Archive for May, 2010

Space Box

Friday, May 7th, 2010

Space Box

EarthSourceMedia Reports for May 7th, 2010

Space Box

By Joey Racano

Search the cosmos, near and far

Neath the axis, star by star

Seek for eternity and when you’re through

You’ll find the flower grows next to you

                                                  -jr

 

Deep space travel was cold, boring and lonely, but on Beta Phi, it is our sworn duty to answer the call. In fact, on all planets outside Milky Way, such answers to the call are deeply hard-wired. Our scientists and researchers say this is because we never developed a cerebral cortex atop the medulla oblongata, as is the case on inner planets, which lay inside the galactic womb. There, the stardust is thick and warm, forming a cosmic maternity ward, if you will and the civilizations that arise can exhibit wildly reckless behavior.

Our brains had stayed largely reptilian, which cost us a bit in emotion, but also spared us the follies of inner-planet civilizations like the one now threatening the peace.

We stood waiting at the Phi portal in our redwear, ready for a long journey of the utmost importance. We had no idea it was going to be this big, and weren’t briefed until we were underway. My girl Sandrafive had made the long trip from our moon to Phi portal just for a chance to see me off and burst into tears as soon as our eyes met, though she tried to be brave. Our palms met on the glass, and we mouthed the words, “Go with luck”, to each other. It was the first time I had ever worn or been seen in redwear, the special travel suits reserved only for galactic emergencies and the deep-space travel they require. I was proud.

Suddenly, the floors vibrated, signaling to all it was time to board the starspear.

Fifteen days travel for Sandrafive, for 15 seconds of togetherness, and that, through a glass, darkly. I watched her out of the terminal, and boarded the starspear. My position was forward right, and I made my way through the fuselage. Like a giant squid, my chair signaled me with red flashing light. The closer I got, the faster the flashes became. When I sat down, the chair straps wrapped themselves jealously around me. The flashing stopped, and my seat released a pleasant aroma of Lilac, my favorite. I placed my palms flat on the armrests, and the chair administered a prescribed dose of mood enhancers that would see me to slumber for fourteen years. Considering the round trip, we would be traveling near lightspeed for almost thirty years. Sandrafive would age normally, and I not at all. It was for this reason I had chosen a girl so much my junior- in case this day might come. I surrendered to the onrushing wooziness, and entered a dreamstate netherworld, where time, space and intuition meld for a decade, squeezed down into a few seconds.

My eyes popped open sometime later as my chair began to release her protective grip. I curled my upper lip, pressing it against a silicone assembly which opened my observation membrane. And there she was- space. Black as pitch and cold as death, space somehow maintained a beautiful countenance.  Far off in the inky blackness, pinpoints of light emanated from the other starspears on the mission with us, each juxtaposed to perfectly encapsulate our precious cargo- the giant structure that would bring death to one world and salvation to many others. Made of nickel-iron and painted white against the stars, the gargantuan device resembled a bowling ball bag, replete with giant round magnets at its circumference. It was by changing and then reversing the polarity on these electromagnets our squadron of starspears was able to herd the huge beast along, using them like interstellar electric cattle prods.

The closer we got to space zero, the thicker the debris field became, and the disease of the target planet was apparent. Discarded space craft, satellites, radioactive bundles of space-garbage, and fossil fuel-generated space bubbles all formed an ominous mine field of danger to anyone on the open space highway. The Commodore gave orders for microspears to depart the mother spear. Our mission was to zap deep-space exploratory probes and vessels, and anything else that had its origin on the planet in question. No prisoners, no samples, no dialogue and no attempts at contact of any kind. This was a class O planet, the most dangerous type, and full containment was imperative. ‘O’ stood for ‘oil’, a type of propellant formed from dinosaurs, and used by all developing planets. But it is abused by a small minority of under-civilizations, whose political systems, for whatever reason, fail to allow for the periodic recalibration needed for the good of their own, as well as the galaxy. Judging from the size, toxicity and decay of the debris field this one was a doozy.

We banked away from the solar system ahead, homing in on tell-tale beacons from the planets most remote spacecraft. We dispatched them one at a time using radio waves to cook the occupants from the inside out.

Our job done, we circled back to observe the starspears as they worked their electromagnets in tandem, swinging the giant containment structure to bear.

As the planets hapless occupants bought and sold their own life support systems –a jungle for a soy farm, a redwood forest for a pool deck, ad infinitum- for the very last day, our job as Beta Phi, or ‘BP’, for short, was almost finished. We brought the giant encapsulation structure into place, half from the north, half from the south, and it slammed shut with the force of a solar oil blowout, non-sound reverberating to the edges of the galaxy.

Smoke, oil and soot continued to escape from the titanium seams, mute testimony to the reckless holes drilled through the now dying planets mantle. But we had obtained the 85% containment target, and so it was done.

