Dr. Faustroll Writes the Wrongs

It was coming up on Thanksgiving, thirty years ago, when the news broke that Jim Jones, a charismatic government operative I invented for a novel called Marvin and the River Pirates in the mid-sixties, had forced a bunch of men, women, and children to off themselves with a popular thirst quencher because he was evil and insane. “How could this be?” I wondered. “How could a delightful fictional character based on the purest ideals this great country of ours has to offer turn out to be such a scumbag? And am I liable for what he has done?”

As you might guess, the entire Guyana thing really freaked me out because Jim Jones was one of my favorite creations, after Sally Struthers, and if he was evil and insane, that seemed to imply that I, as his reluctant creator, might also be evil and insane, although, at the time, implied and expressed warranty arguments did not have as much case history behind them as they amassed since the little old lady in the polyester got her legs burned by MacDonald’s coffee that would have passed the temperature test for a Joseph Mengele experiment to determine when old flesh could be considered dead flesh. At the time, I was nearly humbled and deterred by the potential liability of daring to dream of hope and change.

I realize now, of course, that the creator can never be evil and insane. It’s the devil who is responsible for the details, but back then I was young and naive and idealistic, like a typical voter. Today, I understand how wrong I was back then. After all, if I was wrong to create, then God was wrong because God created me in God’s image. And who among us today wants to say God is wrong?

Hell, no one has even been willing to suggest that the malignant president of the United States during the past eight years has ever done anything wrong, although there is no evidence of a single rational or successful action taken by that less than divine idiot during his entire tenure. But that’s another post for another dollar a day.

If God was wrong back when the party at Jonestown took place, chances are He is wrong right now. That’s the nature of God. He’s infallible and eternal and a consistent fuddy-duddy. Granted, He might be a She or perhaps a Transgender Poofter, but that shouldn’t negate the fundamental concept we should be concerned with, which is, of course, that if you get fooled once in Tennessee, does it make any difference in Kentucky or West Virginia?

This does not suggest that all the people in those states are complete idiots, despite all evidence to the contrary. It’s too bad you can’t take some states and all their inhabitants and turn them into an inland sea.

Wait a second. I think that’s happened in the past. Unfortunately, there is no evidence that wishing or hoping or praying will hasten the obliteration of ignorant assholes in the U.S.

I assume that nature, like God, is completely arbitrary. David Hume was correct in positing that there is no cause and effect. That’s all wishful thinking, like religion, sex, and politics. Only death is an attainable goal with measurable substance, while most of the inevitably dead are opposed to that reality.

Back in the day when the Jonestown celebrants had not yet been recovered from the People’s Temple mosh pit, I immediately apologized to the families of the victims and promised not to let the bodies of their loved ones be housed in a refrigerated warehouse outside Washington, D.C., to lay unclaimed until sold to foreign firms for use in the production of pet food.

Yeah, yeah. I know I failed there too. But I swear I never bought a single bag or can of pet food made from the unclaimed bodies. At least not with my knowledge. I always read the ingredients lists. And this was before melamine was something to worry about.

Although I was never charged with a crime in connection with the People’s Temple party, my attempts to atone for the imaginary crimes I had committed were called crass and insensitive by the mainstream media and even the literary community, which, at the time, still had no idea what it meant to be white about things without a hint of irony.

My account of the party at Jonestown published in Popular Suicide Quarterly infuriated many who didn’t appreciate the fact that I partied hearty at a soiree dedicated to rocking ’til you drop and was still asking for more Koolaid when most of the truly committed revelers had already passed out and joined that big post-celebration meeting with the Spirit in the Sky.

In the following years, I called myself the Tylenol Kid after noting how the first Tylenol suicide was perfected by a teenager in Lake Oswego, Oregon, who accidentally discovered that an overdose of Tylenol produced irreversible and fatal organ failure while explaining the possible motivation for whoever tampered with the product in Chicago in 1982.

About a decade later, I took credit for the downing of KAL 007 when the Soviets mistook a South Korean domestic flight for a spy relay during a top secret Space Shuttle mission with a military payload. It as obvious nobody else was going to step up and fess up, and my taxes paid for the mission and the cover-up, so what the hell?

Neither the Tylenol or KAL 007 incidents have ever been satisfactorily explained, because the mainstream media has the attention span roughly equivalent to a lingerie ad campaign buried in Section B of Tuesday or Wednesday street edition, and the liberal media supports the mainstream media, while the alternative media is flogging the dummy in its fleece lounge underwear.

I remember comparing the party at Jonestown to other mass suicides I had read about and wondering why such fervent displays of total commitment and cooperation had even earned any mention in popular or academic history, which, after all, is a tale told by the people who walk the wiener dogs.

I assumed back then that the reason such tales as the Spartan 300 and the Masada holdouts were carried down through the ages was not to extoll the heroism of the valiant few who would not, or could not, compromise with the brutal demands a deadline driven overwhelming force.

No. These tales were admonitions to instruct the staid, plaid supporters of the current regime — political, religious, social — to prevent their friends, neighbors, and family members from falling under the spell of melifluous or malpropos megalomaniacs. And to encourage the dull and dumb to rat on the imaginative, even if it meant resorting to American sign language.

I also remember predicting that people would continue to kill themselves, sometimes in large numbers, as they realized that they had nothing to live for in a world ruled by the nation of miserable phucks (NOMPH) that was damn proud of its ignorance and brutality. And sure enough, Palestinians and other terrorists social and athletic clubs eventually understood that they had nothing to lose by driving trucks bombs and car bombs and even jetliner bombs into the hearts and minds of the lunatic Western civilization that I like to call home.

I just listened to Bill Ayers talk with Terry Gross on Fresh Air, and it’s obvious to me that it will take several hundred thousand additional suicidal actions before we can finally turn the lights out and let the planet move on with its unfinished bidness. I’m glad Bill Ayers did not apologize for what he did and what he thinks. Have you heard George Bush apologize for his barbarism and stupidity? I didn’t think so.

I have nothing to apologize for living in the NOMPH and opposing all it embraces. I didn’t choose to be born here, although my ancestors lived here before I became aware enough to understand what it means when somebody says: “That’s white of you.”

It means nothing. Really. Words mean nothing at all.

And actions? Read Newton. Eat an apple. Fart.

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