Of digital currency, extreme porn and human extinction
Everyone enjoy their Valentine’s, I trust? Uh huh. My, what a difference a year doesn’t make.
How does one even begin? I suppose to start with — in this, our ferocious new Year of the Water Tiger’s seemingly overnight infatuation with “digital” currency — one must imagine an SM dungeon playroom’s fuck machine, its intensity dial representing transactions in equivalency of legal tender, exchange rates predicated upon the levels of piston-pumping destruction one’s sphincter can tolerate.
Got that imagery ferociously emblazoned G-rated in your heads, kidz?
OK, good. Now, stay with me: Currently, as of your sweet Howard’s own birthday earlier this month, more than 11,000 of these vaporous “cryptocurrency” teeth-clenchers have proliferated from, literally, nowhere. Their amorphous coffers swell with new tokens and successful investors wildcatting deep down inside the Dark Web’s netherworld dildo-attachments.
Cryptocurrencies, along with poison toadstools, are nothing one should ever be flickering forked tongues around. Any comprehension (of how, say, Bitcoin actually operates) gets overridden by profitability; hence, the less one understands about such cyber-fuck PEZ dispensers, the less hesitantly one may be inclined to gulp, “Wait, no lube?”
After all, there’s good reason the first 5 letters spell crypt: It’ll send you to an early one.
And naturally, we’ve still got Rona on our hands to deal with — same as last February, and the February before that, albeit, stealthily unknown at that low Trumpian point. Worse, Omicron’s toll this year — despite life-saving vaccinations freely available to anyone for the taking — have now surpassed even the worst of last fall’s Delta surge. And our serially treasonous, twice-impeached Oracle L’Orange is gunning for the White House yet again come 2024, now only two years away!
On an even further humbling note, still, one may now witness, in real-time, the strip-show spectacular of glacier-coated Greenland metamorphosing into a rippling vista of verdant green: One shivers!
Hell, all that’s missing is the nebulous, medical research transporter cryptically crashing into a runaway dump truck, unleashing a communal chorus of contagiously-hissing African lab monkeys into the middle of rural Pennsylvanian nowhere.
Oh, wait, I stand corrected: That already happened earlier this new year.
Fuck an STD duck: Let’s just set right to it, shall we?
Dear Howard: Is it just me or have some of your other readers also mentioned how they’ve noticing a seismic-shift in even the types of new bedroom toys all the “adult novelty” sites now push? Go to any of them and just click on “New Arrivals.” Almost without exception, it’s like everything these days is totally about the pursuit of pain — torturously extreme, brutal.
Whatever happened to just sex for pleasure — mutually shared, stimulating, plain fun and pleasure? Where’d that unicorn go trotting off to? — Buzzy, Lowell A.
Dear Buzzed: I got trussed up in a sling by a marauding gang of Tina-tweaking centaurs and gang-raped to extinction. In this, our era of 24/7 porn saturation, the kink-quotient needed for modern-day sexual gratification lands us amped-up just one notch removed from such amphitheater antics as permitted ancient Rome the luxury of needing no prisons. After all, whom among the majestic Roman Colosseum’s forced performers still required state-funded caging? What an uplifting name did Caesar bestow upon his enchanting afternoon torture-porn murders, too: Bread & Circuses!
Dear Howard: If you ask me, incredibly now — 2,100 years later — we seem unperturbedly surrendered to our stalking doom. Unable to grasp or admit what’s savage truth: We’re all encaged by an elected Congress bought-out by carbon billionaires dangling big checks not to build back better. It balmily ensures our future occupancy-rate here on Earth to be 100 percent zero, our tenure infecting her skin turning out to be nothing more than a morning pimple — quickly popped, relievedly vanquished. Honestly, who even needs trust science anymore when we’ve Ted Cruz? Just shoot me now already, Ted. Might as well PHO for you sooner than later; get it over and done with. We can all then pick up our shards of regret and have a big powwow cry together. Unified, finally! Hey, Howard, you know what PHO is, dude? I’ll happily DL it to you, if you need some help? — Buzzy, Lowell A.
Dear Bozwell: No down-low assistance necessary, Buzz Kill; thank you kindly for the offer, though — such beatific magnanimity you do flatter Dear Howard here, the Grand High Poobah of everything gaily perverse! Would you mind cluing my readers in, though, on why you intentionally fucked-up the anagram HOP for PHO, instead? It’s a common transposing mistake — don’t beat yourself up too badly over it, Lola.
Yes, bois & gurlz, indeed HOP (Humiliation, Objectification, Punishment) and even its lesser, more oomph-free fraternal twin, PHO (Punishingly Humiliating Objectification) if you’d prefer, is used to reference, metaphorically, our past future tomorrow’s uninhabitable Earth, against today’s untenable politics of the hardened right turned hardcore-extreme slave masters. (Whew, what a mouthful!) Although, un-lifted in unanimity, people, Congressional pins have magically pre-written our grandchildren’s inheritance of capital gains — all bound-up in fawn’s leather and niftily titled, “Nature Takes No Prisoners.”
Precisely how, please tell me, have our elected morons remotely encouraged Nature reward us in any way but harshly? Such hubris we humans have, to presume we’re destroying planet Earth. Ha! Earth will be just fine, thank you. Earth paces herself on geological time. She plays the long game.
Self-destruction is a pretty little cage we’ve built all for ourselves, exclusively. Ironically, within but a few generations rid of us, Earth shall be quite inhabitable once more, her skies newly scrubbed clean, blue and breathable again. All traces of our nuclear tomfoolery and monoculture-madness will have settled back into a natural balance — unscarred, blemish-free, inured of human-induced tipping points — smooth sailing all the way for another 4 billion pristine years.
—Howard Lewis Russell
Have a question for Howard, be it bleak as February or otherwise? Mercifully, please, mail it to AskHoward@dallasvoice.com where it may have a shot at sanctuary.