The Final Frontier of Freak

Cousin Eddie and Rupert…Dominique Strauss-Kahn…The future of libertinage…

I was watching the actor Randy Quaid lose his mind the other day in a video post when I found myself wondering if there is a law against the sexual harassment of a robot? Puzzled by my sudden consideration of this strange issue I sat back and tried to figure the source. There was no mention of robots in Mr. Quaid’s two-minute rant toward Rupert Murdoch. Instead Mr. Quaid expresses his outrage for Rupert Murdoch’s lack of appreciation for the actor’s appearances in Christmas Vacation and Independence Day. The veteran performer is furious, good and worked up, sporting a beard that Santa Claus would envy and lamenting his financial troubles while his wife, Evi, sits in the background in a bikini and dark sunglasses. It’s a tense scene. His wife keeps such a predatory stillness throughout that I was bracing myself for the sudden appearance of an uzi in her hands, followed by the loud report of rapid gunfire as she obliterated the entire room in a hail of bullets and shrieking.

There was no violence. Instead, at the end, Mr. Quaid puts a mask of Rupert Murdoch on his wife and begins to simulate sex on her. I can only guess it is a simulation because anyone that could get aroused staring at a mask of old Rupert Murdoch on the body of a woman has much bigger problems than some outstanding debt. That person is a deviant on an order of magnitude far beyond normal fetish and should be locked in a tower in the Chateau D’If until his libido dries up. Even the Marquis de Sade would be shaking his head.

Then I realized that Randy and his wife were filming their protest in a hotel room, from the looks of it. That was when I remembered I was reading about a hotel that is being built outside of Nagasaki, Japan called “The Strange Hotel.” Aptly named, since they are planning to staff the hotel with robots. Here it comes. The beginning of the end for the cranky human worker. Robots cannot be in a bad mood, or hungover, or stressed, or jealous or bored. I imagine these hotel robots will be programmed to be cheerful, with a computerized passive-aggressive tone that just reeks of complete condescension. Their eyes will blink, even though there is really no reason for a machine to blink, and their banter will be lame. They will suffocate us with kindness, implying in every pleasant inflection that us carbon-based smelly humanoids, who come by their intelligence haphazardly and are lazy about detail and are prone to confusion, are just a dopey evolutionary blip in the movement toward a more reliable artificial intelligence.

Everything was starting to jibe. In addition to Randy Quaid and the robots, the French trial of Dominique Strauss-Kahn, the former head of the International Monetary Fund, was getting underway. I had been following it for the last week or so. He currently stands accused of pimping, pandering, general sexual savagery and not knowing the difference between a naked socialite and a naked prostitute, which is at least a misdemeanor in France. Many folks will remember he was accused of raping a hotel maid in New York City in 2011.

Now it made sense. Monsieur Strauss-Kahn makes no secret about his prurient practice of “Libertinage,” a time-honored tradition of decadent orgies for the wealthy elite that goes back something like four hundred years. It is his noblesse oblige. The sexual encounters are so hedonistic and the women who are paid to take part in them are so passive and willing that it is easy for one of these “Libertines,” in a blind fury, to mistake a common hotel maid for one of the demimondaine. Most hotel guests know enough to respect the housekeeping staff and to not jump out naked from the closet when the cleaning crew is trying to tidy up the room. It is a crime to assault a human, but what happens when the victim is a robot maid? Or any robot for that matter. What happens now, I thought, when some drunk wanders into the hotel after a night of partying and just rips the mechanical desk clerk from her post in the lobby and drags her up to his room, figuring there has to be something that passes for an orifice on her somewhere. “These computer geeks usually think of everything,” he will mutter to himself. He won’t have much patience, and the hotel manager can expect a call about an hour later. “Yeah, I’ve got your robot in room 327. Can you (hiccup) have somebody come up here and program it to say something smutty? And bring some WD-40 while you are at it.” You might get him for destruction of hotel property, but anybody depraved enough to rape a robot will probably have enough money to just buy a new one. If the wealthy rake has no compunction about springing naked from out of nowhere and grabbing a hotel maid, he would be elated to sneak up on a robot. The final frontier of freak. The libertine will wake up the next day, if he hasn’t electrocuted himself, with a hell of a hangover. Next to him will be the better part of a fried electrical droid, covered in champagne and grease, sparking from the neck, repeating some weird initialization phrase. “I appreciate your patience while I retrieve that information… I appreciate your patience while I retrieve that information…. I appreciate your…” and he will laugh, knowing that he will escape the whole escapade untouched, and that he will be free to do it again, and that the law doesn’t apply to those who make them.

More Alembics to come.

Open Letter to Edward J. Snowden from Johnny Americana

From June 25th, 2013

Note from the Blog Custodian: Since “paddytheduke”, the normal blog contributor, is away on some type of liver-torturing bender, he has given his full blessing for the ensuing post. Mr. Johnny Americana, an ambitious old friend of “paddytheduke’s,” has requested the use of this platform to solicit advice from a bona fide international spy about a career change he is seeking. Mr. Americana, while pure of purpose and honorable of motive has always had the somewhat debilitating deficiency of being obsessed with image while paying no real attention to context. Mr. Americana’s letter is posted as a courtesy and we wish him the best of luck. Take it away, Mr. Americana. 

