Khaotica 2013

(Erin says: for years now, I've been trying to make Khaotica "catch on" within Discordian circles. I gave up after a while, figuring that the entire premise of  celebrating a fake holiday was antithetical to a fake religion based upon chaos and slacking.

Fortunately, it appears that Khaotica -- much like my love for Morgan Freeman -- was actually ahead of the curve.

So I present to you a special Khaotica guest post by St. Judas the Obscene.)

The 2013 Joey Kamikaze Khaotica Special

The way the snow is coming down, getting out of here in the morning is going to be twice the adventure finding the cabin was to begin with, and Nid is only half-relieved to see Joey answer the door. With a resigned sigh he waves to Celeste, who's still huddled over the heater in the truck. The heavy Montana snow is already up to Celeste's knees, but she plows her way to the door and follows the men into the snow-logged cabin. “I almost gave up on you two,” their host says as he closes the door. “Welcome to the set of the 2013 Joey Kamikaze Khaotica Special. Do you have your signed waivers?”

After the couple strip off their boots and coats Joey introduces the camera crew and leads them toward the living room, where the rest of the special guest stars are gathered. Before they can get there Manisha pops around the corner in a pastel Lil' Ganesha & Friends t-shirt and a headset, tablet in hand. Celeste squeals and dive-hugs Manisha while Nid and Joey share a glance. Not that Joey can see Nid's face beneath his festive Frosty the Snowman mask, but let's not dwell on that detail for now.

Celeste gives her Indian other-mother a wry look. “Oh god, Manisha, you're producing for him again? After the thing with the drunk-driving leprechauns? Really?”

“That was a PSA,” Joey says, and everyone wisely ignores him.

“At least that means there should be craft service this time,” Nid says. “He tried to trick the crew of Evil T: The Icepick-Wielding Sub-Terrestrial into potlucking every day.”

“In the dining room,” Manisha says. “And I'm only here because he roped my crew in under the table anyway... again... and I wanted to meet Pete Townshend.”

Celeste's eyebrow arcs and she follows Manisha to the living room, but Nid puts a hand on his cousin's shoulder and gives him a hard look in the eyes from behind the mask. “Why all the cloak and dagger about making a special for a holiday no one's heard of? Khaotica? You know I don't like being on camera, even with the mask.”

“You know how sometimes I get these feelings?” Joey says.

“Oh geez. I know what it is. It's been five years since Ruth killed Santa Claus.”

“She killed him in the future. And you know how the fives thing works. A Khaotica special is the perfect way to dispel this auspicious anniversary's bad mojo.” Nid nods along; that kind of magical thinking is Joey's usual forte. And it explains why they're filming in the ass end of nowhere... though there was never any hiding from Santa when he was in the mood to kill. “C'mon, I'll introduce you to everyone so we can start filming.”

The other special guests are lounging before a majestic river-rock fireplace, the centerpiece of a spacious living room full of plaid couches, shaggy suede easy chairs and other decor that's probably been here since the cabin was built during the Carter administration. The fake moose heads are a nice touch. Joey directs Nid to a somewhat obese 40-something in a leather jacket with greasy hair dozing in one of the recliners. “This is Phonzie, Milwaukee's preeminent Fonzie impersonator. He's here to represent the episode of Happy Days where the Fonz is alone for Christmas until the Cunninghams invite him over.”

Phonzie wakes up enough to offer a hand and a “Merr-aaaaay Christmas.”

Nid shakes Phonzie's hand, holds in his groan and feels thankful the look on his face is hidden. The next guest is at least the real deal. “Yukon Cornelius,” Nid says, needing no introduction.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” says the famed prospector. “You here for the silver or gold?”

“Mostly the gift baskets.” Nid looks to Joey. “I'm sensing a theme with your guests.”

“I want to devote my Khaotica special to my other favorite holiday specials.”

“You mean you're doing a clip show because it's cheap. Are you even paying for the rights to the clips, or are you just going to pull them up on YouTube?”

“These specials are representatives of the Khaotica spirit!”

“The Khaotica spirit? Care to define that?”

“No, but don't go around using it, I'm having it copyrighted if this thing's a hit.”

The next guest looks like a four foot tall rug and smells like a muskrat's ass. “You remember Lumpy from the Star Wars Holiday Special.” It's not a question, as Joey has made that particular travesty's viewing a mandatory annual event back home. Nid offers a hand and a greeting and gets a mouthful of random growls and his arm almost ripped off in return. Once Nid has his shoulder back in the socket Joey introduces him to the man with the guitar sitting on the largest couch, currently squeezed tight between Celeste and Manisha. “Representing the Whos of Whoville from How the Grinch Stole Christmas, this is Pete Townshend.”

“Um,” says Nid, but he shakes Pete Townshend's hand and asks for an autograph while wondering silently behind the mask, Pete Townshend is too classy to nail another guy's wife, right? Whenever he and Celeste run into rock stars — and it happens more in their careers than you'd think — Nid has regrets about this whole open marriage thing.

The last special guest is a loose-gazed woman in a Nazi uniform and pyramid hat huddled in an easy-chair in the far corner, occasionally jittering and foaming like a rabid squirrel. “And this is Tila Tequila,” Joey says. “Tila has her own special coming out later this week on VH1.”

Tila Tequila stares off into the empty space between Joey and Nid and bellows, “SOMEONE NEEDS TO SPEAK THE TRUTH WITHOUT FEAR! Otherwise the dark cabal who currently control the world and all of the world bankers will continue to feed you their lies, feed off your emotions, take advantage of your emotions and will continue to keep you THEIR SLAVE!”

