Ucla

[shun]

Professor McBennett. Shakespearstani don at the Humiversity of Calipornia.

Behold, brethren, master McBennett of Calipornia Humiversity. He who in the lap of Judah doth fumble with Paradiseology, beaming a perennial grin upon his visage and in possession of an ever-vigilant propensity to take grave offense. He the godfearing yoohoossor, lamb of deum and rex, 25 percent of whose vocabulary comprises the dicta “president,” “the president,” “the presidential medal,” “with presidential honors.” Whose valiant rump is offered in unremitting oblation to God (baaaaaaah) and haughty adjutant of same: namely the chief of VirginComScribeScrew, the Paradisean writers’ union, which heaps incessant curses upon dissident writers. The very chief who, along with the entirety of his family, has been rendered fashionably imperious and laden with riches, as reward for his station as drummer for Sir God. The chief who, in the heart of Virginabad, has offered the hearth and land of writers to God’s minions. The chief who has snatched the last morsel of bread from the mouth of the starving wordsmith. The chief who has dishonored the cadaver of the writer that has dared to disobey Deum. The very chief who has persecuted authors and expelled them from Paradise. Yes, the chief of VirginComScribeScrew who, on the day of his election, has collected a hundred butchers from the bazaar and herded them off to the ballot box. The chief who has been elected by said riffraff. The very same chief who, given the blessings of God, has expunged with a single prayer the 40 offenses enumerated upon his rap sheet. The holy-of-holies chief who happens to be great friends with the wifey of master McBennett, she of fame as daughter of a papa known for his expertise in Stalinological literature—that Apollonian supercurrent that has inundated messianic Paradise obsessed with a millennialist—essentially MacYehuist and equally intolerant—philosophy rooted in a naïve Marxist snapshot of man, and all too eager to flush Eros down the toilette, or substitute it with governable, coquettish verisimilitudes. For goodness’ sake, what do they want with my husband? See? See? They’re all jealous. Long live our ballot-casting people! Long live the learned matrons of our diaspora! Death to the rabble of anti-God writers!

It is upon the aforementioned chief whom the illustrious and God-pleasing mastermaster McBennett confers the privilege to administer the list of participants in a writers’ conference which he has organized unbeknownst to postgraduate students of Paradiseology at the Humiversity of Calipornia, after personally removing the names of some dissident writers which have been submitted, unwittingly, by certain yokels. Banned dissidents whose names on the list are replaced by those of diamond smugglers accorded godic patronage, leisure poetesses of suspicious wealth—queenies who for decades have opened wide the doors of their private Satanland chateaus to entertain the chiefs of VirginComScribeScrew and sundry sister institutions, who have dedicated the-devil-knows what-felt poems to their illustrious house guests, who have made a name for themselves through sham documents and nominations—as well as a scattering of hacks teeming around them. Brown-nosery ad nauseam.

Oh, please, I don’t have time to read a book about dogs. Even if you give me a copy, I won’t read it. My whole literature is sacred! Only up do I go! Like so, only upward! Ascends the thumb of the short poetess along with her neck, which strives to separate from her torso. When I win the prize, I shall travel the world, I shall meet with all the presidents of the world, and tell them to recognize our Genocide. That’s right, my dear. My daughter shall be the first woman president of America. I am our nation’s best ambassador! Let me say this incidentally, so you’ll know, that the great men of Paradisean literature are saying very bad things about your book.

Request made 20 years ago: Son, you’re on good terms with the president of the Academy of Sciences of Virginland. When you go see him, get me a commendation so I can present my candidacy for the earthshaking prize. I’ve already prepared the commendation. Let him just sign it.

