Heresies and Seditions: Intelligent Nonsense, Wicked Satire and Tragic Jest

By Bill Davis

HERESIES AND SEDITIONS can best be described as intelligent fun. It generally avoids the standard narcotizing narrative of popular fiction and should appeal to readers with a sense of humor who aren't afraid of the literature of ideas. In addition to the cultural, political and literary satire, there are portions of the book that can be called philosophical satire, somewhat in the tradition of Mark Twain’s “The Mysterious Stranger.” Since some of the topics I deal with are potentially depressing, I have chosen to treat them in a humorous or fanciful way that expresses sobering truths without dispiriting the reader. The "heresies" part of the title refers to writings on themes drawn from esoteric religions, especially Gnosticism.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483529424

Book preview

Awake

STRANGE DOINGS

It was a bright, splendiferous morning, and the birds were singing arias in the eaves and within the resonant chambers and of course on the piazzas, trilling Idolores, while trolleys filled with tranquilized peasants dressed in green careened down the avenues. Clarence Cruikshank awoke to the pungent smell of fresh, hot kumquats. The soup was on the kettle, the shish was on the kabob, and the catbird was sassily seated. Clarence knew it was going to be a very special day. Whenever he awoke to the ambrosial scent of kumquats, he was assured of an epiphany or two. Having shaved his manly jaw and brushed his bushy eyebrows, he sat in his recliner and twiddled his toes while his three potbellied pigs cavorted, as was their wont in the a.m. Just then, the phone rang. It was the call he’d been waiting for. Hastily he kissed his piglets goodbye, grabbed his rucksack and rushed out the door. Whistling a slaphappy tune, he headed for the city in his lemon-yellow Studebaker Starlight Coupe.

On the way, he fantasized about his future, imagining himself in Stockholm, humbly accepting a Nobel Prize for his selfless endeavors on behalf of the world’s oppressed muffin workers. Dreaming thusly, he sped along the Interstate, inhaling the intoxicating diesel fumes, when suddenly a Tarquin Superbus filled with political prisoners went out of control. Clarence slammed on the brakes, went into a spin and ended in a ditch. Assessing the damage, he realized his Stude was out of action. Its beautiful bullet nose was buried in muck, and worse, it wouldn’t start. Making the best of the situation, he lifted his sack and set off on foot.

He was halfway to his destination when a truck full of Rock Cornish hens ran off the highway, nearly quashing him, and conveniently crashed into a truck repair shop. Clarence resumed his travel, carrying five chickens, by their ten legs, in each hand. It was at this point in his odyssey that he began to notice the hanged men. They were strung up at intervals on makeshift gallows on both sides of the road. To take his mind off these unpleasant sights he resumed a daydream in which he was explaining to the Nobel Committee that he didn’t really deserve this honor etc., but would grudgingly accept it anyway on behalf of all the belabored etc. Up ahead, the World’s Biggest Mexican Grill loomed like a psychedelic flashback. It offered 57 varieties of taco and a free quart of extra virgin motor oil with every purchase over $15. Should he? To keep up his strength? After all, it had been a trying day so far, and it was approaching the noon hour. Decisively, he entered and ordered seven tacos to go. They were: blue cheese taco, wiener schnitzel taco, moo goo gai pan taco, crawdad taco, green tea and mugwort taco, pistachio taco and a plain roadkill taco. Munching, he pressed onward, followed by his fowls, who were evidently taco aficionados and who had, in any case, nowhere else to go. At last he arrived at his destination, the Chester Arthur Building in the heart of beautiful downtown Oshkosh.

Having left the emancipated hens in the art drecko foyer to fend for themselves, Clarence stepped out of the elevator and presented himself to the receptionist, an immaculately groomed miz, who asked a computer screen if she might help him. He explained his sacred mission and was told to take a seat. While waiting, he was regaled by a radio program of classical music that oozed out of the ambience. He carefully jotted down on a taco napkin the names of the composers and titles of the pieces played. They were: Baytoevin’s Furry Lisa, Moatsart’s Einee Minee Notmoosic, Al Baloni’s Uhdajoe, the Goldbrick Vaginations of Jay S. Bark, Sherbert’s Un-Finnish Sympathy, Showpan’s Quaaludes, Liebesnassertraum by Lisp, Hairstyle und Gefilte Fart by Meddlesome, the Three Cornered Rats by Manwell D. Fire, Chowski’s March Slob, the Ride of the Valeries by Ricky Vargas, Carnivorous Cannibals by Sangsong, the Overshirt to Rigamortis by Juicy Verdy, Amazing Grease (sung by the Morbid Taberknuckle Queers), Hernia by Guacamole, Shoemon’s Dickedherleeb (sung by Fishy Disco), Jockmoe Poochy’s O meo baboono caro (sung by Maria Zucchini), a simfunny by da Vorjock, Sweet Burger Mask by Deb Yousee, Bella Buttock’s Pervertimento, a Bopsichord Sinatra by Carlotta, Songs of a Waif by Gus Tamale, The Mold Owl of Bedrock Smegma, Share a Czar by Risky-Caughtacough and (his favorite) the Pickanini Rap by Rocky Manilov. He was just becoming adsorbed in a Bilderberg Conshirto when the receptionist reappeared. Before he could get out a word, she ejaculated, Don’t raise your voice to me! Fumigating, she led him to a long and specious hallway. The Director’s office, last door on the right! she smirked, and scuttled crabwise back to her desk.

