UNTITLED, CRABWALKING

ME:

I was listening to President Reagan's obie-winning rendition of Paradise Lost and it struck me: Milton's notion of God is that of a creator-battery whose juice expended upon the universe. Humans, then, were harvestable bits in God's odd garden below, and in the story Satan's master plan is to co-opt these energy bits to somehow escape from hell's reaming flames and regain heaven's joyful mouth.

GERALD:

Fuhst off, I don't follow the bible. And secuhnd, I don't appreciate no classical works dictating my ideas of heaven-n-heck. If there was supposed to be a God, he'd 've turned 9/11 into a giant candy and hot dog factory explosion where only a brave few died but his power's 're such that he'd make it rain. Candy. Raining Candy and Hailing Hot Dogs, and we'd all be terrible sad about the factory workers and their families, but good'd be our common grief to throw afore the plight of low-income wastrels, uneducated folk with the fear of God in their roots, Americans who vote against their economic interest as long as the candidates supports whites and guns and God - and shame on those thick-smarmed liberals, decrying decent folk who forgo Mammon for the supposition of a higher power worth upholding - but economics were damned anyway when the exploded victims' relatives got rich themselves, considering all the the book deals and suing deals about the Candy-Hot-Dog-Gun factory bust-up; hunger impossible with gift baskets for the bereaved, filled with comfort foods, toys, and liquor, some baskets consisting only of gold whiskey bottles sprouting from within like Sex herself!


Uncle Fuck went on CNN with Wolf Blitzer and spat fire about the miles of red tape he faced when filing his grievance claims from the fed's CHDG Factory Fund, and the white Wolf howled like a heated bitch dripping something journalistic, though Uncle Fuck didn't explain that the main problem was his lack of understanding the written word, but by then it didn't matter. Well, you can guess that the tape was played the next morning in the Oval Office, and the president put his commander hands on that broad wood desk and shouted "C'mon guys, let's help Uncle Fuck out," so loud that everyone's hair blew back in a wicked gust and the room smelt of early-morning coffee breath for days.

So Uncle Fuck got his money. But a few months later an underage prostitute with the nomme de hooker of Crystal Amy Roughton comes shuffling in to the local precinct with a battered face and broken wrists. She's wrinkled red like a dry cherry, but manages to drop a man's wallet with one of her dangling swollen hands, and before she falls to the ground, she points at the wallet and mutters: "this muhrfuckeh smashe muh faish ups". Arrested and investigated, Uncle Fuck, turns out, was a professional huckster who ran with Smyrna's elite, themselves a bunch of nouveau riche real-estate developers and perfume barons (or so I thought from their smell, because even at home they reeked of cheap sleeze while watching their dull shows that rivaled even my own dullest deeds. If they ever made a television show about me and my own, they'd realize that sitting around and smoking weed is boring as hell, although we'd probably be laughing all the way to Vegas 'cause by then we'd be mingling in tit bars with the relatives of dead factory workers, drinking liquor made from jew marrow and other delights). Rattled, they disowned the fallen rebel and local politicians were quick to return most of the campaign money that he'd dropped off over the years, an amount not enough even for a bucket of gasoline. After the CNN appearance he had become a hell of a celebrity, encapsulating the anger of his time, but the arrest ended that with as much certitude as God's final fart on the seventh day. The news reached the world in one great chattering inflow, like mothers at a baby convention shrieking about formulae or tender aureolae, and I'm sure some such gets said at these gatherings but you can't claim they care about all them babies that aren't their own.

Modern Chat Rooms

In Amerka, it's hard to love soccer - if you can even call it love. The only person who can express a human's connection to sport worthy of words is George Will, although does anybody know who he is, because he's a stand-up guy, a columnist for Punch magazine and the like, but his descriptions of baseball - a sport I truly truly hate - make even my diamond-fisted fists melt into fists of admiration for the nuance and damnation that competition ought to mean. And that's what George Will describes: the nuance, but there is plenty more: competition strung together on a population's guts couldn't describe this for miles.

