Fuck the Planet

Every night at midnight, the Purple Clouds came out to dance with the blushing Sky. They had sex, again. He couldn't impregnate Them, couldn't satisfy Them.

He only masturbated.

They supported concupiscence somewhat, They expected Him often at this hour when They romanticized Their desires: social clandestine fates, flickering stingily below the Sky beneath The Universe.

A seagull soared above emerald foothills under Them, He floated with Them in high-quality toxins from those important humans. He didn't appreciate catastrophes--He listened to the land with indifference to states.

A portion of these people now are corpses; this writer expected these casualties of oil in the world, without His privileges, to rise because they needed too much for their children's sustenance, for professional visions about their ancestors--although they couldn't conquer a plague among their hands or skin, painted by a feudalism in recently imprisoned capitalism. Consequently, They prohibited those offspring demanding the same resources that were used by their parents, the old kind those humans wasted. Against a lot of elitist goliaths, a collective world retaliated with pro-peoplekind humanism.

They're not too tyrannical; above Them He couldn't enjoy seminal orgasms, He couldn't feel that during coitus or onanism. He forgot Them, He studied Them through His final system because He had almost created WMDs, under an old government in Fólkvangr, in which They laughed about phalli.

The Clouds actually made Him from shadows: They weren't remembered since a scribe with a telescope made manwashing much stronger, although the Clouds across the centuries of each millennium worked many miracles to defend the Earth from His alkaline cum. Every time They talked, He got so nervous He would nearly jizz himself straight away.

"Always near your Rubicon," a Purple Cloud concluded, looking at the uncomfortably dripping fiasco above Her to get a grip.

Below His head, His tongue slavered Her precious purple clam toward many an orgasm until they finally procreated.

"Pleased to meet you," He said after coming inside of Her.

They sniffed fornication, for He hadn't cleaned His penis so used to coming as Týr, His whole body covered in precum and cum. Below this, college professors--on their recliners of sour dreams--were aroused and enlivened by this curriculum, and the rest was history.

Now fabulous frescos for money reintroduced His and Their diversity, conflict, and mythological aspects to biological mankind, which computed some synapses beneath an orthogonal hub, huddled near His adiposity, established an ossified gluteal paradigm for cerebellums, against which, even before this pseudorandom pathway, inhibitions wrestled within dramatic 'ethical' theories, treated with coruscating derision from those fulsome forums, in the most obscure corners of the Web. This recognition got frequently emotional, since among mankind few had known Woman through the Art of Loving.

Týr, frustrated and livid, hunting to try possibilities beyond standards and hamburgers, above even the Clouds of your heavens, imported fountains by meditating in a cockpit: "Above Our neurotic grotto, yet examining tragically: They stare into My abyss seldom knowing if any voters are truly against the state..."

A detective had visited two minutes ago. The bar was half-empty.

Only the tequila, vodka, and absinthe remained untouched.

The queen dialed the phone and demanded that the bar be replenished straight away.

'Oh god, we're finished,' her son said, ensconcing his buttocks more comfortably into the divan while holding a drink. 'Every one of us will be crucified in those wretched tabloids. Gentlemen first, Queen Mother.'

Queen Lewis, an elegant petite woman with a peach wrinkled face, stared distractedly at her son and then at the cathedral outside.

'Despite your fear,' she finally said, 'there is no real threat. He is beneath our class.'

'What are you saying?'

'Oh, it's really elementary. Investigators are inferior while we constantly intrigue to maintain our very powerful privileged position; nevertheless, you act as if you're ignorant of this reality, just like my late father: your grandfather. Basically he gave a hand to every basket case or high roller before he got over his romanticism regarding inferiors, but those were the really tough years back then.'

'You should never say such things about poor people--because just when they die, even their souls are recycled.'

The old queen smiled.