Nid pulls Joey aside for a quick family pow-wow. “Please tell me you're not sleeping with her.”

“You know I swore off dating reality TV stars after Susan Boyle left me at the altar on Celebrity Bachelorette. Don't worry about it. Thanks for bringing it up. Ass.”

Before Nid can clarify his objections Manisha springs from the couch. “Okay everybody, it's time to start filming. Act natural and let Nid and Joey lead the conversation. We're going to play clips from different specials and movies, assuming the wifi behaves.” With that she's away behind the cameras, and Nid resigns himself to his fate. He takes a seat on the other side of Pete Townshend from his wife, who gives him a look that could either mean We're in this together, honey or I'm totally banging the guy who wrote "Tommy" later tonight, Nid isn't sure which.

Joey sits in his director's chair beneath a flat panel mounted to the wall by the fireplace, dispensing childhood memories and trading barbs with Nid, pulling feedback from the other guests, generally making an ass of himself like usual. Behind the cameras, Manisha's crew feeds clips to the screen and does their best to keep Joey's focus from derailing too often. Joey introduces them (and the hypothetical future audience) to a few Khaotica traditions — for example, he gives everyone gift-wrapped recently-fresh fish and Slim-Jims, and they have a contest to see who can suck the red off a vodka-infused candy cane and then get the remainder back into the wrapper and on the tree the fastest. But there's one thing that never comes up, so finally Nid has to ask, “Joey, where did this Khaotica nonsense come from?”

“You want to know the story of the first Khaotica?”

“Maybe? Do I? Are you going to tell it?”

Mr. Kamikaze clears his throat. “Khaotica is the traditional winter holiday of the ancient sasquatch tribes who roamed North America before humans ever stepped foot on the continent. According to their legends, in the ancient times a sasquatch called Krampus got into an argument with the Queen of the Narwhals over who was the better singer, so the Queen transformed Krampus into a monster.”

“Heeeeeey,” says the Phonz, “isn't a bigfoot already kind of a monster?”

“That's racist,” says Joey. “When Krampus returned to his tribe they were sorry for him at first, but eventually all his whining got on their nerves. The tribe decided to mess with Krampus a little so he'd laugh again and stop being such a bitch about things. It worked, kind of: Krampus moved away to become Europe's problem and the neighborhood quieted down again. So the sasquatches made Khaotica an annual celebration, or at least they did until most of them died from the diseases the first human immigrants brought over with them. But you can learn more about that in my upcoming book—”

“Are you just making this up as you go along?” Celeste says, and Joey putters off.

Nid sighs and looks the room over. “Isn't there anyone who knows what Khaotica is all about?”

“Raoirrrnnn, wuhuu hhrravhurrr rroa hrruunn.” Lumpy clears his throat and takes a spot in front of the fireplace, where the cameras can pick up the glow of the flames off his shaggy coat. Manisha dims the overheads and puts on the spotlight. The rest of the room goes silent as Lumpy explains:

Manisha flicks the lights back on. The Wookiee collapses sideways, eyes staring but their light already faded, as the flames from the burning log lodged through his abdomen lick at his stinking fur. Everyone scrambles away from the fireplace except Tila Tequila, who stamps and shouts, “STAND UP AND FIGHT!!!!!!! FEAR THEM NOT LIKE THEY FEAR ME, THE FUCKING SAMURAI!” She pulls what looks to be either mace or industrial-strength hairspray from her purse and makes to spray the corpse, but Phonzie grabs her and pulls her back behind one of the couches for cover as she wriggles and yells, “DOWN WITH THE NEW WORLD ORDER & THEIR ZIONIST SHILLS!!”

Another log goes jetting over Nid and Celeste's heads, disintegrating the top two inches of the loveseat they're hiding behind. The third log kills camera 3 and Ron, the grip cowering behind it, who works — worked — on Manisha's show. When Nid looks for Manisha he doesn't see her, but he heard a few people jumble into the closest and he thinks another group went upstairs. As he's watching maybe half a dozen members of the film crew go running out the front door. The last two logs in the fireplace explode against the door frame after them.

“It's him,” Joey says. “I'll be back.” He bolts for the stairs as a cloud of silt and dust chokes the room. The scratching in the chimney is getting nearer, and the bastard's kicking down every bit of ash and creosote he can on the way.

Celeste grabs Nid's arm, and with brief satisfaction Nid notices Pete Townshend running out the front door, dragging Tila Tequila by an arm. “What's Santa's weakness again? Do we need a frog?” Celeste's only tangled with Santa once, and she technically died in the attempt. So did Nid and Joey, that time. Only a bit of time travel on Ruth's part resolved that particular knot, and she's refused to spend the holidays with them since. But Nid's killed Santa with Joey probably two dozen times now since they were teenagers. Like an iconic horror movie villain, he always comes back.

“It changes every incarnation. Nothing works twice.” The whole Santa thing could probably use a quick explanation, right? For the record, the Santa Claus of goodwill and cheer who brings gifts to the children of the Christian West every December 25 is mythological. The gifts are supplied by your parents and/or guardians, the mental image is supplied by Coca Cola's advertising department. Sorry if I spoiled that for you. This Santa Claus is a... something... summoned from... somewhere... by a team of CIA psi researchers during the Cold War, “Like if Cthulhu could only exist in this dimension as the Tooth Fairy,” if you believe Joey's account.