What is more puzzling is the chat rooms I want to present. We love chatrooms, and we think it's because we came of age with such other young sexy girls our age, usually very sweet and mature, who would private message us pictures of their weiners, which made for lingering memories. In junior high it was easy to ferment in such a gross stink of early-ish internet porn and odd web wandering, so I fell heavy for computers - a nerdy enough pursuit, which is probably why an online star wars gaming/fan club appealed to my weird automatic responses. This may all say more about how I was, and am, a loser, but one ought to check the website out: it still exists at http://emperorshammer.org. They too had chatrooms, but these weren't like AOL's "hidden tranny" rooms, these were safe zones where bizarre folk could socialize in the character of their chosen star wars personas. It was a lot of fun, and I made some lasting friends who are probably in their late fifties by now.

Which brings me to today, a dozen or some-odd years later, when I came across another chat room, I think for the first time since the wheat-tide of my youth, and it was like seeing someone from my past, recognizably less awkward, but still unattractive and boring, but as long as their not actively shitty, then it should be alright to entertain them. And from the following graphics, the entertained me if not more.

Err, you'll have to click on them to read them...
And I'm the asshole under the handle onetwothree

Galafianakis Archiviantis

Galafianakis had a show called Late Show or some such and it aired on VH1 on 2002 or so. If Fishing with John can make it into the Criterion Collection... the problem is that Galafianakis' guest list included Eric Estrada from Chips, Ricki Lake from the sty, Bill Paxton, the Eels (?), and Eminem from when he was the lead singer in Everclear. etc.





I think that when you could say "what does a poorly produced television show look like" you could point to this; but Gfknis's problem is one of futurism: he was too damned good at his supposed height of 33 years old. If he's the innocent Parzifal in these clips, then in 2010 he's the experienced Destructress, Nicole Kidman's left nip in Dogville, having taken it by all the jews in town and now he's unleashing a comedy to destroy the medium - and to think that in 2002 the only mainstream comedy blockbusters were American Pie 1, 2, 3 etc and anything with Ben Stiller. Those movies were fucking Sirk melodramas updated to include semen and flute vaginas. Gross, stick a fork in me because I am grossed out like a girl.






Either that or the late 90's to early 2000's were the worst years of our lives. Thankfully, that's oh so true, and dubbly thankfelly, we were mostly too young to be immersed in it. And the only way to break free will be to wear suits and be conservatives, but not republicans, because young republicans still wear American Eagle and Pac Sun.

But in All wonder. Galafianakis is so far beyond and all we're laughing at is astral dust from a receding bum crack.

Also, here's one for my female audience. I once read VOGUE, a favorite of the future mothers of our society, and a fashion marm mentioned that anything Isabel Marant looked at, she had to own. I consider myself to be that fashion marm, and Isabel Marant to be Zurich GrfFlanakis.

While crying and shivering after I've bulemed all over the bathroom floor from antidepressent binges, I remember that some day I'll watch another clip of Gladafanlaiks on YouTube.

Krauthammer's Loge is an Uncharacteristic Aerie

Krauthammer puts it succinctly:

"The conventional wisdom is that these sweeps represent something novel, exotic and very modern - the new media, faster news cycles, Internet frenzy and a public with a short attention span and even less patience with government. Or alternatively, that these violent swings reflect reduced party loyalty and more independent voters.

Nonsense. In 1946, for example, when party loyalty was much stronger and even television was largely unknown, the Republicans gained 56 seats and then lost 75 in the very next election. Waves come. Waves go. The republic endures."

His example is sparse, but it's a grand point: no matter how ridiculee the nation's bits, we are a doomed republic of tedious debates. Our (upwardly mobile, middle to upper-middle class 20-sormthirngs) generation is poised to out-conservative any and all previous generations, notwithstanding Sharia-bent Islamotards, but the leavener will be a Republican embrasure of social equality. Social Equality for gays may be the reason I don't vote Republican in every election that deserves it, but then again Republicans are hardly conservative in their governing anymore. The Democratic party, while not conservative, was co-opted by unions and the baby boomers; but unions represent national relics such as stevedores and bituminous coal darning, while baby boomers represent our parents, therefore we must destroy our parents and we must end the rights of the stevedore.

If there has been one healthy trend of the world, it's been a larger government, more taxes, less self-accountability, refined breasts of the western woman.... until, egads, I become a quote from Dick Armey's large-print Tea Part Mannyfesto, available at amazon.com's hospice commissary.

Note: Dick Armey and John Boehner (pronounced "look at me flick with a pinkie-finger my own boner") will always win over Vaginal Prussian-Cavalry and Morgan Hardclitorises (pronounced "hard-cly-tory-zzesz)

If Gatsby is nat God and God is nat Great then what does that make Gatsby?