We re-entered the starspears, where rapidly flashing chairs greeted us like wombs, wrapping their motherly arms around us, and we floated into a dream as we traveled, sea otters wrapped in kelp at a frothy cosmic shore. Threat contained, and slumber embraced, we were going home.

Joey Racano  May 7th 2110

Dedicated to the Gulf Gusher oil catastrophe of 2010

 joey racano

our founder

Tags: bp, oil, oil spill, gulf gusher, louisiana, shrimping, shrimpers, shrimp boats, barrier islands, petroleum, fossil fuel, oil companies, solar power, british petroleum, dutch shell, oxydental, chevron, exxon, exxon mobil, chevron texaco, electric car, zev, oil platform, deep water horizon,

Lake of Fire

Saturday, May 1st, 2010

 BP Oil Spill

EarthSourceMedia Reports for April 30th, 2010

Lake of Fire

By joey racano

And I beheld another beast coming up out of the earth; and he had two horns like a lamb, and he spake as a dragon. – Revelation 13:11

Wind-whipped sand raked our eyes as we squinted toward the smoky sea. The smell of petroleum was overpowering, only slightly thinner than the molasses lapping at the shore of the Mississippi Delta. Oil from the Deepwater Horizon oil platform was still gushing 16 months after it had exploded, burned and sank into the ocean and it now seemed clear it would continue until whatever pocket in hell it was coming from had run its course and drained itself dry.

Over the din we heard the sound of a distant chopper. It came into view as a mere shadow, with nary a sign, number or insignia. It twirled in the wind as it landed, like a black queen wasp on the back of a tarantula, until its landing gear stung the ground with a hiss.

A hundred uniformed soldiers took up positions with backs to the helicopter, their heavy weapons ready to enforce the perimeter. The engine died with a whine, and the rotors ground to a stop. The door inched and creaked, but the wind caught it, violently flinging it wide open. Two soldiers in white gloves stood at attention on either side of the small gangway, and snapped a crisp salute to a tall figure who appeared in the doorway. And the wind raked our eyes once more.     

A line of oil-soaked volunteers stood at the shore, heads bowed away from the wind as they scrubbed oily rocks, birds and bottles, a monumental exercise in futility. A caravan of jeeps arrived at the landing site; all painted the oily black camoflogue of the day. As the tall figure stepped from the chopper, a high ranking officer extended a hand in greeting.

“General McChrystal at your service sir” said the one. No reply was forthcoming, as the tall figure scowled down at his extended hand.

“How many battalions have we gathered here General?” he finally asked.

“Thirty, maybe forty thousand sir. Counting tank battalions and heavy artillery, sixty thousand. We’re about ready for anything, sir; Armageddon, if need be”.

The tall mans eyes flashed a red fire at the word. He smiled at the ground and plants withered from his toxic gaze. “Good. Call me when Mr. Magic gets here”, he spat, and re-entered the helicopter.

In the sickly light, a second, smaller helicopter was arriving, landing with less wind, less military guard, and less fanfare. Upon arrival, a good natured man in a colorful suit sprang from the doorway and trotted to the black chopper. He looked over at a frenzied crowd of journalists and supporters, offering them a smile and a wave. They had been waiting for hours to greet their ‘hero’.

“How’s everybody doing?” he smarmed. A reporter fired off a question: “How do you feel about the newest idea to stop the oil flow?” 

“About the same as last time- it’s all in God’s hands, of course, so what’s to worry? Let me tell you something, if God didn’t want this oil to be spilling like this, it sure as hell wouldn’t be happening! Besides, America runs on this black gold- did you know the Pentagon is the largest user of all? It’s a matter of security”.

The reporter shot back, “Whose security, sir, British Petroleum’s?”

At this, two soldiers grabbed the reporter by either arm and led him away, behind the chopper, where a shot was barely heard over the windy din and moving military equipment.

 666

666

 “What’s more important, I ask you all- the needs of people, or a bunch of noisy, smelly birds that shit on your new cars? No more questions now”. Arriving at the black helicopter, he raised his fist to knock, but the door opened and he was ushered inside.

The tall man began introductions thus: “Mr. Magic, this is General McCrystal, Mick, Mr. Magic.”

“How do sir, I understand you’ve got some questions for me?”

“I do”, replied Mr. Magic. “How many gallons is it now? And how much time before the next hurricane?”

“One at a time, fella. That’s a mighty noticeable outfit you’re sportin’ there, chief. Uh, 16 months, a million and a half gallons a week, say, in excess of sixty million, fer sure. Uh, the next big ‘cane is still a week away, but the storm surge may be here by the weekend. At this point I don’t think it matters anymore- the last two storms pushed oil so far up the estuaries and tributaries the animals are all in mortuaries! Ha ha ha ha!”

