Transmissions from Frank

Frank’s Message to Mrs. Tingier’s Fifth Grade Science Class

There is some seriously perverted shit going on in space. Take away the effect of a basic law of physics and people get very creative. Sure scientists and technicians have made great use of absolute freezing and zero G. “Fusion fuels space™”, right? That’s why I’m up here, that’s why the controlling AI is up here, and that’s why you’ll spend five minutes to hear me grate on your tender sensibilities. All that is fine and good and supports the flaccid utopian time sink, you’re all so enthused about, but the majority of time spent in space and I mean the vast majority, is spent in shameless and unabashed genital stimulation. We are an inventive species. I keep to myself for the most part, but I’ve accidentally ponged my way into one of these low g areas they use. They don’t like zero G, most of them need a little gravity assisted friction to make it work. So they tend to congregate on the outer edge of the stations where there is nearly a quarter of a G. They think they’re so clever, they call these “G spots”, search on that term with “space” or “station” and you’ll get way more hits than you’d imagine.

On the other hand, don’t. It’s disgusting. These perverts live healthier and longer than any other humans in the history of mankind, but their minds are so wet with rot, they must itch like a mother fucker. In space we really have the extremes; we achieved the creation of a sentient AI, which propelled humanity into a peaceful period now in its third century, where the only commodity left, the only currency left to us is time, and how do we spend our precious time, copulation. It makes me want to suck a case of tubes just thinking about our goddamned good luck. There was a moral lesson in there somewhere, find it yourself, I’m tired and don’t think a single one of you will make anything out of your lives that doesn’t involve vaginal fluids.

Transmissions from Frank

Frank’s Message to Ms. Dowtree’s Substance Abuse Class

Zero G demands that alcohol be consumed in tubes. You squeeze oblivion into your mouth. It’s not drinking. It’s sucking. The tubes are well designed, as you would expect, and quite the collectors item dirt-side. I used to bring them home to my kids after a trip. Other dads bring back t-shirts and stuffed animals. I bring back empty single malt scotch tubes. Always a huge hit at the kid’s show-and-tell. Actually you have to be a bit of a drinker to suck the tubes; most of the normals take their pill in Jello or pudding form, much friendlier in low gravity. The die-hards and the connoisseurs suck the tubes.

I’m a die-hard; just can’t adjust. Yeah, I’m high tech. I’m one of the few people with skills worth keeping in orbit, but when it comes to drinking, or “coping” as my personalized morning psych mantra calls it, I’m old fashioned. I like to get “ping-pong” drunk, and then feel like shit for two days. For those below, “ping-pong drunk” is like stumbling drunk but in zero G its all about controlling your float and managing hand holds. Get drunk enough and that is no easy task. Push off a wall too aggressively and your head is cushioning your shoulder’s blow against a bulk head. Then you spin off and bowl down a hand-holding line of school children. That’s ping-ponging.

Drinking used to be sophisticated. Long after smoking became a shun-able offense, drinking persisted with style. Of course, as my morning brain washing reminds me, that was a very long time ago, and it’s very unhealthy whether from a tube, a bottle or a jiggling cube of Jello.

“The only person I’m hurting is my self.” Every time this unwanted line of reason drags its limp cock through my brain I drop everything I’m doing, yell “damn right” and get disgustingly drunk. The best part is how foul one drunk can make the air on a small space station. Juvenile? Yes, it damn sure is and I’m not proud of it, but it’s my coping mechanism and I’m not giving it up just because you bunch of Nazi fucks make faces at me. I know how important bowel control is on a space station, but somehow you still keep me in orbit. I guess its not that important, now is it?

cherry pit pillows warm

I received this poem today from AGF. She's a german musician, poet, producer that I enjoy. Check her out.

in between winter and winter
lets make our own
cherry pit pillows warm

break away music
awareness from morning on:
everybody is a disaster

look at me
.what i do. during the time
extract from existing

Take Advantage

Force can not always be exerted. We must rest, and so we must learn to be contented: Contented between exertions of force, between expressions of power. Constant expenditure leaves only the capability for the smallest changes, leaving the powerful barely potent.

Some men, living without rest, living with constant acts of change, forget what it feels like to be powerful. They begin to doubt they are powerful at all. These too kinetic men begin to feel impotent and weak, irresistibly dreaming of large scale change and just as irresistibly sinking back into the couch to change a channel, or fill a fresh bowl.

Learn to be content in turn with disturbed. If you don’t enjoy what you’ve wrought you’ll soon forget why you fight. A loss of vision is another sign of exhaustion.
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We are finite. If you don’t respect your limits, you’ll be the fool running into the cell door, bloody smears and pass out.

We are finite, but not as small as we make ourselves. Learn to be content in turn, and you won’t ruin yourself for something less than a great purpose.