iDream: When Joe’s Memory Failed Him

2009-08-23T21:58:00.000-07:00

The Journal News Agency

For Immediate Release

CUPERTINO- . . . [blah, blah, blah] . . . The success of the iDream technology has caused an explosion of elective surgeries for those able to afford the wet [forebrain] implant . . . [blah, blah, blah] . . .

The underground market for wet implants by unscrupulous and unqualified surgeons is burgeoning. Unfortunately, illegal surgeries often result in irreversible brain damage . . . [blah, blah, blah] . . .

Cut to chase . . . Bl-ack, ack, ack . . .

When they went wireless—no tapping a wet outlet directly into the dream lobe, they couldn’t make idreams fast enough. People waiting in line for days, they turned malls into campgrounds.

First month’s sales outpaced all other handhelds combined. That’s right, combined.

We’re talking ipod, iphone, ibook, iwe, ieverything, even ikramer. Billions of dollars of every communication and entertainment denomination. Cha-cha-cha-ching-chang-chung! Everyone had to have one!

A fact, jack, because Joe got a clip from the journal. Burned it offline, which isn’t easy. You know? No way Joe falls for rollovers, get trapped in another Iraqi Corn-Fed Trans-Fat debacle.

Took a quantum leap, back in time. Got clips on those first wet devices you can’t find anywhere, clips or devices. Rich folks shelling out big bucks for a lobotomy. Genius scam if there ever was one.

They had the wireless tech in the hopper. Can’t prove it now. Clips are gone like they never were. Stands to reason shareholders wing out “exclusive” dollars then go downtown.

Clips above are corporate highlights. Rare, been disappeared from the factories, even the indies. Might find something scraped together on underground nets.

Be diligent. Good luck. Watch yer back.

Good news turns into bad news, and bad news doesn’t last. Don’t see wet plugs cruising the tunnels neither. They’re all gone to wet plug home in the sky. Didn’t notice that either.

When the knock-offs poured in, got a dreamgadget. Same features. Didn’t brick when you cracked the system. Hacking into your own dreams. Sweet syrupy goodness gone bad!

Dreamgadget wasn’t sexy like idream. No little white taps magically stuck on your noggin all night. Dreamgadget taps held on though. Clunky band of rubber squeezed you through migraine realm. And then thing things went ugly.

Idream users having nightmares, too. Not the hardware.

The interface? Got hacked, for sure. What about our dreams . . . wouldn’t that be a kick in the maximus cortex?

Weird thing was Joe poetry. Ripping the core, flighting output. Surreal reality in a subconscious mind’s eye. Kept a notebook, filed, classified and cross-referenced like a Freudian Apostle. Joe all organizational anal, like the clips.

Flying dreams were favorites, like everyone else on wikidream.

And sex dreams, more outrageous, the better! Cr-ack, ack, ack.

A few ripe perversions could get you “permanently” banned. No ubiquitous “forgot my homework in my tighty-whiteys.”

Just a rumor. Joe don’t know. Never went there, got no clips. None.

Undercurrent whisper on the nets. Wackadoo madness anyway. Permanent ban on your dreams?

I don’t remember. Goodnight Joe. Fl-ack, ack, ack.

Darker dreams, murder, torture, serial killings, soul-rending demon-breath nightmares. hardcore dreaks get off there. Takes all kinds.

Joe poems started coming, WTF? Never wrote a lick of poetry in a lifetime of Joe. This stuff is poetry? Just terrible.

Hellish light flickering death soup aboil with lost souls, who are these creatures

Dream world incarnations, sweet victims rendered into pieces and fat parts

Demon spawn gnawing bloodied limbs in awe of the Other One

Turning unblinking eyes, slabs of shimmering golden granite

Watching always watching fangs under horns upon a throne

Of our denial and desire with ten-hundred thousand incinerating even more

And nary squeak, life a pitiful prologue unto death’s dark dream

Whatever it is . . . you tell me. H-ack-ack-ack.

Joe dreamed about a gun. Fat shiny hand cannon. Playing with it, spinning the cylinder, pushing a miniature torpedo perfectly into a round bullet chute.

Dreamed of suicide, cool barrel against head. Explosive discharge spackling wall with blood and brain, ruined skull face forward into soggy Shredded Wheat. Break fast. Peace, at last.

Son of a bitch sold the weapon . . . like he knew Joe was coming for it.

It’ll all disappear in the clips like the others. Sm-ack, ack, ack.

082309

HARDCORE ZEN: DEATH TAKES A HOLIDAY (NOT!)

2009-06-27T11:34:00.000-07:00

HARDCORE ZEN: DEATH TAKES A HOLIDAY (NOT!)

doghurts

iDream: When Joe’s Memory Failed Him

The Journal News Agency

HARDCORE ZEN: DEATH TAKES A HOLIDAY (NOT!)