Soon to be! But current House Minority Leader John Bayner (pronounced BO-nerr) isn't yet quite to be sure, although who doesn't want to be held accountable for spanxing a process for personal political grain? Like idiot savants, do Republicans over exert half their brain pug knuckling in politicks while the other half lies sallow during the strictures of legislating (or de-legistlating)? One autistic nephew played with both hands; one on the piano and the other in his wiener. Sometimes Republicans do just that: play politics beautifully with one hand, yet drool to the tune of finger-banging their own urethrae at a crowded recital. The GOP will always be better at politics - period - because, period.

It must be overwhelming* to hear two parties exhort and flash in the commercial breaks amid the thirty-twelve hours a day of television that the average American watcher per diem. One campaign ad intones, supple: "Hey, I'm from the government and most definitely here to help you as long as you're a laborer or something stupid thereof," while the other party says "Hey motherfuckers, y'all pissed like a sodomized rodent? Y'all want to roll back this Big Gubbermunt Socialist Nigger?" And of course, I editorialized a bit in the former quote; period dot dot period. The problem, however, is that this daily bombardment, whether it's in campaign commercials or in this thing called The Internet that mid-western Freetards are finally getting around to, it wears on the Soul of Man, née Free Time. Interrupting the American Free Time Soul irks our race, even with claims of Rolling Back government like they was Wal-Mart's smiley faced mascot, even if they're extremely rad and religious and fuckable - political epigrammatic bombardment does not a small government make.

This is what has led the Teat Par-tay to lash out like Jiggolos at a Tia Tequila: Tear Patties (Boston accent aigu) are intent on criticizing government to the point of reasonably concluding what they see as wasteful programs of no benefit to them, but the price tag is thus itemized and labeled oh so clearly on every pay-check. And while they may not read legislation, they surely think about all the television they could watch with those added dollars. But their form of government requires agreeing to a two state solution, a precondition that they cannot consciously accept: by positioning themselves against government, the only way to advance their agenda is to infiltrate said government. This is a much more serious and scandalous threat than Islam - this is really happening! This is real life!

But we're not Rosemary, and I sure ain't having a Baby none time too soon. 'Twould ruin me hips.

If the Grand Perception of Democrats (GPD) is that they pursue of legislation, whether it be for the greatness of American humanity or for the self-serving strait of pussy, then they'll be pure as long as they can convince the average Americans who watch forty eight hours of TV a day that they're not Muslim. My point is that people will realize that they like (certain) government action, and that the TeaPers are confused. Either that or they'll just die off, most of them being over 65 and apparently without staples like money and health care, and Democrats will be super forever because Republicans acted like such assholes to the soon-to-be most important voting bloc ever: Latinos.

Besides, how can you do much of anything knowing that it'll all work out, society will never crumble. Unless it does, but even if it does, we'll all be forced to live in underground bunkers. Unless we don't have underground bunkers, so we might as well build some. And while we're at it, let's start hoarding ammunition. And grains and water. Period.

*Being overwhelmed falls into the Scared American category. These Teat Partierres are simply Scared Americannots, so it is imperative that we invade Iran.

Paranoia is as Timeless as a Rolex

Communism successfully infiltrated our society like a male tiger forcing his barbed bit on a mate. Our institutions resemble the apparatchiks of Stalin’s dreams and our children suckle sugar bits chipped from candyland’s Siberian outpost. If not, then we successfully defeated the regimes of our parents’ youth through the paranoid operations implemented by Joey McCarthy and Johnny Hoover in the face of paunched sympathizers.

What, then, to make of The Islam’s veil scare: the soulful agenda of Shariah implementation throughout? Unless you’ve been tucked in Helen Keller’s lower hole for the last some-odd decade, then you’ve heard about the threat posed by Islamic necromancers and the upcoming Final Battle version 7.0. And because terrorists attacked us with planes once, it’s now acceptable for all of us to be complete pussies when it comes to eyeing not-too-dark-darkies, and not just high-miled on a plane, but even in your local bodega where that nasally Yemeni owner smiles and greets you with conspiratal niceties. But this Yemeni should represent just that: the bottom rung of America, owner of a bodega on shit-street central, suspicioned by whites, blacks, jews, but maybe not Mexicans and their ilk who can’t speak Phlenglish.