Týr's phalli rubbed against Purple Clouds, ejaculating like some Icelandic geysers igniting around a holy neighbourhood. He was letting go of His lofty comets into Her majestic domain. Her Purple Clouds sighed themselves quietly above a violent humanity in this Kali Yuga, unleashing terracotta shadows for the ancient memories of His unemployment.

"Fuck the Planet" was published in Planet Euthanasia. But they created other paper reading materials--Icelandic FOX--for criminal Canadian parents. He brought the last documents back to where he lived. Used several really fossilized fuels--about five of them or more. A traditional activist, Dick was quietly angry with Him.

The editor of Planet Euthanasia named Ivan Ulyanov phoned Dick. 'Who penned this reactionary myth?'

'Only reactionary?'

'So you're the one who scribbled this?'

'Yeah. It's a problem?'

'Malthusian yeast appears in your story.'

'Well...'

'The yeast calls overpopulated humanity a "monstrous octopus". Why can't you think about the working class and the poor in the global south instead? Or do you consider China, India, Pakistan, America, Nigeria, Indonesia, Brazil, Chile, Russia, and Mexico (and so many more) to be tentacles of this monstrous octopus? Is Ulyanov a monster octopus? Am I, the editor of the Planet Euthanasia, a monster?'

'Wow, these are just dark metaphors, my psychological world. A dialogue follows the yeast's speech. Then the Purple Clouds decide to stop fucking with the Sky. The Sky becomes the hungry, vocal peoplekind-octopus-monster. It's high-class symbolism...'

'Why turn Him into an octopus monster freak? Why not make Him listen to the gripes and groans of primitive, blue-collar rednecks instead?'

'You can't be serious.'

'When will you learn to compromise instead of being a selfish prick! You have apparently never evolved beyond the bourgeois, elitist snobbery of your class and background. You haven't evolved...'

Two days later, the fragile creator got canned. His girlfriend was grateful; she said she had always been disturbed by his philosophy, and had finally decided to break off their lukewarm relationship.

His spiritual myopia and blunt demeanor blocked him off from most of the world, which he filtered and rejected without any attempts to alleviate his apathy, but this one day brought him closer to the shadow lurking within his soul.

...

The following words escaped the lips of Adam Fadruin Sharafmal, 'You killed the diamond--the love of my life,' and five bullets escaped the gun in his hands. Having heard the gunshots, Prince Alexander ran to the Queen's door and knocked on it desperately. It was locked, but just a few minutes later, Fadruin Sharafmal walked out and said, 'The Queen is dead, bitch. And you'll be next if you don't run away from here right now.'

As the prince ran down the long staircase, leaping in perilous bounds over almost every flight, he felt an inexplicable thrill in his groin. Once he reached the bottom of the staircase, Alexander was surprised to find a very pale man standing on the landing. The Prince looked into his black eyes before quickly opening the door and making a run for it.

The pale male, Ivan Ulyanov, cried, 'Stop. We could use an aristocrat like you.'

'Why? What makes you think I want to be used?'

'Aren't you sick and tired of this sybaritic existence, this meaningless life of self-medication and desperation? Join me, learn from me, and you can become not only a patron of revolutionary politics, but also a powerful force behind the scenes.'

'My mother is dead,' Alexander said, noticing the faint sound of police sirens in the distance.

'I know,' Ulyanov said. As they continued walking, they noticed some bizarre kind of gay parade in progress. 'Better keep a healthy distance . . . There's very little authentic, Dionysian chaos in our society.'

'I stand with all LGBT individuals,' Alexander responded, 'of all shades and shapes, of all sizes and gender identities.'

'Perhaps that's very open-minded and tolerant of you, but we must instead focus on the blue-collar working class and those who are truly against the establishment. Gay men can't be revolutionary.'

'Why?'

'Are you gay?'

'I don't know. I'm afraid I've fallen in love with my deceased wife's lover. I mean, they were together when she was alive. I know he hates me now. It's so embarrassing and humiliating.'

Ivan tried yet failed to conceal his hatred and disgust.

