'Mr. Flip The Whip.'

People Say things. They say all kinds of...things. You are gonna have to be ready for that.

Special Thanks to Klaus Zynski for an edit. You probably are already, because he is taking over as of late, but subscribe now so you can get social clout for being an OG fan of Klaus in 2045.

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When a coworker, apropos of nothing, tells you a conspiracy theory, it is helpful to hold in your mind the ever-present subtext of all these interactions. In a world where the only intimacy is reduced to shared suspicion, they are telling you that they are afraid, they are telling you that they are in pain. Take for example my recent lifestyle, marooned in a coffinesque inventory room filled with gnats, fruit flies, ounces of high grade flower and arrays of distillate and resin delivered through imported cheapies-pieces. There is no break room anymore, there never was one to begin with. Heated quinoa with Trader Joe’s Buffalo Chicken Meatballs, discussing beef consumption in the United States with the inventory manager, who begins down the path that conspiracy always follows. It is not hard to understand the how, the why, or the urgency the voice takes as the eyes dance and they tell you about the cruelty they witness and how they make sense of it.

Take for instance the specific theory shared in this moment. Namely a belief that Fast Food restaurants demand a level of beef that exceeds the capabilities of current production, and that human meat is used for the production of your Mc Dougal’s burgers. Now, at this moment in my cannabis career, I have learned always how to roll with the kinds of things that would shock most upper-middle-class polite society liberals. Your average democrat very easily commits a persistent faux pas when encountering the people they ‘support.’ A reaction in a condescending manner that stinks of immunization to the broadsides of economic destitution. Those characteristic moral swipes of people comfortable in wealth and its softness, where their inability to reckon with the ‘spiritual truth’ of CERTAIN conspiracy theories, that can be charitably resonated with through a, for lack of a better term, spiritual dimension. So I ‘illuminate’ in my mind the base level truth beneath this statement, which I transcribed in my mind as follows,

“I witness a level of cruelty in society that is so profound, it is not outside my imagination, that a level of horror beyond my comprehension, is also happening without physical evidence. I observe both the level of depravity, and the control of ‘cultural narrative’ that enables it. This is the nature of the ‘system’ as I experience it, why wouldn’t it be true?”

In this interpretation, it is an extension of an olive branch, attempting to show that I also agree in the general level of fear that my coworker and I feel, that atrocities already present and visualized are only ‘the tip of the iceberg,’ humans are being used as meat for burgers.

Are they not already in a manner? It is my postmodernist delight to use the nature of language to show that yes, people are being used to make burgers though maybe not in the earthly plain dimension at present. We are making burgers out of souls. There’s a mickey dees in Guantanamo Bay.

So I nod my head. I agree. And I do, even if it’s not happening really in the way that he says. I see in his utterance the best possible reflection of hurt in a world hollowed of information pathways that don’t make any sense. I see another victim of a culture of vampirization¹ to all things, someone never that unlike me.

I tell him that I believe him. I basically do. ‘Man made horrors beyond our comprehension’ and all that jazz, beyond my imagination as mentioned previous, but one can picture a great many horrors, and that would only ever be the beginning of the fear that we feel about the future we face.

The proletariat is full of drunk drivers, people vehement about being drunk drivers, people directly hearing about their coworker who flipped the whip, they call him ‘Mr. Flip the Whip’, another one of them wrapped their car around a telephone pole and killed somebody, and they all still brag about intoxicated automobile flight tests. They say and do abominable things sometimes. To some, others might think this of me, I know that they have. I don’t support ‘Mr. Flip the Whip’, but I know that I am also ‘Mr. Flip the Whip’. I am brazen and known to ego. I am lustful for glory in my most decadent moments. I want it all now. I’m behind the wheel yelling. I’m out of control. Because it’s all out of control. You’re out of control. Mr. Flip the Whip goes to work, he has to pay for flipping the whip. He’s out of control. He’s a sick ass fool. As they say.

There is no time to lament Mr. Flip the Whip, to meditate on the crime, the danger he posed to all those around him, the danger all around us. Mr. Flip the Whip will never be alone. I must have compassion for these people, for Mr. Flip the Whip. To hope they get well, myself well as well, as I am Mr. Flip the Whip. To see that they can be kind too, that it can all feel so jumbled. I’d like to think I’d never flipped the whip, but maybe we all already have? Burgers are human meat. It is all possible and therefore is already happening.

