sometimes we're not petulant. sometimes we say "fuck you" because dammit, fuck you to hell you bastard. i tried to explain the other day about how we're not shaking our fists at the sky in impotent rage. its a just-you-wait, you've-got-it-coming kind of threat. because the sky is the box of out. it goes out instead of in. that seems very second nature, but you don't know the first thing about how we wrestle with our hollow earth theories. it might look like we're twiddling our thumbs, & maybe we are. but how bad ass is it to walk amongst the pod people chewing on a snickers bar? the nonchalance is half the mojo. magic is ninety-nine percent attitude, you know. thats a scientific statistic, collected by our dedicated staff. i mean, when people talk about george washington, they're always talking about the chopping of the cherry tree or that time he threw a penny across the potomac. then again when the are sculpting george washington they always make him look like a conquering roman general, so maybe the analogy is a little bit cob-web stretched. but lets just say that when we're bored we might look for an argument? & so it might look like we're playing devil's advocate? but we're as much against a devil as we are against any god. in most disagreements you'll find sides beside the two noisiest. usually those sides are the ones packing chicago typewritters in viola cases. you go on & talk smack, "gangstas." we'll be getting on with the real bussiness over here, under the light of candles made of baby fat. our chops smacking, our teeth gnashing. every staircase, every doorway, every closet & every furnace, they're all our turf. we're the monster's mafia. we're the magi who brought the christ child misery, woe, & strife; nails, whips, & vinegar. fuck all you posers thinking you're all hard & shit. you don't know hard till you've been the anvil, till hammers have been broken on you. till you've been the pan & hammer have collided with you. what the fuck do you think this is? a picnic, like little gettysburg or charming dresden? i'm in the middle of making sherman's march to the sea look like some kid's fucking summer vacation. i've got wheels within wheels- you can ask fucking elijah. he saw.