'I know you'll never pity me, and I don't want you to. I always wanted to be brave and heroic; I always thought I'd be a strong, straight, normal man--that I'd be honourable and revolutionary. But instead I just turned out to be a cowardly faggot. The romantic and sexual feelings and desires you have for women, I have for other men. And there's nothing I can do about it.'

'So control your urges, you selfish prick!'

'You're right--I should become a British brahmacharya who practices semen retention and NoFap.'

...

Two men, a businessman and an artist, were immersed in a very pleasant conversation in a gay bar.

'Do you believe all good Europeans should punch or slap people who speak Russian?' asked the artist.

'In public? Definitely,' the businessman (Donnie Darco) replied. 'My girlfriend slapped some ugly fatso who was talking in his filthy cacophonous lingo. Russian is harder to learn than Klingon.'

'Anyone who tries to learn Russian is a traitor or some useful idiot. It's not just Europeans who should slap or punch evil Russians, but patriots too. All Western patriots should bitch slap Russians!'

'No worries: I'll do a lot more than that,' Donnie said.

'Russian souls are evil souls that should be sold at liquor stores.'

'Ah, I like the way you think!'

Dick (the failed writer) suddenly joined them at the bar. 'I'm in hell now,' he said to the bartender. 'May I please have some nirvana?'

'Sorry, we don't serve Serbian brandy here.'

'I don't want brandy. I want liberation.'

'Drink?'

'Khortytsya, горілка, vodka, Platinum. They fired me because of some story I wrote,' he told the businessman. 'Can you believe it?'

'By they you mean the Russians, right?'

'Of course, who do you think? Eccentric leftist professors and right-wing pundits try to sell us Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky, but everyone actually thinks Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky are boring as shit.'

...

The freakish and ghoulish Ivan Ulyanov took Prince Alexander to Ulyanov's office to fetch some picket signs. One sign read DEGROWTH IS KILLING THE POOR. The other sign read CAPITALISM IS DEAD. They walked past the pseudo-Dionysian gay pride parade again, but this time it had started to take a dark turn.

As Ulyanov and the prince strolled alongside the alleged LGBT event, two men shattered the glass windows of a nearby Russian community centre with rocks.

A young woman was slapped for speaking Russian.

'Poverty, inequality, nationalism, and prejudice are increasing everywhere,' Ivan Ulyanov observed.

'Even I purchased a ticket for a Russian classical musician's concert, but it was canceled,' Alexander said. 'But it's not as bad as the way some people have been treating and bullying (assaulting and occasionally murdering) Asians, Muslims, Jews, Chinese, and Filipinas in the West.'

'I agree. The imperialist centre-left and centre-right political establishments have been nurturing a lot of hatred against those groups in recent years.'

'But maybe they're justified in scapegoating the Russians. Maybe you're all hateful, racist and prejudiced bullies. You're barbarians!' Alexander shouted hysterically as an obese Russian woman spat in the face of a police officer before trying to grab his gun.

'What did you just say?!' Ulyanov shrieked before punching the prince in the face.

'You just sucker-punched me? . . . That was very disrespectful.'

'So what?' Ulyanov said casually and nonchalantly.

'I'm sorry,' Alexander said and began to weep as they continued walking. 'The only thing I was ever successful at was hurting myself and others, and even at that, I was a rank amateur. I've always spouted evil impulsive words, burned bridges, and neither knew nor understood true friendship . . . I will kill myself to make the world a better place.'

'Shut the fuck up, you self-pitying, self-indulgent parasite! No, you've been spoiled. You've been overprotected. And now when life got a bit harder, you want us to pay for it. Oh, you want communism? I'll show you Communism!' Ulyanov threw a purple pillow (he got from some progressive parade volunteer) at the prince.

'Ow.'

'In my Communism, everybody has to work for their food, even if it's for ¢30/hour . . . Do you understand, you effeminate homosexual? You lazy loser!'

'I'll never understand a world that champions oligarchic technocracy and calls it liberal democracy--as if democracy can't eventually become just mob rule, or even Nazi or Bolshevik rule.'