Samuel Huntington successfully invented three words: Clash. Of. Civilizations. His plurality denotes only a pair, however, in the modern day Capulets of the West and the latter day saints of The Islam. Regardless of who fucked who first (although, to be fair to The Islam, it was us, and we did it anally aught lube), we have an incredible advantage. There’s about a dozen Islam-oriented states: Yemen, Saudi Arabia, Iraq, Iran, Indonesia, U.A.E., Pakistan, India, France, Sudan, Egypt, Delaware, etc., and I am hard pressed to make up any more. Obviously, this is a clash of 12 countries versus the rest of a world armed with fucking nuclear tear drops, fake tits and water, so we have some strategic advantages. The question I ask my brothers: is all the paranoia justified?

24/7

Artificiality in the Age of Surgical Hymen Reparation

“For women who don't want to undergo a surgical procedure, a cheaper, faster path to "revirgination" is available in most sex novelty shops: a Chinese-made artificial hymen that, when inserted, purports to create a lifelike sensation for the man and emits fake blood when ruptured.”

- Keith B. Richburg in The Washington Post, August 16th, 2010.

Revirginization? Superb! Superb, that is, until some upstart entrepreneur decides that their day-spa-cum-hymenoplasty clinic ought to do a full on Bloomie’s display for the tourists spread double-breast along fifth avenue.

The Washington Post dishes about the spreading popularity of the procedure in China, where the pressures of saving the thinnest of membranes for that special guy demand the radically cosmetic procedure, a procedure that smacks of Africa’s clitoridectomy problem.

The barbarity ends there, however, in that this surgery relates to the inner bits of womanhood while the axing of a clitoris leaves visible wounds on the victim. It is as much a scar as results from the machete’s, whose reach which has left generations with a visible reminders of trauma to match the lasting psychological skeins of war. The currents of violence are slick, and the joke of artificial hymens, available over-the-counter at a number of novelty asian retailers, (along with any number of dildos and protruding objects to take one of these blood pouches out for a joyful ride) is that they’re cheap, safe, and provide the “lifelike sensation” that some betrothed asshole requires. In short, they’re the obverse symbol of the West’s morning after pill: a prophylactic against shame.

Surgical hymen rejuvenation does not a Nobel Laureate make; but it does extend the front on which women fight for our shit-eating approval. Knowing our own society’s Mickey Rourkian obsession with plastic surgery, is it any wonder that these extremes export well? The cost of surgical revirginization runs to the low-low price of 757 USD$, a significant amount of Yuan even for the rising middle class, so if a woman is to independently afford the stitch they most likely are the daughters of The Party or Industry/Commerce. The prosperity of China’s leaders allows for their girls to experience western standards of sucking and fucking, but the ivory dictates of purity drive these same daughters into the arms of loving femme-doctors who receive breathless adoration via text the morning after, of course.

What's Going to Happen to All the Meteorologists? Perhaps they'll all die off

Talking about the weather comes to moot when you start talking about The Weather Channel. The offspring of meteorologist and media entrepeneur - in media, the equivalent of Tyler Perry and Kate Bosworth - in 1982, it followed CNN’s strategy two years prior of “broadcast-un-end”, both bannering a service to provide programming to match the earth’s compulsory spin. Childhood was introduced to a fantastic amount of information, much as our generation was interrupted by the internet and all its intensities.

With internet, The Weather Channel is in a much different situation now than CNN in that news events require a team of folks to be on site, listen, ask, perceive, process and distill the situation in a way to require a human to still be the communication’s medium. Weather, however, has become a vale of technologically-prescribed algorithms, programs receiving from a stock of who knows how many modules precise and widespread, a network centralized and computed without the need for meteorologists. Workers at this network-driven Weather Channel are not weathermen but programmers, refining their bits not to meet the need for weather forecasts, but simply more weather, the result of users’ consumption electric. So may many meteorolgists join in the death from an Internet’s fantastic ash cloud.

Tolerate the Medieval in your Fancy, Man!

The theme continues; the majority of Americans still’re slower than retards wearing ankle weights. Through a failure of doin’, I point that the wellspring of our democrakatic republic - voting - has been commandeered by the same bloc that put us into [what? a... mess of ecolutionary, economicary, terrorist-spawning rhetorictions,?]; the same bloc that refers to computers as ‘light machinations’ and whose blow jobs are still called ‘five-cent warmth bonuses’, i.e., Anyone Over Forty and Sometimes Thirty Five.