The story goes: During a December 14, 196X attempt to contact the dead and recruit them for intelligence work, the CIA accidentally unleashed a being that took the form of Santa Claus, supposedly after the office decorations. It rampaged around New England in that form until December 31, when some nameless agency sealed Santa back... well, either where he belonged or at least somewhere that wasn't here. But he's been able to manifest by December 14 most years since then. The way Joey tells it, he first encountered Santa when he was 12, and that was the first time he killed the evil old elf—the first civilian to do so. The lethal rivalry continued unabated, and Nid soon became parcel to the most famous of his cousin's blood feuds with supposedly-mythological beings. It seemed Santa's appearances were coming sooner and sooner every year until Ruth killed him five years ago. Decisively, they'd hoped.

But nope. With one last series of scrapes and scratches their old nemesis emerges, looking plump and soul-hungry as ever. His dirty wool suit is stained almost purple with the blood of decades of victims; within his fluffy white beard are braided tiny finger-bones from the latest batch of children he's devoured. His jolly blue eyes move but lack light or expression, and he never blinks. “Ho ho ho! Who's been nice this year? Who's been naughty? It doesn't matter, you're all going to be bodies! Ho ho ho!”

Yukon Cornelius steps forward in challenge to distract Santa while Phonzie makes a run for the door. “Didn't I ever tell you about bodies? Bodies bounce!” While Nid wonders what the hell that was supposed to mean, the prospector twirls his pickaxe and lunges at the terror from the chimney with a lung-emptying “Wahooooooooooo!”

For a brief moment Nid allows himself hope, but Yukon's face meets Santa's backhand with a wet crunch, and the Claus strips the prospector's pickaxe like he's taking cookies from an unattended plate. The pickaxe spins up in the air over their heads as Santa snaps Yukon's neck in his mangy green gloves. The axe splats down into Yukon's twisted body, spraying viscera. Santa plucks the pickaxe from his foe's body, gives it a lick. “You were nothing.”

Santa turns to look at the loveseat Nid and Celeste are ducked behind, smiles. “Ho ho ho! Christmas, Yuletide, all year round! Christmas in July! Love to hear that jolly sound, screams you make when you die! Ho ho ho!” The wicked elf holds up a stained burlap sack and makes a show of rummaging through it. “What's in Santa's bag, my dear? What's he have for you, my friend? We'll make Christmas last all year, then bring your species to an end! Ho ho ho, there it is!” Santa pulls a laser-chainsaw—Nid's never seen them for sale either, but by goddess that's a laser-chainsaw, alright—from his sack and slices the nearest coffee table in half just for fun. Nid's grip on Celeste's shoulder tightens and he gives the door a glance, but he knows better than to run from Santa in the snow. If they don't stop the Claus here, all those escaped guest celebrities are already dead, and plenty others too. Besides, who knows what Santa's magic has cooked up outside to keep them trapped here.

“Where the hell is your cousin?” Celeste whispers.

Santa seems to have the same question. “Kamikaze! Show yourself, or I start pulling limbs off family members!” A leopard-print couch covered in questionable stains and a few pieces of mass-produced pop art feel the laser-chainsaw's fury.

“SANTA!” Joey descends from the loft, a familiar-if-chintzy rifle in his hands. He waves for Nid and Celeste to break cover and run upstairs behind him. Upstairs, Manisha waves Nid and Celeste to a spot in the loft overlooking the living room. Most of the camera crew is with her, remotely operating the cameras with their tablets and laptops.

“Kamikaze!” Santa laughs the most ominous ho ho ho Nid's heard in his life; Jabba the Hutt couldn't top it. “When I'm done with you there won't be enough left to send home in a stocking!”

“Hope you kept a gift receipt, Claus, because I know something you don't!” Joey holds up a sheet of paper. “Every weakness of every manifestation you'll take over the next three hundred years, thanks to a friend in the future.” He cocks the rifle. “Let me introduce you to this go round's: the official Red Rider 200 shot range model air rifle with a compass in the stock and this thing that tells time!” And Joey sends his eye down the sight.

“You have to be joking,” Santa says, but he no longer sounds so sure of himself. He takes a step forward, raising the laser-chainsaw, and the BB gun gives a subtle clclk. The laser-chainsaw drops to the floor and dies (the laser goes off, in other words) as Santa's crusty gloves dart to his brow. “You shot my EYE out!” Santa wails, then he shatters like a vase hitting concrete. The shards of his hollow body dissolve into greasy red-green smoke that escapes back up the chimney, and a stillness settles over the cabin.

Nid lets go of the breath he was holding and kisses his wife.

The headcount later puts the death toll at 9, counting all the people killed by the “snow sharks” the survivors who fled outdoors claim were patrolling the area during Santa's attack. Descriptions of the beasts vary, but everyone agrees Phonzie jumped three of them on his motorcycle only to be devoured by another pair moments later. The last anyone saw Pete Townshend, he was following Tila Tequila into the woods.

Nid elbows his cousin in the ribs. “You knew the whole time. Ruth gave you that list years ago.”

“Maybe.” Joey smiles. “Manisha, how'd the footage come out?”

Manisha prods at the pile of smoldering fur that used to be Lumpy the Wookiee with one of her flip-flops. “I'm already editing it down. I think we're talking pay-per-view. You might even make enough to off-set the damages from all the upcoming wrongful death suits.”

The snow is still coming down, but Nid and Celeste are jacked up on adrenaline and don't feel like sleeping in the cabin anymore so they bid everyone good night and get away before law enforcement shows up asking questions. The drive isn't so bad once they get back on pavement, and Celeste leans her head against Nid's shoulder and sighs contentedly.

“Too bad Pete Townshend ran off though,” Celeste says. “I was totally going to jump that. What do you think happened to him and Tila Tequila?”

Nid doesn't say anything, but he silently thanks Santa for this Khaotica miracle.

