TRADING UNIVERSES
by Jon Rappoport
January 12, 2012
See, I’ve got this universe here. I’ve got a whole bunch of others in a storage locker in Long Beach. This one I’m willing to trade, if you have one I’m interested in.
I don’t care what the rules are for yours. It could be an inside-out job with music, or a long skinny one with ladders and unlimited energy. But it has to have lots and lots and lots of painters, because I’m opening a gallery.
We could do a plus-cash deal as well. I might be willing to kick in some diamonds or gold bars.
But don’t, under any circumstances, try to pawn off the one we’re standing in right now, because it’s a lemon. Okay? Energy conservation law, an excess of machines, androids, wars, fundamentalists. I don’t want crowds of people screaming about God or gods or heaven or The Book or any of that stuff. And I don’t like some of the insects and animals. Baboons. I don’t like baboons at all. Whoever started that whole line should be put on a small asteroid and left there. And slugs. I’m not happy about slugs and snails. People eat snails. What further proof do you need that this universe is a whack-job?
Do you have one that’s populated by musicians as well as painters? I mean real musicians, not screamers with guitars and make-up. Improvised symphonies that span a whole galaxy and go on for a few hundred years at a time. That’s more to my liking.
But the very last thing I’m looking for is people who are unaware they’re living in just one cosmos out of trillions. Those people will tire you out faster than a big stack of rubber pancakes.
My cousin lives in one of those. He sends me messages about “the human condition” all the time. I have to tell you, although I’m not unsympathetic, this wears on a person. It’s so…parochial. And he thinks he’s on some kind of frontier of consciousness or something. Can you imagine? Babbling on and on about existential this and shrunken down that. Drives me bats! What am I supposed to say to the guy? He’s blind? I mean, he is, but he doesn’t react well to that sort of talk. He gets his fur up and goes on the attack. Pathetic.
Anyway, I’m up for a trade. If you get my voice mail, leave a detailed message. Remember—painters and musicians. Academics are okay, as long as they know their place. Throw in a few shrinks, just for laughs, and you might have a deal. All transfers are final. No refunds. No rebates. No discount coupons.
As you may have guessed, I don’t do God. If you’re thinking of trading me a universe where some guy’s playing God, forget it. First thing I’d do is fire him and his whole bureaucracy. But usually they have laws about that. You know, employment guarantees. With bonuses! I don’t want to get caught up in red tape. I say if you can’t fire a guy, you have to fire the system. I could be spending a few thousand years trying to engineer that.
Jon Rappoport