes

and riding to hounds. In the evenings,

he generally drank port until he was

halfblind, and then played billiards alone.

"Someone killed the

Singer kid today. Killed her and cut her up.

Did the police come to see you?"

"I don't know," he said, looking guilty.

I told him how the girl was

dressed, theorized for a moment about how fever

could make a guy do terrible

things without knowing it,

and then said goodbye. He was already slipping back

into delirium, unaware of his blood-spattered clothes an& bed,

the rubbery

little heart lying on the pillow next to his ear,

the little dark glasses

being crushed under his elbow.

That was how I meant the police to find him.

In fact the policefumbled it.

They took a week to get around to talking

to him, asked all the wrong questions and didn't listen

to his answers. They

went on running around in circles for some time,

until I phoned in an

anonymous tip. A fiasco avoided.

I became an expert on fiascos, or fiasci,

early in my life, while

working for the Culpeppers.

Their family fortune was (I found out from a

family history in their library) founded on a fiasco.

Their great plantation,

Tenoaks, their leisurely antebellum life among slave robots,

their lavish

entertaining at the manse,

all had been paid for by a single fiasco,

engineered by a single ancestor, Doddly Culpepper.

The Culpeppers had deep roots in the Old South,

but roots unnourished by

any money or intellect.

In the nineteenth century they were horse dealers and

thieves. In the twentieth they became used-car dealers

and motorcycle

daredevils, but somehow by the 1990s,

Doddly Culpepper managed to turn up as a

respected naval architect, designer and entrepreneur.

It was he who invented

_Leviathan_, America's first (and last)

nuclear-powered land aircraft carrier.

_Leviathan_ was the most successful commercial

defense project ever; it ended

up costing every man, woman and child in the United States

over twenty grand.

The idea of a land ship of that size may seem ridiculous now

Tik-Tok

He raised himself on one elbow and tried to focus

his glassy eyes upon

me. "Yes, yes you, you, yes, Darnaway, you know it?"

"I worked for an old soldier once myself,

he had the same symptoms.

Green beard, fits of equation-writing outdoors, fevers."

I passed him the can

of beer he was reaching for.

"He fell off a water tower where he was painting

m = m0 / (sqrt(1-(v/c)²)), I guess

I know Darnaway's disease all right."

His head fell back. "Nobody else understands."

Why should they? I thought.

Why should anyone remember the name of an

obscure jungle disease contracted twenty years earlier,

during an obscure

jungle war? Especially since the war had been lost,

and since the government

was anxious not to pay out compensation for the disease.

"You're not the only one with troubles," I said.

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