You might sometimes wonder aloud, while at a hip underground music event, "Who are all those people with plaid shirts and horn-rimmed eye apparel?" They surely were not spawned by our same Earth-mother.
You might sometimes wonder aloud, while at a hip underground music event, “Who are all those people with plaid shirts and horn-rimmed eye apparel?” They surely were not spawned by our same Earth-mother.
“Take me to your leader!” you demand of them, every time they begin collecting awkwardly around the stage. Yes, it has happened to the best of us, during the worst of times. And every time, shamelessly ignored by the nicotene-imbued drones, you fall into that familiar, yet uncontrollable, yearning for the blissful comfort of your electromagnetic wave-shielding canopy bed. After all, it is only there that you can truly channel the love energy of our Universe’s Pleiadian light workers, as you fall gently asleep in an ice-cream-induced coma, chocolatey drool serenely dripping onto your pillow case.
That being said, I awoke one morning, several years back, to the pleasant sounds of high-pitched guitar screeches coming through my Casio-toned clock-radio. The squeal of these six-stringed beasts was unlike that of any orphaned infant I had ever had the pleasure of aurally ingesting. What cosmic force was to be held responsible for the summoning of such arousing moans? The Casio product was quick to confess. Yes, it was none other than a couple of striped Venutians, coloured white. The one to blame, in particular, for the stringed-squawkings, was the Jack.
Not two micro-seconds did pass before I found myself inspecting the Jackish stripe, through my harnessing of the powers made available to those who swear allegiance to the Church of our Lord and Saviour, the Infobahn Net. Large, informal gatherings had taken place where, among others, the nicotene drones increased the Jackish stripe’s vibrational frequency through incessant hopping. The manner of this pallid stripe’s sermons to the crowds was termed indie in the way that it rocked them. But they rocked up and down, not side-to-side. And as they bowed to their ‘indie’ King, the sermons became increasingly raucous. The frenzied masses ached for even the briefest amount of eye contact with the Jack. I took it upon myself to acquire a deep understanding of the Jackish stripe’s chi-flow.
Manic gazing through a series of PVC tubes that comprised my Infobahn Net Sanctuary, all within the space of one hour, yielded an aeon’s worth of knowledge regarding the Jack’s spirit ancestry. Before I knew it, the source of his indigo energy-which he so masterfully conceals, using concealer-became abundantly chrystalline. The ‘indie’ King’s secret was but a complete rejection of all external and technological influence past the year 1969! Coupled with his refusal to let sunlight directly touch his mediaevally-white skin, and transportation means solely by horse and buggy, the key to the Stripe’s sacred geometrical adeptness would now be available to all those who tirelessly attended those countless sermons, in search of it.
Now free, the legions of nicotene-drones were eventually all herded back to their respective concrete birth places in the star cluster Invariad Suburbae, constellation Caucasius. “Herded by what?” you ask. I don’t know.