Underplugged #8: “Postmortem Notes”
TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:
Our doomed environment is worse than an infrared wheel factory overseen by machine elves on a bad Salvia Divinorum trip. Weird by the nth degree; thinks young ones are the best to transform our criminally sterilized world, praising abstinence into a utopian favoring buzzing and tripping. It’s no world that follows the plan of any higher being—it’s the death of pain!
We learn in our days of revelry to think only the utmost impulsively and reject ourselves as being mentally present, as dream and fantasy are our reality. Incessant torture! Old curse tormenting the minds of our newer generations! It’s as if pink elephants utter in our sleep that miserable jackasses with our heads in our groins and our dicks in our rumps. We’re tools... gullible fools... none of us flees when the opportunity presents itself. It’s hard when 90-something percent of us are slurping lean out of a 99-cent straw. That is the actual vomiting at us, shouting how pathetic we are, and setting in motion the new lifestyle all must obey: forget and carry wayward.
All these banana peels I’m smoking got me inspired—made me phone up Earle Gray and persuade him to drive to the Bunny Ranch and have fun with a woman for once in his life. I mean, that poor man will get AIDS being so queer, you know!
It’s all a game. An evil little game. Cravings waiting in the shadows. Got no choice. I also phoned Sierra, this time for a brand-new bottle of Adderall shipped right from the pharmacy. Phenylpiracetam was not doing as well with the Chinese knockoffs. Hydrazide—it’s always fucking hydrazide! There’s nowhere to go. It’s buzzing, ringing, so much... the verses of sick impulse can’t conclude. What to do?
Some travesty is to befall me. I’m certain. Convinced. But give it again, and they demand a surplus in your offer. Do we get that in clear pictorial charts? Shit on the BRICKS!! NAH!! That’s absurd... so juvenile, right? We ain’t no good-natured honest citizens eating the corn on the cobs. Pictionary is a good game to play when drunken ears hear jazz playing a couple of blocks down. The shit dick, fit for fit, free enterprise, coercive success.
Lars drops by to visit and hits someone point-blank in the face and gouges out their eyes on his way here. He claims to have dined on their silver shit—something of an expensive commodity in the prison system, in which urine and feces reign the dollars and coins of commerce.
That’s some suburban fecal matter poetry that sounds like some of that shit from, uh, the back days, days gone back. Shit out of pisser and in utero. Watch a catatonic schizophrenic patient eat salad in paralyzed disequilibrium.
Once the sun hit, Darcy bit the fit and wasn’t legit. His card had expired—but was it not for free? Yah? Eh? Or, perhaps, is it the Menace rung out from cischet men who get their ass hair shaved by immigrant barbers in Jamaica?
Math is the philosophy of metaphysical decomposition superimposed onto—Wait! There was a section on that part of the document… ummm, right? Now… what was it again? How did it go? Was it… was it, “Shit has been awkward with the quality so low. The Prolactin Agency asked to confirm termination and take the check to a bank. Doubled the money on the clear web. Two empty boxes of Namenda® are in the room. Squirted—poured a small amount of water into them. Got hit with some methylene after ODing on amyls in a sauna in San Francisco. Some stupid methhead and his “unorthodox ways” of reducing its uncomfortable effects.”
Sierra has been, for the past 4–5 days, getting jack shit out of basic human morality and ethics to hole deep down the center. Abyss coordinates are at the vein for the same purpose as God gave us... He’s letting us decode our heads, however appropriate we thought.
Power to the Lord Jesus Christ… his old hand-me-downs in a garage sale outside of town. It has some kind of magical properties. Telepathy was one, right? But… holy shit, are the boonies too dangerous for us, Major Woo? We’re not roid-raging cuckoos who can tolerate those hot temperatures on 25i-NBOMe. You’re the one and only. So strong! So brave! King of the people!
It hit like a grenade out of a locked box that looks like the internet’s destruction of form and identity. Jump high, high. Its swimming circumcision second attempt was a success since the stovetop speed whippersnapper was getting paddled by the Itravil® mensch.
Baked like a cake, a strawberry cake. FD&C Red-40 for the induction of attention deficit disorder. Shoot your shot to buy one, get one free on faces of burned Playboy models under thick foreskin tied around polyester handles of the Fear Complex.
Statistics point to Phenestrogamine®-deprived hormone junkies (those who strictly abuse testosterone, estrogen, and other bodily hormones for achieving their kicks) suffering more incidents of indulging in the echo chambers of dialysis induced by severe Benadryl® addiction. Potheads are still enjoying new performances of Stoner’s Apocalypse play frightening the audience. Their bloodshot eyes make them see colors as red only.
Cul-de-sac boys fuck their prolapsed anuses using oversized dragon dildos lubricated with their cum. Earle Gray tries betting on which gigolo can smoke the most crack while his stud sticks cucumbers up boy butts to become a famous gay porn star.
There’s a Zen proverb that goes along the lines of “When you eat, eat. When you drive, do nothing but drive. And when you have sex, have sex.” In other words, allow yourself to be and live in the moment without any distractions. This is nonexistent in the junkie consciousness, almost something that brainwashes one into temperance and takes away their unrestrained freedom to do what they wish. It’s difficult labor when you black out enough to end up with a capital murder charge that you have no memory of; rightly, you defame the notion since you have given up repentance. You ought to push the limit, because the body’s feedback loop is inescapable, and euphoria must be sought out through increased desire if one wants to feel like Superman on steroids eternally.
Memories didn’t form amid the bananadine intoxication probe into the deepest and densest depths of the cosmic oceans to make sense of our will, purpose, and hidden capacities. Instead, it was manic pacing in a circle for as long as it took to develop blisters on my feet and public behavior deranged enough to end up in a psychiatric hospital on a 5150 hold, with the escort of the fuzz dragging you in bare-naked, chained head-to-toe like some rabid animal.
I was playing a dangerous game of touch. It’s not like a completely dissociated, anesthetized individual can accrue the proper scientific—or let alone anecdotal—data with an invisible beam being blasted into your skull and rendering your hippocampus and temporal lobe virtually ineffective. Conjectures—they’re the best model at your disposal.
AGENT K. OSS
Underplugged © 2025 by James Ridner is licensed under CC BY-NC 4.0.