Deep within the woods, miles in the other direction, Tila Tequila feasts on the blood of her most recent kill and howls naked at the moon in the random tongues of her people, cursing the reptilian NWO members who made the emerald consciousness elves go into hiding. But she makes sure to keep the blood-autographed guitar intact because she needs rent money.

Khaotica Korps, Assemble!

I don't know if you guys have noticed, but there is a particular brand of craziness which is going around right now. I noticed it last week, and I was certain that it was I who was insane.

"This is madness," I thought to myself, and then I immediately started looking for Spartans in tight leather briefs because that, at least, would make some sense to me. Alas, Gerard Butler was nowhere to be found, and instead I found myself kicked into the bottomless pit of dyschronia, from whence I had no idea what month it actually was.

Please tell me: this is still November, right? We still have about two-thirds of a month left before December even begins, yes? An entire national holiday (if you're American) that we must eat our way through before we begin the long national nightmare which is the Christmas shopping season? I'm right, yes? I didn't have an unexpected fugue state or accidentally time-slip?

Then can someone please tell me, why the fuck have all the stores started playing Christmas music? Correct me if I'm wrong, but it seems like the moment Halloween was over, every retail store in existence just sort of bypassed the entire month of November. I'm even seeing signs promising pre-Black Friday sales.

What we are seeing here, dear readers, is the steady creep of Christmas backwards through time as it consumes other, lesser holidays into its ever-increasing maw. Heed my words, soon the decorations and carols will go up the day after Labor Day, and that's when we'll know we are well and truly Kringled. How long before the already-sanitized terrors of Halloween melt into festively merry ghouls and red & white striped bats? How long before Fourth of July fireworks are not fired off into the air, but dumped from above by a hapless parachuter wearing a Santa suit? What happens when our children lose their deductive reasoning, powers of observation, and competitive edge because they never had to search for Easter eggs, instead being able to simply find them in a multicolored heap under the blinking lights of the decorated Easter Shrub in their living rooms?

I implore you, all of you, to think of the future. Soon, "Christmas in July" will be a quite literal event. When every day is Christmas, then the holiday itself will lose its meaning as it collapses under the weight of continuous commercial mediocrity. Don't believe me? Look at the original purpose of Valentine's Day (hint: it was a Roman fertility festival) and these days it is single-handedly propping up the greeting-card industry. It might as well be called Hallmark Day, or You Are Obligated To Buy Shit For Your Woman Day, because at least then that would inject a much-needed bit of honesty into the whole affair. But I digress...

Just imagine, for a moment, the implications inherent in the Christmas season starting earlier each year. Imagine the lines, the craziness, the feeding frenzy of shopping lasting longer. Imagine how you will be expected to spend more and have a more lavish holiday simply because of the sheer weight of expectation that comes with having a larger build-up. Imagine Black Friday every fucking weekend.

That burning sensation you feel? It's just your pocketbook being sodomized by a peppermint candy cane. But don't worry, it was lubed with eggnog first.

My friends, we need to make a stand. We must fight back now, before the last six months of the year disappear into a cinnamon-scented event horizon. This is where we draw the line and say "Ho, ho, hold it." If you are reading this, then you have been drafted into the ranks of the Khaotica Korps, and it is our sacred duty to Fight the Fat Man.

But this task is anything but simple. We need to push Christmas back into its rightful place before it consumes everything, but as it stands right now, it is far too large for us to counteract directly. So instead, we must fight a guerrilla war against it, undermining it through the time-honored Discordian tradition of mockery and mindfucking until it is sufficiently weak enough.

Therefore, I am handing out Khaotica assignments early this year. Your mission: counteract this preemptive act of Christmas by any means necessary. This would be much easier if Thanksgiving had its own set of holiday songs (Adam Sandler's tune notwithstanding, though if you can blast that on a regular basis, you're stronger than I am) but since we are dealing with a force that threatens to devour other holidays, it's only fair and fitting that we should array any and all other holidays against it. I recommend a mix of Easter, 4th of July, and leftover Halloween decorations. Sticking a sparkler into a chocolate bunny while blasting Michael Jackson's Thriller, for example, is a good start. You'll get more than a few odd looks, but if you're a Discordian you should be used to this and immune to shame. If someone asks you to take down your display, mutter something about this is how you observe your religion and ask why you're being repressed when we are supposed to be living in a religiously tolerant society. Or perhaps you could darkly impugn their lack of proper holiday spirit. Regardless of which approach you take, I strongly recommend you brush up on Lord Omar's Primer for Erisian Evangelists. Remember that folks are touchy about religious tolerance this time of year, so be sure to use that to your advantage.

What you must keep in mind, fellow Khaoticians -- what we all must be mindful of -- is this very key, very simple truth: holidays are special because they do not last forever, and anyone who wants to keep extending them into unnatural spans is likely selling you something.

Sometimes Greyface comes to us wrapped in Christmas colors.

Madness to my Method

I have done it.

By jove, by jingo, by golly and by gum, I have done it.

I have figured out how to survive this holiday season whilst (isn't whilst such a good word? I love the way it makes my lips feel. Such an awesome word, and criminally underused. Much like betwixt, athwart, and recumbent. I say we start a campaign to bring these words back into common parlance! [Parlance is another good word, but it at least isn't criminally under-used. {Yet.}]) at the same time (doesn't "whilst" actually mean "at the same time"? Now I am am confused) finding a way to celebrate Khaotica.

Specifically, I intend to go mad.

Batshit insane.

Utterly toys in the attic, to be rather proverbial about it.

Henceforth, I shall be quite Figgy Pudding, and don't tell me I can't, Mr. Yule Log, or I'll cut your Dickens off.

It'll be fun, won't it? Yes. The Bobbitt cats in the pantry said as much.