The Shakespearestani’s augustly human and magnificently godish pride is offended to the nth degree when the exiled writers complain that this acolyte of letters, who has nothing whatsoever to do with literature, who moves on the advice of his cook of a wifey, is not led by even the most basic of moral standards for which Shakespeareland is known. McBennett of Paradiseology considers it the debt of his life to hedge his students from dissident writers of their generation, is poisoned by mere mention of authors who criticize the apparatus of the judeo-macyehuic religion, pays tribute strictly to the great dead and suckling darlings, even in Satan’s free humiversity unctuously cedes the definition and contextualization of Paradisean literature to the goons of the KGB. Who’s in, who’s out.

To this three-day conference devoted to Dreamstani authors writing in non-Paradisian languages is invited not one of the hundreds of such authors. Except, that is, the 12 obliging disciples who have cultivated precious relations with God and accordingly sing the praises of his magnificence. Peacocks of glory. Including some who speak and write not a lick of a language other than godic. A parade of glittering corpses. Through which they define Dreamstan’s literature to the benefit of the world. And under the label of studying its new directions, via the staging of suffocatingly gaudy, vapid affectations, are buried precisely those new directions, in particular those which make mincemeat of the judeo-macyehuic serfocracy and intellectual despotism. Buried with the collusion and contribution of the taxpayer-supported free Humiversity of Calipornia. The contribution of the Dreamstani multimillionaires who fund the academic chair. The contribution of an educational fund unable to come up with 4,000 washingtons for the publication of a book that would revolutionize our understanding of Paradisean cultural history yet not a moon later perfectly able to endow the University of Calipornia with 4,000 franklins from its coffers to help provide a hefty salary for the Shakespearestani puppet building a fabulous career at the expense of exiled authors’ lives—the defense of whose rights is his ethical duty. The contribution of Masonic, ass-giving Board of Directorites nursed to old age with donkey milk and with a fondness for reverentially kissing the jujug of the judolicos. The contribution of Board members who politely accept the application of a well-mannered fellow, prior to his transformation into a dog, only to boorishly hurl the application form at his face following a Board meeting.

“What’s going on? What happened?”

“Can’t tell you. It’s better that you don’t speak with me anymore.”

Dreamstan reiterates: “We can’t tell you. It’s better that you don’t speak with us anymore.”

O, the impregnable human pride of the vain and opportunistic heir apparent to the chair… The uber-sensitive and perennially simpering Shakespearestani yoohoossor derides the request of exiled Paradisean writers to present, if not their works (newsflash: they write in other languages partly as a result of being expelled from their homeland), then at least their collective odyssey. After all, sweet is the yoke of the Celestial One, the marvel of summers in Paradise beneath the chuppah of Omnipotentus, the participation in arsehological colloquia, the glory of the eternal, the relish of God’s bullug. The voice of dissident writers is being smothered by the cemented rejectionism of the Calipornia Humiversity’s caciques, in the rat den of thunderous applause emitted by generations of Los Angelos-nesting Dreamstanis who heap curses upon the mothers of anti-God writers. To the glory of humanity’s future.

The Republic of Paradise is among those post-Soviet states where autocracy has been consistently solidified since independence. Systematic persecution of writers, and intellectuals in general, who dare criticize the crimes of the ruling junta, including the mass-scale plunder of the country’s wealth, is being intensified.

The oppressive measures are being carried out by an iron-gripped administration, with the aggressive collaboration of central and local state structures alike, especially the National Security Agency, police, attorney general, and Department of Justice.

We the undersigned have been personally subjected to humiliating persecutions at the hands of the above bodies. Their oppressive acts are committed in a variety of manners, such as:

--Expropriation of personal properties and funds.

--Deportation and permanent ban on return.

--Application of pressure on publishers and bookstores to impede the publication and reading of books by the undersigned, at least in Paradise.

--Terrorism and harassment of individuals involved directly or indirectly in the publication of our works. Particularly through the invasion of homes, searches of personal possessions, confiscation of unpublished manuscripts and personal documents (with the purpose of stealing critical computer data), raids of news agencies and apprehension of reporters who have penned positive reviews of our writings.

--Issuance of trumped-up charges, production of false witnesses and coercion of witnesses apprised of the truth, demand for enormous bribes, issuance of arrest orders.