How to define this stupidity? Is following advice from the peddler who advises you to vote against your own interests; is that make you stupid? Is it depend on the advice or your reaction thereof? If I’m in the practice of ink-mixing, and a politician comes along and says “all ink-mixers are going to get a tax break if I’m elected”, and it turns out that he’s a lying, cheating, war-mongering chick with a dick, well, at what point do I become an ass for voting for this guy? If he is a lyer then I won’t vote for him again and democracy remains pure. But what if he pulls through with his promise and breaks my taxes so that I may use the extra capital to hire on a few extra workers, expand and improve my process, etc.? At what point in this democracy should I start being concerned about the poor humanitarian decisions of our elected officials so long as the general economy, ahem, hummm.

Why care about your money? Usually, if you’re over 35 (and (definitely) if you’re over 40), then you’ve got much more at stake than the uni-limbed victims of foreign policy. Besides, we don’t actually hack arms off. Our violence is more like “we, the American representatives to Panama, would like to offer you training and guns and the like,” so that we can, say, overthrow the current hostile government and build a canal. I would argue that most of the time these interventions are worth it, and that the amount of lives destroyed (or maimed) should never be as bad as the overall uplifting powers of economic progress! Think of all the jobs created by the canal, then and now; globalization! And this scope is quite international.

As I’d say to a friend: is being a bigot not enough to grain credit with the autistic masses? There are plenty of bigoted things to do, but in a civilization where lynching nigroes or employing under-age sex girls is widespread and encouraged, then there’s nobody to draw a comparison to. There’d be no Sara Palin to say “those east coast caviar suckling faggots can suck on my hairy flaps” because everybody would be too busy lynching folks or teaching creationism to the seven children of their seven wives. What gets Palin elected is some smarmy strutter with a few years of civilization in his breeches coming along and pointing a stritched finger at her and saying “thar’s the she-devil! Thar’s the one that believes in some-odd God”!

“Reality Through Chicanery: The Princess Feels the Pea, Confronts it and Rejoices” and "When Something Doesn't Feel Right"

I came across middle-agers on the fine summery fiery street walk of a manhattan space-scape and listened as they lowed, “it’s a shell game, oh whoa, gel shame”. Given a choice, the easiest choice of all (one with two options), they froze: who should regulate the web advertising networks’ use of private and personal information on the Internet, the Industry Itself or the Government. Betwixt, a populace stands infirm.
, petrified turd.

In the triforce of Consumer, Industry, and Government, it’s hard to find an equilibrium in ye olde seesaw: the more successful an advertising firm wants to be, the less liberty a consumer has; this is the result of an ad networks’ sorting and filtering personal internet habits to create said premium product: the highly targeted ads which are the result of all this data mining. A bad example comes to mind in that the more I know of my roommates drug-sniffing habits, the more I can successfully market my cocaine/meth/powdered foreskin to him. While it’s not fair to say that advertisers are trying to sell products that consumers are literally addicted to (one cuts the foreskin powder with Newport tobacco to increase the cravings), it should be understood that corporations do not have in mind the easy to dismiss notion of a “public good”.

It is too easy for a cynic with his fingers in someone else’s shorts to claim that the government has no time for the public good, but this thinking must be destroyed. For these people, a trip to the libertarian paradise of central Africa might rape them into clarity. For the rest of us, it must be understood that our government functions quite well for what it is and the onus is on our anus to follow the News-ous.

Necessarily, we must understand the tendency for folks to support Industry over Government: industry is rarely held accountable for blatant fuckery, whereas government officials are easily identified and thus excoriated for whatever (see: Politics). It seems as though there’s a psychological slip in play when politicians are routinely singled out, face and name all over for their role in trysts and bribery, whereas businessmen in the exact same situation are as blameless as the Islamic man who rapes a woman for leaving the house without covering her head, condoned by a community as tsk tsk what a dumb broad indeed (see: Predatory Lending).

When industry folks begin to believe their actions as for the benefit of the consumer, a problem of continuity ensues. I agree that the industry should self-regulate, but it shouldn’t be under the guise of well-meaning buffoonery. Just as Google’s motto states “do no evil”, this ought to be followed up by a detailed explanation that for all the “evil” a cynic makes of their business practices, they are actually benefiting quite a group of folks - all while making a pretty penny. Nobody should feel guilty about making money while claiming a noble carrot, but they oughtn’t believe it! But too many folks do believe it, and I believe that this misbelief can lead to (deep waters enter...) a crisis in self-realization and “a life well-lived” (http://www.aei.org/speech/100023). Ugh, too much?