As Clarence ambled down the hall he was astounded by all the famous paintings hanging on the walls. These included Venus on the Half Shell by Sondra Buttacelli, The Transmogrification of Jesus by El Gecko, Lady with Her Boobs Trussed Up by Francy Douche, Starry Sunflowers and Irises with Fishing Boats in a Wheat Field by Van Google, Big Fat Woman in the Raw by Ren Wah, Still Life with Bottle of Booze by Pete de Hooch, Virgin on the Rocks by Leolo da Vince, Lady Standing at an Open Window Dressed in Blue and Wearing a Pearl Necklace Reading a Letter from Her Lacemaker by Jab Vermin, Girl Picking Her Nose by Edgar DeGas, Portrait of Charles V with His Dog Sniffing His Crotch by Tityin, Nude with Her Guts on the Outside by Pickasso, Melted Watch Assailed by Ants by Sal Dolly, Portrait of a Rich Bitch by John Singer Sarge, Waves, Boat, Clouds and More Waves by Winslo Homeboy, Skanky Whore in a Brothel by Tooloose Latrek, Pastel Fog by Claude Money, Lavender Drip by Jackson Polack, Sunday Morning Sidewalk by Edward Hophead, American Goth by Grant Wuss, and on the wall by the Director’s door, Dog Gazing Up at God or Maybe Nothing by Francis de Goy. Clarence was about to grab the knocker when the door opened and he was greeted by a bespectacled gentleman with a decidedly British squint. I apologize for the short delay. Won’t you step into my orifice? he squeaked.

Seating himself behind an enormous disk, Mr. Percival Covey-Crump (for it was he) asked Clarence to restate his business. This was the moment he’d been waiting for. Nervously, he extracted from his sack a masonic jar in which was suspended an odd specimen of pink organic tissue bearing a remarkable resemblance to a slightly used chaw of Bazooka bubble gum.

And this, I assume, said the Director, is the item we discussed on the telephone.

Yes indeedy! quipped our hero.

And you say this is the hemorrhoid of Elvis Presley, aka The King?

Two hemorrhoids, Clarence corrected, if you look closely, and he held the jar up for introspection.

And you claim to have documentation for this, uh, specimen?

Full documentation, from a board certified Nashville hemorrhoidectomist! At this point he rummaged in his rucksack in search of said certification. He rummaged for quite a while, much to the annoyance of the Director, but at length, with a cry of triumph, he plucked it out and handed it over.

Mr. Percival Covey-Crump perused the paper warily with a faint smile on his miniscule mustache. At last he said, My dear Mr. Cruikshank. You have called me away from the task of cataloging what is perhaps our most important acquisition of the last decade, viz., the priceless collection of pre-Columbian dildos of the late Sir Adrian Bloat. Let me begin by saying that the firm I represent has been in business for over 200 years. Its name and reputation are famous throughout the civilized world. I’m proud to say that I’ve had the honor of serving this association for thirty-five years and I can state with a modicum of assurance that never in all that time have I seen such a brazen attempt to trade, or rather unload, such a blatantly bogus item in such a patently unscrupulous or, shall I say, egregiously despicable manner that bespeaks a blackguardedly and nefarious intention to defraud, swindle and deceive not merely myself, nor even my august and immaculate firm, but the very integrity, the very propriety…

I take it you ain’t interested then? Clarence managed to get in. "No problem, sir, and no hard feelings either. I can understand, ipso fatso, how a person of your background, being Brit and all, might not cotton to this here item. And he deposited the offending object into his voluminous carryall. But might I offer you another article (very rare) which I’m sure a man of your refinement will appreciate, to wit, the bonefied and genuwine Victrola of Queen Victoria, her own personal RCA pornograph, with a dozen Caruso records thrown in for free…" Clarence was unable to complete this spiel because at that moment three enormous security guards seized him from behind and wrestled him into the hall, down a stairwell and into a back alley infested with rats, cats, dope fiends, homeless people and other social flotsam and economic jetsam, where he landed on his prostrate gland.