They treat you with dignity, one is awaiting trial for manslaughter, yet they are the first person in your ‘working life’ to see you, to show you respect, some people who make you feel like you can chin up, walk into the next phase of your life with a smidgen of pride, a nugget tucked in your armpit smuggled past airport security in the 70’s, when some dude with octagonal lens was the most obvious drug doer in the physical presentation’s totality’s existence, and he walked through with a thousand tabs of acid up his butt.

You were a zombie in the office. Now you make people laugh all day and sell fuego. That’s how you feel. Like you finally might get away with it, like you finally might be able to talk to anybody, to handle a social situation and assess intentions, to gauge interaction, I just can’t judge too hard or everything falls apart, sharpen your charisma, become someone that can thrust into your fate. PAUSE.

Let Us Pray.

You always wish the people who show you absurd kindness in this life, were better people, reckoning with the absurdity of the mortal coil as it presents in its weird ways, especially the criminal ways, as we all are criminals, means that you are in the mud with everyone else.

I see all the ways pain creates its crusts, and how the sediment seems impenetrable, the wayward spots and maladjust beliefs we all adopt in times of great suffering, the temptation of selfishness always so powerful, so enchanting when all you want to do is rip the ache in you out, to cast it bloodied down a stone hill so you can see it leave a mark of its own exit. To know it’s gone. But it never goes away. To know the hurt is to know it is forever. I wish to see that in some way even killers could come around somehow. Kumbaya my Lord. Kumbaya.

There was sweetness that I felt, that I was blessed to know, it was an absurd luxury. An all encompassing pillow where many find barbed wire, I wish it really was the world we all had. This place often seems condemned to sadness, but it is also peppered with the occasional super nova of joy. Dandy. It maketh me a dandy to believe such leisure class malarkey. I agree. It’s what I can get away with.

Some are born to a 16 year old mother and experience immediate, constant, financial stress so profound it’s like you are pregnant with a watermelon, even if you’re a dude, imagine a watermelon in your dick. That’s your coworker’s metaphysical reality.

To know that homeless people need help, that sometimes they stab people with a needle or knife or some shit, to know this is probably greatly exaggerated and maybe under-reported², they drop trough and shit on the bus floor near Wilshire Boulevard, they saw it happen, that if you were homeless maybe you would wanna get lit and stab somebody for some reason one day too, maybe you’d drop trough and take a dump just to show them all the ugliness forced upon you, to see that real vulnerability within yourself, to see yourself stripped bare by circumstance.

To be confused by this, to know that your coworker who is on the razor’s edge of ‘make-or-break-money type-shit’, also hates the homeless because they are forced to experience them everyday in a way you don’t have to, to be even closer to its clutches than you, to know that to get a hug every now and again wasn’t something you were horrified in your teenage years to discover wasn’t a guarantee to everybody, to feel crestfallen that you mention that you have anxiety about leaving the gas on in your apartment to another coworker, and the sickness you feel in your soul when he says that he is mad that his dad does that shit, he’ll get drunk and do that shit. He also knows somebody whose house blew up after trying to tell the landlord about a slow gas leak. Fortunately for this aforementioned friend of coworker, they got in a heated argument with their lover. Their dog wasn’t so lucky, and became a charcoal briquette. Most-competent-landlord award-material.

Greasy, people-burgers. It doesn’t matter if its that burger or the other metaphorical burger. It all seems to occur. All matters feel true, they are true, when the matter of present horror is considered.

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AFTERWORD: It seems to me that this theory is a fusion of two films Soylent Green with Charlton Heston, and Bad Taste by Peter Jackson. Or as was expressed to me, revealed as ‘predictive programming’ to borrow a term from the paranoid. Or as they like to call themselves ‘the community of the correct.’

1. To borrow a term from Yasha Levine , as he observes, social media technology enables an even more Vampiric quality to techno-capital, one he elucidates far clearer than i could in his posts.

2. No amount of crime allegedly committed by homeless people is grounds to deny the population broadly of what any sensible civilization would consider an absolute bare-minimum guarantee for societal health.