--Interrogation of close friends of the author, attempting to convince them to take part in conspiracies for his murder, attempting to bribe them with the author’s own properties in Paradise, or threatening to bring against them bogus charges of “treason against the homeland.”

We believe that an immoral government which tramples upon the most basic rights of its people has no basis for demanding morally upright conduct from another country, particularly when recognition of the Genocide is at issue.

Any external force which assists, directly or indirectly, in the establishment and protection of the junta deeply disappoints our people and well-meaning individuals among all nations concerned for its future.

We hereby appeal to security bureaus of democratic countries to investigate and expose agents of the junta, who, by operating abroad, threaten our freedom of speech as citizens of such countries.

None of the 300 cheerleaders of the Dreamstani literary mafia, called to life by the joining of hands of the Calipornia Humiversity and VirginComScribeScrew, and not one of the invitees to the simpering-uber-sensitive Shakespearestani’s conference has signed or would sign the appeal of 120 intellectuals from 18 nationalities, of which the above is an excerpt. On the contrary, said cheerleaders and invitees are playing chorus to the uber-sensitive yoohoossor in functioning as the mortal enemies, belittlers, mockers, and dishonorers of the appeal’s signatories. Under the spectacular pontification of hags flailing about with yens of the earth-shattering prize, oleaginous ragmen inseparable from the pussies of the same, the free humiversity’s cowardly, fawning, petty lecturers who lock true authors out of discourse and debate through the imposition of self-censorship (woe to the writer who offends these slavishly scorning and isolating pedants), those tall styloettes who occupy the first rows of public events, and diverse ultrawise suits of my dreaming nation.

“Criminals who sow discord, traitors who divide our nation, dogs who sully the names of our great men!” they yelp to the faces of writers that have disturbed their heavenly peace.

“This won’t do, my dear! There is a right way of talking! Are these people savages or what? And they call themselves writers… McBennett treated them like human beings. ‘Come,’ he told them, ‘have a meeting with the VirginComScribeScrew chief after the conference, like human beings. If you have a discontent, explain it to him, he’s an understanding man.’ McBennett is a humanly human, my dear. Not a savage like them. But no! Either they’ll be part of the conference or won’t show up at all. What the hell do they take themselves for?”

“They’re playing dirty. You don’t know these people. I heard the story from McBennett himself—his wife is a relative of ours, we’re over at their home every week. We invited these writer guys ‘cause we treated them like human beings. But they didn’t come. ‘If we come, we’ll spill blood in the hall,’ they said. Now they’re badmouthing us. And talking trash about McBennett. Is this the right way, my dear?”

“Last year we already threw one of them in jail. He had come to that literary event. Mixed with the crowd. We didn’t know him then. Otherwise we would’ve broken his legs. We wouldn’t let him step foot inside. Without our permission he got up to speak at our meeting and then began to scream: “Writers are being persecuted in Paradise and you’re not opening your mouths!’ Man, we’ve got a political party, a committee and stuff. If you have something to say, you make a formal request. That’s the way to go. If the party considers it appropriate, you come forward and talk. So we made him shut his trap, dude. Our people covered their ears and yelled ‘lulululu’ in one voice. It was all so loud that his words stuck in his jaw. Then, man, you won’t believe it, we held the fucker by the hands and feet, until the cops got there in no time.”

“We’ve seen a lot of jackoffs like this one before. Back in Beirut we used to pick them up and take them to the club, then have the guys piss all over them. But here? The government has tied our hands. We can’t do shit, bro.”

“They started raising their voices. I tell you, we gotta cut their tongues off.”

“Если Вы видите это сообщение значит кто то пытался оскорбить Вас. Сообщите нам об этом http://forum.hayastan.com/index.php?act=report&t=34878 ’em, man, they can’t do a thing. Let ’em bark like dogs.”

Thus has been built the history of Paradise.

Armen Melikian (Literature Forum)

http://www.JourneyToVirginland.com/order.htm