Bah humbuggery

This is a post I really haven't wanted to write, and I've been putting it off.

My intent was to leave the... eulogy-thing... up for a few days, because if I had posted immediately after that it would have had all the emotional impact of saying, "In today's news, my friend had a miscarriage, and we are all sad. And now, sports."

And then, I dunno. Faithful readers know how cranky I get this time of year, what with the rampant commercialization and the enforced merriment and the rigid adherence to observing holiday doctrine.

To top it all off, it looks like the Christmas Spirit threw up all over our house. It took us a week to put up all the lights. And this year, we are having three trees.

Three. Christmas. Trees.

Because one isn't enough, is it? It isn't sufficient that we have a huge (artificial) tree featuring the past five years of Hallmark's ornamental dreck, along with a "Best Of" rotation from the past two decades, oh no, we need an International Tree for all the ornaments we've collected in our travels, and then yes by golly we need a Wolf Tree, covered in expensive lupine-themed baubles, so that our dogs have a place for their presents!

That grinding sound you hear are my back teeth gnashing together. There isn't enough alcohol in this house to get me through the holidays, especially when my sister comes to visit.

Let me tell you about my sister. Oh, let me.

Don't get me wrong, I love my sister. I just love her over there. Preferably out of state. Because you see, there is a rule among Southern families which states that once every generation, there needs to be a spinster aunt, with far more cats than is healthy, who teaches school and plays the organ at church. This is my sister, Scarlett, and yes, she is named after the Gone With the Wind character.

If you people think I am Inappropriate Girl, you have yet to see my sister in action. She will -- in polite, mixed company -- refer to one of her cats as "my pussy." This is not done out of innocence about the slang term, either. This is her "reclaiming the word" or somesuch.

Yet when I suggest she just name one of her cats "Vulva", suddenly I'm the bad one.

She's also more than a little fundie and charismatic with her faith, which wouldn't be a problem in and of itself, but she also has the charming habit of wielding it like a truncheon. If you want to win any arguments with this woman, you'd best know your Bible verses to back up your positions.

She's also ten years older than me, and every time she comes visit, I am once again not only the youngest but the baby of the family. I have to establish my competence on a regular basis, and it frustrates me so much I want to scream and pull my hair and smash crockery into bits.

Which brings me to my final point. Khaotica is upon us, and for the life of me, I can't think of anything to do which doesn't violate the single, cardinal rule of "Thou shalt not harsh anyone else's merriment." Really, all I want to do is tear down all the lights and smash the tacky decorations and turn off the enforced cheerful music and just have a nice, quiet, calm, tranquil, dark, still, ZEN Christmas. You know, softly singing "Silent Night" in the dark, and then curl up on the couch with a glass of eggnog to look at the tree for a while before going to bed.

If I ever have a family of my own -- which I sincerely doubt at this point -- while I may have a Christmas tree, I'm never putting presents under it. The tree is just decoration. Instead, I'm going to have a live-size manger (baby Jesus doll optional) and the presents are going to be arrayed around THAT. It's subversive in a subtle, traditional, laid-back kind of way.

So yeah. You folks have a happy feast of St. Excessivus. I'm gonna go outside in the mid-70 degree night and look at stars until I feel at peace with the world again.

My Khaotica Karol

I was supposed to post this last night, but I passed out. Alcohol may have been involved, but until you find incriminating photographs you can't prove a damn thing.

Anyway.

My efforts at subversive slacking have paid off! I have convinced my family to forgo wrapping presents this year and instead use thoseChristmas gift bags that have become more common over the years. This has the following benefits:

• No paper waste
• No frustration in those of us who can't wrap a damn thing
• Huge savings in time and effort
• Bags are reusable

I'm not being lazy, I'm being "green", which is all the rage this year (and is coincidentally a Christmas color.)

However... the use of reusable bags has awakened within me a puckish spirit, and I'm actually going to spend some effort to make things extra-specially Eristastic. Specifically, I'm going to take this picture...

(Image courtesy of Justin)

.. print it out, and glue it onto one of the aforementioned Christmas bags. So help me, I may even use glitter and fake snow just to make it look extra-Christmassy.

I doubt my family will even notice, but if they do, I can always say that "Gold is one of the presents the Wise Men gave Jesus. Isn't that why we exchange presents on Christmas?" The KALLISTI would be a harder sell, but none of us speak or read Greek...

(Again, I have nothing against the holiday. It just bugs me that something which started (at least in the Christian church) as a simple religious holiday has sprung into this devouring commercial enterprise which lasts for three months.)

I will post pictures of my Khaos Kontainer if it turns out well.

Doc Rotwang gets it

"It", of course, being a Yule-Jim, the official processed meat snack of Khaotica.

Doc Rotwang -- he who Wastes the Buddha with his Crossbow -- has perfectly embodied the spirit of Subversive Slacking through his yearly ritual of going to see The Nutcracker and, well, being generally trippy about it.

An example from Crotch Monsters on Parade:

After the intermission, we find our protagonists (but not the titular one, who is no longer invited or something) in The Land Of Sweets. Drosselmeyer introduces Clara to some folks and Clara recaps Act I for those who didn't bring wives. So the Sweetsians--I guess we can call them that--put Clara in a chair, and show her some dance routines.

It's not clear why they do this, but I like to think that it's because they peg the girl as an experienced, accomplished regicide who enjoys the tacit protection of an eye patch-wearing badass planes-hopping spellcaster, so they decide to play things safe by keeping her entertained lest she start throwing footwear and the halls begin to echo with the ringing of blood-stained crowns striking the flagstones and THAT, my friends, is a pair of NPCs to use. We're still a gaming blog, after all.