Sprawled amidst this refuse and clutching his backpack, which the security thugs had at least had the decency to return, Clarence slowly regained his savoir fairy. He assumed that Covey-Crump (that mealy-mouthed limey) must have signaled the heavies with a hidden alarm button. But what an outrage! And he was only plying his trade. Adjusting his codpiece and dusting off his Sunday second-best, he became aware that one of the destitute denizens of the alley was addressing him. Unshaven, ripe and much the worse for wear, he introduced himself as Billy Bob Kotex and went on to assert that he was the rightful heir of the famous Kotex fortune which had been stolen from him by his wicked stepbrother, the dastardly Earl of Twee. Clarence listened politely, noting that the fellow had a companion who was equally stinky, if not more so. Observing that Clarence had noticed his friend, Billy Bob broke off his heartrending saga and introduced the gentleman as Felonious Muncke, his personal legal advisor and partner in grime, and then went on to relate another convoluted tale concerning his having been abducted by aliens who had sucked out his brain with a vacuum and replaced it with a computer chip, thanks to which he could now access alien communications. From these he had deduced their agenda, which involves a gradual taking over of finance, government and industry, in particular the food industry. Their plan was to add high-fructose corn syrup and other junk to the food supply in order to fatten everyone up in preparation for the final invasion where humans would be utilized as meat for colonizing aliens. Clarence was getting restless but was too well-mannered to interrupt. At last Billy Bob wound up his story and, briefly returning to reality, suggested that a bottle (or even a jug) of wine might be just the thing to help countervail the slings and arrows of outrageous vagabondage and so on. Clarence took the hint and donated to their cause. Sensing this was his opportunity to escape, he shook the hands of the derelict duo and bade them farewell.

As he came out of the alleyway and headed south on Blunderly Street, a pair of innocent young schoolgirls, dressed like hookers, sauntered toward him carrying a radio from which a male voice was rapping out a tender ditty:

"Muthafucka this and muthafucka that

I’m gonna rape you bitch and kill your cat

‘cause I’m a mean muthafucka

a gangster wannabe

I’m gonna make a million and be on TV

buy a movie star mansion in the Hollywood hills

drink Hennessy for breakfast

and live on coke and pills

now I gotta do the nasty ‘cause I’m gettin’ hot

yo bitch you can lick my big gum drop…"

Clarence continued on his way. He noticed, on the side of a building, a large poster that warned against the dangers of genetically modified noodles. All of a sudden he found himself smack in the middle of a firefight between government mercenary paramilitary forces and a ragtag assortment of rebel guerrillas! He heard bullets whizzing past and Mannheim rockets exploding overhead. Hastily, he ducked into a doorway and entered a rather cozy and crepuscular tavern. Seating himself on a bar stool next to a late middle-aged couple, he ordered a rum Coke. Except for the bartender and the couple, the place was empty. As he sipped his drink he listened to the lively conversation taking place to his right. The woman, wearing a white dress with black polka dots, was saying We got the S.O.B., we got ‘im, and no one was the wiser! Her hideous laughter wrinkled her pudgy nose. Her companion, dressed in a blue suit and smoking Morley cigarettes, blew a smoke ring at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Yeah, he replied, and they zapped that patsy real good with hypnosis! As their discourse proceeded, interrupted from time to time by outbursts of hilarity, Clarence tried to make sense of it all but could only take in something about Los Angeles, the Ambassador Hotel, an S.O.B. who had been got and a very large sum of money.

He ordered another drink and began to relax. Seeing the bar cat asleep next to the cash register, he called to mind a past misadventure. Several years ago he’d purchased a cat farm in upstate Wisconsin from a farmer who’d specialized in cat cheese. At first it had seemed like a profitable undertaking, probably because the farmer had left behind a large cache of unsold cheese. But it soon became a nightmare. For one thing, the cats were all but impossible to herd. To deal with this difficulty, Clarence had ordered (from Bulgaria) two specially trained cat herding dogs, but one turned out to be a cat killer. Naturally he had to put down the dog, but not before the herd had been traumatized to the point where their milk was drying up. To add to his headaches, the fresh batches of cheese weren’t solidifying as they should but had the consistency of yogurt. Moreover, there were the endless glitches with the tiny milking machines which pinched the cats’ titties and had a tendency to clog. And finally, when he thought things couldn’t get any worse, the sump pump imploded! All in all, his venture had been a disaster both financially and emotionally, and he’d breathed a gasp of relief when at last he’d sold it to a gullible couple (health nuts who slept on a tofu, ate origami food and took homopathic vitamins, essential fatty asses and desecrated liver) who had always dreamed of owning a cat farm.