Open letter to Edward J. Snowden, International Spy, from Johnny Americana.

Dear Mr. Snowden,

I have recently seen you on the television and was wondering how I could become an international spy like you? Any suggestions you have would be greatly appreciated. It’s always good to get advice from someone in the field. I work in a cubicle, myself, cold-calling on behalf of a company that sells used and slightly damaged medical equipment. It’s boring as hell and the pay sucks unless you can get one of the senior citizens you call at random to give up their social security number. I also compile what we call “sucker lists” and sell them to anybody willing to pay for them. Point is, I’m tired of number crunching and data processing. I want to travel to exotic lands, pursue villains using the newest sports cars, the fastest boats. I have no problem knocking some unsuspecting motorcyclist off his bike, jumping onto it and pursuing some henchman. I’m versatile. I can run through open-air markets and through sewer systems. One time I jumped through the smashed window of a moving car, but that was more of a domestic dispute, well, that’s a long story and if you don’t want me to come bounding into the open window of your Camaro then just don’t steal my shit. I’m just saying. I can run on the tops of train cars. Seriously I can. Once I tried it. I had to flee a couple of hobos who told me that when riding the rails it’s always the cutest looking man who becomes the woman.

I’d like to learn how to drink martinis while I collect information about men intent on world domination. I don’t really drink martinis like you do but I could definitely learn to drink them. Shit, I’ll drink anything. I look good in a tuxedo and once in Atlantic City I won a hundred bucks playing blackjack and got a free breakfast, alcohol not included. I wasn’t wearing a tuxedo but a tuxedo tee-shirt. I think it still counts.

The best thing about your job is that they build you gadgets that you can use for the exact appropriate situations that call for them. I don’t like all this new fancy computerized hacker stuff. Give me something that explodes and I’ll escape. I love stuff that explodes. We used to mix water softener and gasoline in bottles of Colt 45, wick them and throw them off the old water tower. Fucking ka-boom, spy man.

I see they call you “The Leaker.” I want my own spy name too. We call our roommate “The Leaker” as well but that’s just because he gets drunk and pisses himself on the couch after he passes out. We don’t care that he pisses himself but we wish he would do it in his bedroom because after he pisses himself on the couch you can only flip the couch cushions once before you’re at the original stain. We keep flipping them though, and it seems to work.

I’ve only seen one picture of you, and I’m a little disappointed. You must be undercover, because you aren’t wearing a tuxedo, you aren’t playing Baccarat, and there aren’t any sexy female spies around you. Actually, you look kind of plain and worried. You certainly don’t seem to be seducing some curvy, leggy, beautiful double agent, some tall drink of water with a name like “Glory Hole” who is smart enough to outwit everyone around her until she falls through a trap door under which sits a pool of hungry piranha fish. But not before you banged her, so who cares, right? I hear you Mr. Snowden. You might be lacking in suaveness and style and don’t take this the wrong way but whatever department in the N.S.A. deals with tailoring and make-overs, you might want to drop in on them. They have to have a tanning bed or a gym or something in there. Where do my tax dollars go?

Mr. Leaker Snowden, I must say I am enjoying your current ruse, your massive ploy about how your government has turned on you because you stole some high level secrets, but that’s just because you want the evil genius that you are battling to think you are a rogue element, a wanted man, and so then they take you into the confidences of their evil empire and you choke the bastards off at the neck. I get it. I’m not saying it’s absolutely original but I’ve studied up on spying and it is effective. Who is the evil genius you are pursuing, or are you not allowed to say? It’s probably Rupert Murdoch because he’s a pock-marked Australian, or T. Boone Pickens with his fucking socialist wind energy or that one guy with the real creepy title, something like the “Wizard of Omaha.” I think his real name is Warren Buffett but with a nickname like that you can bet he’s building a space laser. If you can tell me what else a wizard does, I’d like to know.

My uncle says that it takes at least three months to process a “License To Kill” so once he just made one up and had it laminated. Everyone down at Rudy’s thought it was funny until he tried to bash this guy’s head in with a pool stick. I guess I can just use his until I get the real one.

Anyway, the microwave has signaled that my convenience store burrito is ready to be “eliminated” and so I will sign off. I just want you to know that I’m really good at keeping secrets. Honest. I hate people that buckle under pressure and just give up whatever confidential information they are privileged to have, and I can tell you feel the same way I do.

That being said, I will be waiting patiently for you to come crashing through my bedroom wall in the early hours of the morning with a team of expert killers to blindfold me, bundle me up, throw me into the back of a van and whisk me to a six-month boot camp of intense and excruciating training, both physical and psychological. You can water-board me, keep me up for days on end, run me for miles and shoot me full of whatever spy chemicals I need to inoculate me against enemy brutality and protect my precious bodily fluids. I await your spectacular invasion of my house and if you have to kill any of my roommates in the process I don’t think anyone would miss them and it might be good practice for you guys. Go United States of America!

Johnny Americana.

P.S. If you happen to review any of my records or files and find that I have spent some time in a mental facility, just know that I was operating undercover that time. I had been dispatched by a shadow group to gather information about stuff that’s classified. I can prove I wasn’t crazy, though. See, until they started restraining me at bedtime I used to break into the cafeteria and cover myself in tapioca pudding. What crazy person would be smart enough to act that crazy? How about that, fucker?