Please continue to his blog to read the rest of this excellent post wherein he savagely subverts ballet into a wonderful Discordian experience.



PS: If he used a machine gun, would it go "Buddha buddha buddha?" Just a thought.

Khaotica 2008

It's that time of year again, isn't it?

All the running and shopping and baking and decorating and singing and crafting and wrapping and I don't know about you, but I am fucking exhausted already and it's only the first week of December. The real, true, DefCon-5 spirit of conspicious consumption hasn't even started yet. I halfway expect that by the 20th, the convergence of easy credit, bad decisions, and the failure of the banking sector will collapse into a singularity of debt so great that come the new year everyone's credit rating will suffer an etch-a-sketch reboot as the entire industry shits itself to death.

I sound bitter, but I'm not. The only way my credit score could get any lower would be if I handed it a shovel and told it to start digging its own grave, so really I have nothing left to lose from a complete economic collapse.

But I imagine the rest of you are stressed out about this, and it's no wonder, since we've only just finished an election that started two goddamned years ago. I think it's safe to speak for most people when I say that we are now officially tired of looking at The Big Picture and really want nothing more than to sink into the couch and watch mind-rotting Reality TV shows until the Superbowl, whose crass media orgy will force us out of our blinkered solipsism as we realize "What the hell is this garbage, and why am I letting it play with my brain?"

But we can't do that, because it's Christmas. That time of year when we have to be cheerful and merry and generous and AAAAIIIIIEEEE CAN'T TAKE IT ANY MORE!

If I have to "Smile! Show that Christmas Spirit!" one more time, I swear I'm going to start strangling people with their own appliqued sweaters. And I know I'm not the only one.

And so today -- because today is a Friday, and therefore Sacred to Eris, as well as the 5th, which is the holy Erisian number -- I shall give to you this season's Khaotica assignment. I have learned well my lesson from last year, which was "Thou Shall Not Needlessly Complicate an Erisian Holiday", and so for this year I'm just giving one assignment for the entire Khaotic season, then standing back and seeing what folks do with it.

Just to be safe, I will repost last year's Khaotica Klauses because I don't expect everyone to follow a back-link:

After you perform your assignment, I want you to report back and tell me the following:

1. What you did.
   
2. How people reacted.
   
3. How that made you feel.
   

Simple, no? Now here's what you DON'T DO:

1. DON'T do anything illegal, or encourage anyone to do so.
   
2. DON'T mock people's beliefs.
   
3. DON'T be a jackass. Making a fool of yourself is fine; making fools of other people is not.

Are we clear? Fabulous.

Khaotica 2008: Slack Subversively

We're all tired, but everyone is rush, rush, rushing because that's what we do at Christmas. Forced exertion which benefits no one? False emotions? Eating, driving, buying irresponsibly? There could be no surer Sign of Greyface than to take something which is supposed to be joyful and beloved and turning into a mirthless chore to be endured.

Your assignment -- which I shall be calling a Khaotica Karol because it amuses me -- will be to find some way to slack off, yet in a manner that both encourages others to do the same and also manages to stay within the spirit of the season.

Obviously, this will be easy if you're a bachelor, and much harder if you have a full family, but remember: Eris fucks with us all equally. Those who have busy families will find their Subversive Slacking all the sweeter for its rareness.

Some examples to get you started:

• If you live with a young girl, give her a new infant doll and tell her it's Baby Jesus, and that he's just been born and needs to sleep. So does Mary, in fact, so it's her job to keep everything quiet so that Mother Of and Son Of God can get some rest. Shhhhh. (Normally, I'd say that giving a dolly like to a Jewish girl would only up the Discordian factor, but the fights that would ensue from this will definitely harsh thy slackness.)
• Make up a story about Nelson, the Narcoleptic Reindeer. Act it out. Kids can be amazingly quiet if they think they're fooling adults by pretending to sleep. Bonus points if they actually manage to fall asleep, but even quiet giggling is a win.
  
• Buy Christmas-themed (or flavored) alcohol. Get drunk in the spirit of the holidays. Or, to steal from Lewis Black: NyQuil comes in two colors, red and green. It's the only thing on the planet that tastes like... red and green! And red and green are what? Christmas colors! That's right, NyQuil makes a dandy eggnog. Oh yeah, my friends bitched through the whole party, "This tastes like shit!" But at the end of it, we had a fun sleepover.

I look forward to seeing what people do with this. Or even if they do it. For all I know, I may be the only person entertained by all this.

The Return of Reader Mail

Why are you posting filler, Palette?

Fuck off and die, you elitist asshole.


How was your holiday season?

My Christmas was good. Very good. Shockingly good, in fact, considering that it was the first time in several years both of my siblings were present. Now I can get along with either my brother or my sister, but not both at the same time, for the simple reason that they are much older than I (7 and 10 years, respectively) but there is only a 3 year gap between them. Thus, when they are together, they usually team up against me. I'm pretty sure it's not intentional, but that's just the way it is. And if they're not ganging up on me, they're doing it to my mom (but not my father, aka The Colonel, who Brooks No Shit).

New Years' Eve, however, was a completely different matter. I went to my room at 10 pm to avoid the yelling and fighting, and stayed there until 2008.


What happened to your Khaotica posts? Weren't there some weeks left?

I was planning on extending Khaotica up through New Years' Day, but things got pretty crazy pretty quick in my life (see siblings arrival, above), so I decided to take my own advice and drink a large dose of Chill the Fuck Out.