This and other points will be explored in a continuing series of short pieces I call “Reality Through Chicanery: The Princess Feels the Pea, Confronts it and Rejoices”

Tit toditael

Alright idiots, Tip's back after a serious bout of thinking. If you'd like to know what sort of drinking he's talking about, take as evidence the amount of time passed between the beginning of this post and this point here. Now here. Now here. Now here.

It hit me at the Bronx zoo the other day: after warming up my projective capabilities with organisms relegated to the gulags of the food chain ("Awww I sometimes sniff my freshly-laid poo too!") I shelled out the $3 it cost to enter the Congo. And for the first five minutes I had considered my money not-too-ill-spent: fake mist mixed with fake ferns and fake exotic/organic rainforest tree trunks, the tails and other physiological traces I caught of strange animals were worth at least $1.25 (or a Busch diesel tallboy). I was even getting a little horny, like what happens with the mom and her son in the greenhouse of Zola's La Curee. The I reached the pot of gold: the gorilla exhibit.

For lack of light I had a hard time getting oriented at first ("this must be what it's like to first arrive on the other side of the protective zoo bars") but once my eyes adjusted and my ears became accustomed to the pitch of seven-year-olds' screaming I got a good look at the scene: a grassy knoll covered in imported central-African deciduous herbage, playing couch to a dozen hairy Silverback gorillas of varying age and size. The parents slept or watched their children play/wrestle or chew on sticks and rub their mammaries. The faces of us superiors betrayed memories of more innocent times as if we had lived in that dreamy artificiality ourselves. Couple rubbed each other's elbows and children piled on top of each other for a better look. Transcendent.

In a darker corner of the exhibit was grouped a bunch of the aforementioned youngsters whose peals my ears took a minute to get accustomed. They were intent on what looked like an exceptionally large beast who was leaning back against a tree trunk at a ninety-degree angle to the spectators, but about six inches away from the protective glass. Every forty seconds or so the group of kids would scream with delight or disgust and push closer or farther from the glass. I inched in for a better look: gorilla on display (Bigsie?) was working his jaws reflectively with his right hand out as if both proposing and contemplating a conflicted statement for the first time; there were bits of brown I-don't-know-what on the sides of his mouth and his fingertips, but I didn't have enough time to make a guess as to what the stuff might be because at that moment he gave me an answer ("Here he goes!" one of the kids screamed): tipping his head back and shaking it for a second, Bigsie lurched forward and vomited a neat brown poo ball (with chunks and nuts, yes) into his hand, looked at it, then ate it once more.

I gagged, naturally. The kids screamed and laughed and clamored for a better look at the next one. It was worth $3, yes. I had seen something I wouldn't have thought to have seen at home. Here was the reflective image of a beast in captivity whose numbness and ease of life had pushed him to an extreme form of engagement and consumption. He wasn't eating because he was hungry; he wasn't vomiting because he felt sick. Food and medical attention would be provided to him without fail; toys and sex and exercise were all at his disposal. I read on the placard that Bigsie was the first gorilla to have been successfully birthed and raised in captivity at the Bronx Zoo. Not once had he met with challenge or despair but had rather been afforded, arguably, the easiest life a Congolese Silverback may have ever known.

The life in the cage was a homogeneous community without threat from within or without. In this way it would accord with what Fukuyama (or Hegel before him) would have called an 'end of history', wherein the seeds are sown for the overcoming of the master-slave dialectic, where man can devote himself to self-knowledge and the completion of science. In this way Bigsie could be, perhaps, the gorillas' Philosopher, with nothing to do but use the tools he has available and contemplate his role in the world order. It would be easy to pin his behavior on what we know about the death drive: the repetition of a foundational event in order to regain control of a situation, no matter how painful that event may be. His action could be the same as little Hans' "fort - da" that introduces the concept to Freud in the first place. Deleuze would move it beyond Oedipus, however, and take special note of the action taking place: the mouth/digestive machine and its predicated flow. Bigsie is acting not simply according to a death drive but in contemplation of the makeup of his very existence, namely, synthesis. Stuff goes in, stuff comes out. It's true that he reverses the order and doesn't allow the machine to do its work (and this is where the death drive is appropriate), which may be the appropriate place to stop this here and think, then, about why the kids liked watching it so much.