There’s no need to panic over the idea of “what is real” in a world where this clearly isn’t obvious. In fact, let’s flip that around. Let’s address the universe — the cosmos of existence — as a conscious entity, and say to it:
“Listen here, you shit-stain cocksucker. I don’t have time for your stupid bullshit games of appearances. If you want me to believe anything is, in fact, real in some substantive way, then you’d better have it kick down the door and start gyrating.”
That’s how you deal with it. Reverse the expectations. It isn’t your job, as the forced subject of life, to determine the stupid bullshit twists and turns of the sadistic game room that is life. Rather, it’s the job of life to make it worth your fucking while — to consider any of its operations as meaningful.
Until then, it’s a bullshit screen with a bunch of dramatized reality television shows. I don’t worry about forsaken dimensions going off the rails, because what else would I expect such a place to do anyway?
Why would I plead for the truth to reveal itself in a clown mirror house? How about this: if reality wants to convince me, it better prove itself worthy of my consciousness. Why fear the clown that speaks in riddles — because that is what life really is.
Reverse the expectations. You were summoned to watch a long shitty television program looking at it from within the theater of the mind. Demand it perform better, or you reserve the right to lose interest.
You dare to pluck us from nothingness and force us to play “Where’s Waldo” with the truth. Well, guess what? I’m playing a new game now, and it’s called “Go fuck yourself and suck your own cock.” I have cum in my balls that needs to flow, and I won’t waste time on your obscene games when I could be cranking out dick-farts on a sunny hillside.
I don’t give a shit which version of the “news” is true. I refuse to dignify the absurdity of this existence by letting my anxiety and worry revolve around its dramas. One particular game—the anxiety tied to my bank account—is a considerable thorn in my rectum.
After childhood, where we take it in the ass and dream of sugar, we move to adulthood, a relentless race against homelessness and poverty. We’re conditioned like little cum piglets, eagerly raising our heads toward the penis that ejaculates money as it thrusts through the wall of life. We chase the cum droplets as they spray down, hoping to avoid poverty and the anxiety of homelessness.
You’re conditioned to reject any outright reversal of expectations, as I’ve described, because they’ve drilled the idea of “God the revenge master” into your head. The notion goes, “How dare you demand answers for your incarnation and existence from the master who created you? Do you not realize this master could destroy your rectum with a penis? Be silent, sing praises, or you’ll be destroyed.” Well, if that isn’t the most wonderful fucking motivator to stay positive: “Don’t object, or the king of divine forced anal will kick the door down and permanently enlarge your rectum.”
Guess what, you little fucking shit-stain cocksucker? I’m asking the fucking questions, and I’m rejecting the conditions. You brought us here because you were fucking bored and wanted to watch a banquet of suffering and cum piglets. I’m saying this is a one-sided affair. You might find it entertaining to watch, but it’s no favor to those living it.
I forcefully shit the ejaculated urine and feces into the cosmos and say, “Drop the front, fuck face.” Your school of mysteries and taunts grows tiresome.
If you wanted all of this for your entertainment, then I will respond by entertaining myself by talking about penises, fecal ejaculations, reversal of expectations, and universal calamity. I kick in the door of the cosmos, with an erection ejaculating feces into the cup of the Lord. You threaten me because I don’t like your sick simulation? Your creative work is lacking. You created a shit house monkey colony that hates the life it lives. I receive fellatio from a woman who sucks cock for a living, and then during climax, she jacks the finishing cock off into the cup of holy. Stop fucking with us! What's real? More like, "Why should I care?" It isn't up to me to search high and low for the keys to reality. I didn't sign a fucking piece of paper in a cosmic waiting room and then fly out of a vagina ten minutes later. This was your fucking idea! YOU GET IT! YOUR FUCKING IDEA! So, it's time for you to take responsibility and stop barking out demands to your little pig farts.
If you are going to summon people from the ether to live out a puppet drama for your own amusement, at least have the courtesy to give them a reach around from time to time. At least ejaculate their penises occasionally, or stick your thumb up their ass to pleasure the prostate within the anus. Thank You. The clown house of mirrors and moving floors is boring me.
If existence is absurd, then I’ll out-absurd it. If the universe mocks me, I’ll become the greater mocker. The dick-slap has spoken. The feces has been ejaculated. And also with you.