Now that I've had time to think about it, the notion of giving weekly assignments -- i.e., imposing order -- for a holiday season devoted to enjoying chaos has the stink of Greyface all over it. Of course, I could also be guilty of over-analysis (don't forget, analysis has the word anal in it). So I guess I'll let the concept of Khaotica ferment and bubble in my brain for the next year. Maybe Eris will grant me enlightenment. Maybe she won't give a damn. Goddess likes to fuck with my mind like that.


How's your writing-as-career thing coming?

Slowly, I'm afraid. Far too slowly.

Quantum Mechanix had a good Christmas, I am told (if you bought something from them, THANK YOU!), so hopefully they will have more assignments for me soon.

Project Perseus has undergone a bit of a sea change. The original premise is dead, gone, and buried, due mostly to creative differences I had with my co-author (but we're still good friends.) But I like the name enough that I'm appending it to my newest project, which has less certainty of being published but is filled with far more awesome. No, I'm not ready to divulge details yet.

Heliumpunk is not forgotten, either; it's simply reached a stage where I, as a writer, am not yet skilled enough to pull it off convincingly. I continue to work on it a little each day, either through research or character development or what-have-you, but Project Perseus is getting far more clock cycles devoted to it. Heliumpunk is looking to be my second novel.


How many PCs did you kill in your L5R game last week?

Last week? None. By design. This week, however...

Short version without context for those who care: The PCs are at Winter Court in Crab lands. They are all Emerald Magistrates, so when someone in the castle is brutally murdered by what appears to be Maho, it's their duty to investigate, find the culprit, and punish the guilty. Of course, this being a castle within 100 yards of the Shadowlands, things are never straightforward. In fact, there are many contradictory clues and red herrings. The PCs, of course, insist on following up on every lead and entertaining increasingly ludicrous possibilities. Then, when called before Hida Kisada to report what they find, they make the mistake of waffling, disagreeing amongst themselves, and generally appearing incompetent.

Hint: When the Great Bear asks you a question, you answer. You don't start with "Well, we're really not sure..."

So Kisada has the most likely suspect brought before him, clubs him like a steer, and beheads him in front of the PCs, despite it being pretty obvious that said suspect has been framed. They are then told that if the just-executed man wasn't the guilty party and more maho deaths continue, it's their own damn fault for having let the Shadowlands mislead them. (Moral of the story: Confusion is a weapon of the Shadowlands. Good samurai do not succumb to confusion.)

In situations like this, a typical samurai would request permission for seppuku to atone for such failure. (There's more to the story, of course; they also failed to protect the bride-to-be of a Clan daimyo from the Taint, etc etc.) This being the land of the Crab, of course, ritual suicide is considered wasteful. Thus, they have three options:

1. Be assigned to the very tip of the sharp end on the Great Kaui Wall, where their deaths might actually slow down an Oni for a few seconds.
   
2. Be made Ronin. Fortunately for them, the Crab are having a Twenty Goblin Winter. So all they have to do is go into the Shadowlands poorly armed and armored (remember, with the exception of your daisho, your armor and weapons belong to your daimyo) and kill 20 goblins each for them to be accepted back into the Clan.
   
3. Or they can go on a ridiculously difficult quest -- bordering on the suicidal, in fact -- deep into the Shadowlands to retrieve a lost ancestral relic of the Crab that could tip the balance in the Thousand-Year War. This, of course, is the adventure I have prepared for them.
   

I feel I should note for the record that I'm not deliberately trying to slaughter the party; I do in fact want them to live. But I have a strong anti-stupidity stance, and the moment they cross into Hell On Earth, the dice fall where they may.


Ridiculous question intended to elicit twitters of mirth.

Snarky non sequitur response that enables me to end this post in a sarcastic fashion.

Second Monday of Khaotica: Khaotica Presence

Having done the decorations, you should now be sufficiently warmed up for performing greater acts of Khaotic giddyness. The first step was your house... your friends are next!

Khaotica Presence

Rush, rush, rush. All around you, people are rushing about, making themselves crazy, or sick, or crazy sick trying to find the perfect gifts AND get all the cooking done AND make time for family AND AND AND!!! This is when the groundwork is laid for those really nasty Christmas Eve/Day fights that make land wars in Asia look like an ice cream social.

What people need most during this time of year is a good strong dose of Chill The Fuck Out. Unfortunately, they're so wrapped up in their agendas that they've lost all perspective on their mental health. That's where we come in, by giving Khaotica Presence.

No, that's not a misspelling: this isn't a tangible gift, but rather, a gift of "face time", a time-out, a moment of respite that returns a modicum of presence of mind to the recipient. Your assignment is to find a friend, family member or co-worker that is stressing out over the holiday season and give them a much-needed moment of clarity. Some suggestions:

• "Kidnap" a friend on your lunch hour, preferably if said friend intends to spend that time shopping. Whisk them away to someplace peaceful -- a hole-in-the-wall bistro; a tranquil park with soothing white noise; perhaps even go on a picnic, weather permitting -- and simply be there for them. Let them vent, scream, quietly fall to pieces, whatever they need. Allow them to be "off" for a while, if that's what they need. Give them your undivided attention and really listen to what they need to say.
  
• If you're very brave, offer to babysit.
  
• If you can't give a gift of your time, gift a gift of "me time". For a woman, schedule some pampering: a manicure, a facial, a soothing hot bath with scented oils. For a man -- assuming it wouldn't be taken out of context (or make things far too weird), pornography is always good: a dirty video or magazine, or a trip to a strip club, will probably raise his spirits (among other things!)

Got it? Good! Now go give away some Khaotica Presence!

Behold, the Yule-Jim!

Over at his blog, Salem gets into the spirit of Khaotica and completely sticks the landing.