Prior to this fiasco Clarence had attended a very liberal arts college, whose name shall remain nameless, which offered a variety of courses, including An Introduction to Debauchery, Comparative Lechery, Elements of Oral Sex, and Intermediate and Advanced Intercourse. But the pace was too great, so he’d transferred to another college where he earned a degree in marine biology, writing his thesis on the life cycle of the dimpled (or hanging) chad, a species of sea whelk. Unable to find a position after graduation (he resided at the time in Nevada), he’d bummed around Reno for a while and then found a gig as drummer for a hardcore band called Metallic Rats. Regrettably, it lasted less than a year due to his developing tinnitus (it became so bad that people standing next to him could hear the ringing in his ears). After that, he’d moved to Los Angeles and joined a religious group called The Church of Rutabagology which had been founded by Elrod Hobbit, a defrocked Calvinist. Its main doctrine is that we are trapped in the universe and reincarnate endlessly. The only way to escape this cosmic merry-go-round is to consume massive quantities of rutabagas, curse the false god Setebos, pray to the blessed virgin Maude and smoke a certain herb (botanical name Pantagruelia rabelaisii). The Church also taught that most people had been apes in their previous incarnations, which accounted for a lot of things. Clarence discovered that he’d lived a past life in ancient Rome where his full name had been Gaius Marcellus Gracchus Opus Posthumous Flaccus Obscenus Fatuus Pilosus Lardamus Gluteus Maximus. His occupation had been goat castrator, and he was considered by many to be the best in Rome. Unfortunately, goat castration became prohibited by Emperor Nero who reportedly used them in his orgies. Gaius took to drink and rapidly dwindled on a spiral.

Clarence enjoyed smoking the sacred herb and didn’t mind praying to Maude, but soon grew thoroughly sick of rutabagas, despite the fact that highly concentrated extracts of them were available, at considerable cost, from the Church. He left that religion and joined another, The First Church of God Sadist, which consisted of a bunch of ex-atheists who reluctantly admitted the existence of God but considered Him, Her or It to be a supernatural bully that took delight in our suffering. Every Wednesday evening they would gather in their church to not pray and to bitch and moan about how bad things were. Clarence found it tedious and rather superficial, and so he became a devoted student of mahootchic alchemy under the tutelage of Alcofribas Nasier, abstractor of the quintessence. After his master passed into the great beyond, he joined The Transcendental Sect of Hypochrismutreefuzz, led by the esteemed guru O. Bing Yang, which taught that ultimate spiritual bliss could be attained by performing, thrice daily, the ritual of the Seven Dreadful Mysteries of the Holy Bong and chanting the mantra Oop Bop Sh’bam 9,522 times. Clarence practiced that discipline faithfully for six months, but the only discernible change he noticed was an increased growth of hair on his big toes. Frustrated, he decided to start a New Agey movement of his own which he called Yell Therapy (not to be confused with Scream Therapy). It was based on the principle that people were unhappy because they didn’t talk loud enough; enlightenment was to be had simply by communicating at the top of one’s voice! But this powerful method of personal transformation failed to become trendy, and so he found himself back on the street.

At this juncture in his life story Clarence decided to try his hand at urban art. Using spray paints and stencils, his trademark cockroaches began to appear all over the city. These were suave and sexy insects that wore shades and had cigarettes dangling from their mouths. Typically they would have clever captions like Roaches gotta eat too, y’know! Clarence became quite good at it and soon gained a following among aficionados of street art as Mr. Buggs. But his career ended abruptly when he was caught by the police on a nocturnal bombing raid and jailed for six months on vandalism and criminal trespass charges. (Years later, he learned that one of his roaches had been removed from a billboard, framed, and sold to a yuppie art collector for $20,000.) After his release he found a job as an actor, a bit part in a quirky independent comedy called Who Pooped in My Soup? It was directed by Jarisch Herxheimer and starred the lovely and talented Angelica Twatley who played the owner of a restaurant that specialized in all kinds of ethnic soups. Cory Dallas played her boyfriend, a likeable hit man who bumped off her more obnoxious customers. Clarence’s role was