...

The artist exited the bar after he started to feel not only increasingly invisible and ignored following Dick's entrance, but also much too intoxicated. He ended up driving his electric car, ultimately crashing it into flames in a catastrophic accident that killed fifty men, women, and children.

'I've been thinking of killing myself lately,' Dick said as he savoured a shot of honey pepper vodka.

'Do you want me to tell you a secret?'

'Sure, if you want.'

'Well, it's practically an open secret. Maybe it's also the big elephant in the room.'

'What is it?' Dick asked.

'Peak Oil is fucking real! . . . The world is really running out of fossil fuels, oil, gasoline and everything that is needed to fuel and power most of our vehicles and airplanes, to make our phones, computers, devices, equipment, so many technologies, and transportation a reality.'

'So?'

'I'm a billionaire,' Donnie bragged, 'and I've been hearing all kinds of things. The rich elites believe that degrowth is the only way to conserve as much oil and fossil fuels as possible, for the future, until a suitable, alternative energy source has been harnessed.'

'Solar and wind energy aren't enough?'

'Unfortunately, no. The reality is that less and less people will be able to travel, own their own homes and cars, and that more and more things will become expensive luxuries. The cost of transporting products and foods will continue to rise. More and more people will sink into poverty, and more and more people will want to die.'

'I have an idea,' Dick said.

'What?'

'A business idea. Euthanasia for profit. We'll start with only one basic type, at first, at a cost of $50. I want to call the company Transglobal Eugenics and Euthanization Services. Our symbol will be purple smoke.'

'I like this idea. Let's become partners. I have more money than God.'

'Thanks. I need all the help I can get.'

...

Prince Alexander was rejected and shunned by the revolutionary Communist Ivan Ulyanov.

I am to blame, he thought.

'Do you want some drugs, Prince?' an older man accosted him.

'No thanks.'

'The Queen is dead, but it's so lonely in the West,' the drug dealer sang, loosely paraphrasing The Smiths. 'Get lost, incel prince.'

He walked and woolgathered for hours. This crossroads, a choice between two uncertain fates but I came back from the obituary last time, unprovable theories succour my pink heart against a mad blue world, a mechanical billboard that I look up at this evening: a strange fair-skinned family, running anxiously, looking at their iPhones, and the point of this billboard is breaking down bonds between family members, and that is equally alarming...

I am outraged against anything written about me, outraged against the usual stories which are ephemeral and legion among just a few fixed stars in our microcosm's impoverished, banal, and possessed era.

Why all these authoritarian governments, these dysfunctional schools and universities? Simply so that one class can establish and maintain its philosophical system while a majority of the nation believes in their faith fervently, but anyone who doesn't becomes an evil, heretical scapegoat and leper? Ivan said: 'They want me to fail, and I want them to fail.' This is our bitter reality.

Alexander got lost in an area of London he'd never seen before. He saw a teenage Jewish boy whose head was crowned by a kippa. All of a sudden, a man came out of nowhere and started slapping and punching the boy. Prince Alexander tried to intervene, but was knocked unconscious...

Dick found Prince Alexander lying on the ground and said, 'Wake up, prince. It's time.'

'Time for what?' Alexander asked as he opened his eyes.

'It's time to meet your karma.'

'Yes. I want to die for my sins. But I'm afraid I will never be forgiven, not even after I donate my entire fortune to the world. Can I kill myself to make the world a better place? Will our Mother Earth breathe better without me?'

'Yes, just follow me,' Dick said as he took Alexander by the hand and guided him to Donnie's recently completed tower, now named TRANSGLOBAL EUGENICS & EUTHANIZATION SERVICES [TEES].

'I'm sorry for everything I've done!' Alexander cried as he was tied to a stretcher and injected with death. 'Please forgive me! I'm sorry . . .'

The mushroom octopus Sky saw everything that happened below Him and comprehended that it was karmically correct. "Silencio," He said.