This is exactly what I was looking for. It's simple, it's beautiful, it's surprisingly heartwarming.

Now go snap into a Slim-Jim, which I declare to be the official processed meat snack of Khaotica.

Kwestions about Khaotica

Why is it spelled "Khaotica"?

Because spelling it "Roderick Buttocktrundle" would be problematic.

All right, there are a few reasons why.

• This time of year is chock full of K's: Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Kris Kringle, Julebukking.
  
• Eris has a longstanding association with the letter K, specifically Kallisti and Kopyleft (K).
• It looks better than "Chaotica" and calling it "Khaotika" would be pretentious.
  

Doesn't the name suggest vandalism and/or anarchy from the participants?

I dunno. Do games like Grand Theft Auto suggest that the players should steal cars and kill people? Seriously, if people are inclined to do that kind of thing, they'll do it regardless of what I say or do. I am not a role model, and I am not your conscience.

However, if you vandalize Christmas decorations or churches, or otherwise act like an asshole, you deserve everything you get when people flip out and beat the fa-la-la out of you.

I'm just saying.


What are YOU going to do for Khaotica's Firstweek Festivities?

I'm not sure just yet.

What I had originally planned was to buy a manger, put it in my front yard, and decorate it with lights and outdoor ornaments and maybe some fake boxy presents around it. While I don't expect people to grasp the scathing commentary on the commercialization of the season and the lost intent behind the original exchanging of gifts, I figured I could get at least a few people to go, "A manger with lights on it? WTF?"

But according to Grem, who lives in Louisiana, he sees these kind of things all the time. So either Louisiana is far more Discordian than I expected, or this idea has been thought of before and is, therefore, lame.

So now I don't know what I'll do.

First Monday of Khaotica

The First Monday of Khaotica: Dock the Hills with Trouts of Folly

On the first Monday after the first Sunday in December of 2007, Palette announced: "Today marketh the advent of Khaotica! Go thou, and giveth a trout to thine neighbor, that he/she/it/they/them may become enlightened to the true meaning of the season."

And the people did groan, and ask, "What the fuck are you on about, Palette?" And Palette did grin, and smirk, and jape, and generally make an ass of herself, until the people got fed up and pelted her with rancid vegetables until she relented and explained.

Khaotica is an ancient Discordian holiday that I just invented. It begins on the first Monday after Advent, and continues for the next four Mondays after that. The purpose of this holiday is to spread the joy of chaos by ensuring that things are wacky and surreal.

Now I'm sure that some of you are saying, "But Palette, surely this is a mockery of Christmas and, by extension, all of Christianity?" And I reply, Where did I say we were mocking anything? There is no meanness of spirit in Khaotica. In fact, I shall make it expressly clear:

Thou shalt Not harsh anyone's good vibe during Khaotica.
Bad vibes, however, are fair game.

You see, it goes something like this: during the month-long buildup to Christmas, people tend to forget the real reasons for the season -- goodwill, charity, love for all -- and instead focus on the purely mundane: shopping, cooking, decorations, and enforced familial "fun times" that must be perfect or else it's all ruined. RUINED!

Christmas should be fun. But regimented planning != fun, unless you're a soulless bureaucrat. What is supposed to be a glorious season of giving and sharing turns into a rigid, mirthless endeavor that has all the spiritual meaning of a forced march.

Now think of all the wonderful memories you have of Christmases past. Do any of them even remotely resemble an event of clockwork precision? No, Christmas is a loud, messy, and gloriously chaotic affair, filled with children shrieking gleefully as they rip into their presents. It's your living room awash in torn wrapping paper. It's carols sung at full volume, and off-key. It's nativity plays full of flubbed lines and bad acting that nonetheless pulls at the heartstrings. It's the dog taking a whiz on the tree.

So every Monday, I'm going to give you a Khaotica assignment for the week. The point of these exercises is to get people to lighten up and enjoy the holiday for what it was meant to be, not what modern materialist society has turned it into. After you perform your homework, I want you to report back and tell me the following:

1. What you did.
   
2. How people reacted.
   
3. How that made you feel.
   

Simple, no? Now here's what you DON'T DO:

1. DON'T do anything illegal, or encourage anyone to do so.
   
2. DON'T mock people's beliefs.
   
3. DON'T be a jackass. Making a fool of yourself is fine; making fools of other people is not.

Are we clear? Fabulous.

Okay, here is your first assignment:

Dock the Hills with Trouts of Folly

The first week of Khaotica is usually when people start putting up their Christmas decorations. Usually this is all good and fine, but often people go too far: they cover every inch of their houses, or have a rivalry with their neighbors that borders on the obsessive and sometimes turns ugly. Your assignment is to inject a little positive chaos into this order. Some suggestions:

1. Invite the neighborhood kids over to help you string your lights/put up decorations/etc... but don't tell them where to put things. Instead, have them tell you where stuff should go. (Naturally, don't let them go up on the roof.) In all likelihood, you will have a gloriously jumbled mass of lights/tinsel/etc that boggles the mind. If it bothers you, remember the joy that the children had in letting their imaginations run wild as they set it up.
   
2. Instead of fruitcake, go to the market and buy a nice fish. Wrap it in a bow and give it to your neighbors. Enjoy their baffled expressions. If they ask why, tell them that this year you're docking the hills with trouts of folly, and you'd like them to have one so they can dock their own hill if they desire. If they ask why they would want to do that, tell them "Just for the halibut."
3. Recycle your old Valentines as Christmas cards. Explain that the holiday season is about love, and you love your friends very much. Jesus came to Earth to be humanity's Valentine, after all.
   

Got it? Okay! Go out there and celebrate Khaotica!