My Personal Weblog #21
Dear UB3 participants, moderators, and guests, I have some information about the Ultimate Blogger contest that is vitally important to everyone who has been participating or observing the events. It all started when I noticed an unusual feature on the site the B.F.F. created to tell the world about “themselves”. I was initially suspicious when I saw the unusual bulge under Mike Merrill’s fastidious suit jacket (examine the picture here http://www.ultimateblogger3.com/about.html ). After the events of episode 3, I ceased my weeping and gin drinking briefly to study the picture in more detail. There was clearly something there, but what? With a small, hand powered microscope, a packet of grape kool-aid, and a visual analysis program I hand- coded using the DNA from the barely detectible fingerprint grease smears on the Tonka truck Merrill touched sometime in the Spring of 1989, I was able to unambiguously identify the bulge as a tentacular appendage approximately fifteen centimeters in diameter. It seemed to be writhing beneath the surface of the jacket inconsolably, torpid with its massive blood meal. The smears of dried blood, comprising only a few dozen pixels, present on Steve and Jona’s clothing, clearly bespoke the rest of the story. It still shocks me that none of the rest of you noticed, that is, if the rest of you really are you – that is, fully human. I have my suspicions about the lot of you. Bodycity – the mechanical jerkiness of your movements, the Stalinistic collective “we”-ness of your ludicrous posing – clearly points toward the presence beneath your skin of some kind of complex device merely simulating the appearance of human beings. I am very close to making a breakthrough and with my hand powered microscope will soon have deciphered the binary code contained in the thread in your fascist uniforms – I have to decipher it pixel by pixel, so it has eaten up every waking hour, but when I am finished, I will post the truth, and the world will no longer be in your sway. Existential Media, beneath your supposedly utopian charm lurks something darker, something insidious. I suppose you would deny participating in that tele-dildonic orgy with me, Mike, and Jona sometime around Christmas of 1998 – you know, the one in which you collectively licked warm cheese dip off my heaving flanks? I said it then, and I’ll repeat it now – I DON’T LIKE CHEESE DIP. The smell lingered for days and I’d swear I could see insects gathering in the corners of my vision, getting ready to feast from my skin. You sicken me. Of course, TJ Norris ceased to be TJ Norris quite some time ago. I’m surprised I’m the only one who noticed, especially given the way a prominent think tank has proven that “he” designed a complex machinic system to produce all of “his” blog posts. As to what shape and form the “actual” TJ Norris might take, no one is quite certain, although it seems clear that “he” must be a flaming genius. I am impressed with his ingenuity and verve, but I have to admit that I’m quite shocked that the moderators (or “moderators”, as it were) seem to think that his work, rather than mine, is the more authentic. Ludicrous. As for G-RAD, what the hell, man? As one of the last true organisms around here, you’d think you might be on my esteemed side. The fact that your kind originated as a kind of protoplasmic, gelatinous smear really doesn’t bother me. Many of my best friends are protoplasmic gelatinous smears. I suppose it’s possible that the bulge in Mike’s suit might have gotten to you quite some time ago. I am currently doing some very large batch processing jobs that might enlighten me further on this matter. The point is that those of you who are still human may be in dire trouble from the thing I can only name “the bulge”. I’ve tried again and again to sneak coded messages to all of you, but so far my warnings have been for naught. I’m trying one last time in this completely public venue in the hopes that someone, anyone, might take this post for what it is – an earnest plea to save yourselves before you become its next blood meal. I have cried myself to sleep night after night clutching a bottle of gin, worrying over the toxic pixel songs being broadcast under the names of the B.F.F. So many innocent souls will be drowned in the onslaught! I’ve taken to buying my gin in gallon jugs because my hands have become so tremulous – that way, I can get enough into my mouth to drown my troubles without wasting it to the floor. Last night, I broke my last jug and made my tongue bleed by lapping it off the floor, glass shards and all. I’ve become like a sick animal, wasted with need and grief. It burns, oh god, it burns! I hate what I’ve become, this drunken wreck with the splintered tongue, the yellowed skin, the eyes dry as sand from the hours spent huddling over the microscope. I thought I’d found the truth, but is it merely a delusion? Oh god, what have I done? What have I done to all of you? I’ve caused so much suffering, so much misery. This poison in my veins. Makes me sick, grotesque. So fuming with repugnancy I can’t even tell you … can’t even find the words … to explain … how much I love you.