Posted on August 25, 2015


Juiceboxxx is a man with a plan. Juiceboxxx is a white man from Milwaukee with a plan.

In the year 20XX the planet is dying, children are being sold as sex slaves, you need a two maybe three income household to hold down the house, it’s getting hotter, humans are treated like garbage in the streets, self-destructive self-medication is rampant, the problems of the self rest on a higher plane than the problems of others, hostility sells, the popularity of “fuck you” is at an all-time high, anxiety about comfort overrides all, bodies that are the wrong shade are carved up to bake on concrete, the hate erection tears through a society certain and dead-set on dying if they don’t get their way, compassionate people are distracted, compassionate people are selfish, compassion doesn’t pay the bills and manufactured receipts due are the gears that turn inside the mechanism that winds macro human behavior, society is not a family, your country and/or nation is not a family but a pack of thick bored rage-engorged animals that are probably coming for you if you are black or brown or queer or if you overlay the template “woman” on any part of you, democracy means freedom and everyone having a voice, and the voice says we want to dick-pound the ecosystem into apocalypse because after the apocalypse comes Jesus and Jesus had a dick so what’s your problem, and great big clouds of plankton are dying all at once or migrating to different waters and this throws off the ocean’s eaters and well pretty much we all flopped out of that salty womb so that’s not good, and the forests are burning and smoke makes the sunlight wrong and orange like the kind of thing if I was a kid would make me ask “What’s wrong mom?” with fear in my gut and she’d answer that she doesn’t know or isn’t sure and I would squeeze thoughts of the Rapture out of my head like a fist squeezing a fish until either it shoots out on slick scales or is pulped and you have to repress the desire to open your hand and look and so I repress Rapture-terror until it rots and begins to stink and can no longer be ignored and the poison it produces gets on the Jesus figurine I keep in there and so I throw that out too and scour the whole place clean with fire, and the burning forests of course effect NDNs and their reservations more than my racially pure city, and the indigenous endure and if God were real and a man or a woman or just plain a person he she or zhe would be an indigenous he she or zhe unless God is more like a pissed off entitled King, owning everything but needing still more, and babies are neutralized in their mothers’ recesses and women’s rights are threatened and trampled upon just like their bodies, and broken coping mechanisms and sick families shamble across the wasteland in need of good medicine and while there is none there are more than enough images to occupy the mind so at least those so broken (all of us) need not face reality soberly, and there is not enough meaningful work to go around, and jobs are increasingly mechanized and there is no basic income and xenophobia rules the day and self-hatred is an all-consuming and -consumed fuel that makes folks disbelieve their eyes and ears and wants and needs and hungers to boldly and blindly stumble forward the wrong direction, the way that opens onto a continent of suffering and sorrow not only for them but for others unlucky, cursed, denied, forgotten, treaded upon, unseen by God, invisible, and this continent of self-hatred is there for them when the conquerors full of it deposit them there and reap like death the harvest of these laborers in a country transformed, no longer their own, and the genetic material of the self-hating champs nurtures and meditates upon this white-hot contagion, bane of the healthy and whole and passes it on naturally and quietly to its smiling children until they grow older and their cherubic pink grins decompose into leers, beef between their teeth, and adults punching clock drool and mumble before a clickable beige landscape that processes everything into an unreal unnourishing mush that nevertheless keeps bodies moving in the same direction, the direction of innocuous earning because business is business and working to sling product that dizzies and makes worse the lives of your fellow man is seen as respectable, and laboring even as a small part of a company that produces chiefly objects that are chiefly used to obliterate the bodies of other humans is seen as a rational normal wise career move as it affords many comforts, blood always having been full of power from the old days until now, the year 20XX, when all this is happening and Juiceboxxx has his plan.

He cocks his cyborg arm. It is ready. It is cocked. He has torn it off of a living cyborg which is curious because cyborgs like in the movies don’t exist. Cyborgs are also not alive but in a sense this one could be said to have been as it was bursting with electrons. He has torn off its arm and the electrons have spilled out like candy from a papier-mâché party favor only electrons are invisible and you can’t eat them.

Juiceboxxx lives in the THUNDERZONE which is a realm in his mind that he has an understanding of that is so complete and deep and immersive that he is categorically unable to articulate the meaning of this word and its signified reality to anyone. To do so would in fact be to not dwell in the THUNDERZONE and ‘boxxxy theredwells perpetually.

His cyborg arm is cocked and ready and from the THUNDERZONE he is prepared to make a campaign upon the ills that plague the earth and the heart of humanity.

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