“So how do I play this with the press? My constituents would sorely like to see new offshore drilling resume, but- dammit- couldn’t we at least keep this slop in the Gulf?”

“Too late, there Mr. Magic. Way. There’s oil down through the Dry Tortugas and beyond. And it’s still coming, so, whatever. Tell them anything you want. Better yet, find out what it is they wanna hear and tell ‘em that. Works for Obama”.

Then the tall man chimed in. “With this big a catastrophe in the works, the unrest will get pretty bad. We’ve been running full page feel-good ads in the New York Times about the National Guard for two straight years, so it’s time to send them into trouble areas. Have them set up roadblocks in San Francisco, Berkeley, Oakland, Brooklyn, Toledo, Miami and the rest. Outdoor privileges until 6 O’clock, except for workers, police and soldiers. Start shooting people out after 7. The riots are worldwide and the activist leaders are getting very bold. I’m gonna snuff ‘em all and quick. Mickey, are you sure you can’t have your boys shoot another NFL player and turn him into a martyr for the pro-war set? Maybe somebody from the Patriots?”

“Now that’s a tall order sir, and that Tillman family, well, they’re still hound-doggin’ my 4-star ass to this day. Nuh uh, sir, I ain’t gonna try it again. That’s just pushin’ it”.

Soldier enters, handing General a communiqué’.

“Oh boy, I do believe we’ve got us something to shoot at fer all these boys you’ve gathered here sir- look at this”.

“Looks to me like a cloud. Just a large thunderhead cloud.”

“”Uh yes it is, sir, but it’s actin’ kinda funny and it’s headin’ this-a-way”.

The tall man stood up. “Clear out, you idiots, and bring our full might to bear. Whoever it is, whatever it is, I want them crushed like a walnut at a crow convention, ya hear me? One slip up and you’re dead, Mickey.”

“Understood, sir! All right pansies, you heard the man, now move out! Lock and load all weapons and engage radar detection systems on my mark- and…go-go-go-go-go-go-go!”

Out of the East came the cloud, and it bore rain, and the thunder of a thousand clouds, the lightning of a thousand storms, the wind of a million winters.

By now, the Coast Guard had finally lit the oil slick, though it was too late to stave off the destruction onshore. Everywhere, birds lay coated and dying- big birds, and all during nesting season.  And out from the swiftly approaching cloud gazed the man of the hour, the son of man of the hour, and he had an aire of great power. He gazed forlornly down at the nests of oil soaked chicks who would never get to spread their white wings. His anger rose in him until he did call forth the twelve white wings of the angel Samael. And so it was done.

“It’s too rough out here now, we can’t get anything done. We’re gonna call it and go home ‘till this storm breaks”, said an oily clothed volunteer at the shoreline.

“Might as well”, answered the field boss.

The sea was a raging torrent now, high tide and waves lifting thick oil over barriers too little, too late and too few. The people of the Earth didn’t even care. Most didn’t even know. Rupert Murdoch sure as hell wasn’t going to tell them. And the oil gushed on.

The mightiest army ever assembled in world history sat entrenched in a valley some 184 miles long, waiting for the order to lay waste to some long hair in a weird white cloud, and they were ready, willing and -they thought, able.

Up from behind, a 10-mile convoy rolled in, dignitaries at the fore. World leaders from everywhere, all here at the behest of the tall man, the tall man who- they thought, had a plan.

“Right this way, ma’am”, said a soldier assigned to the brass. “The boss will see you now”.

Arrogance walked a makeshift runway from armored vehicle to temporary base camp, and she wore a blue dress with a white flower. Mr. Magic greeted them as they entered, “Hello Ms. Rice, glad you could come”.

“Condi, please! Call me Condi”.

“Mr. Rumsfeld, how are you sir? Mr. Powell! Good to see you again. Mr. Roberts, Alito, Thomas, Scalia- come in, come in”

The tall man sat waiting for them to take their places at this portable council of war. He looked through them, toward the events about to unfold throughout this, the valley of death. They, of course, had no idea. They thought it was just another easy genocide, and all sat licking their proverbial chops at the thought of fresh meat.

“While the world watches the oil spill, and, thank you for that excellent diversion Mr. Cheney, by the way, …”

“No problem, I’ll tell the boys at Halliburton”.

“..Uh, yes, do that, uh, while this spewing black goop dominates the news, we are pushing hard in Arizona to keep the new discrimination law which should soon start to spread like- like- should I say it- wildfire! Ha ha ha ha ha ha!”

Everyone in the room laughed nervously along, circus smiles all around.

“When all states have adopted these anti-immigrant laws, we will have the ability to lock down free society at a whim, and in an instant. Bugged phones, traced internet, a GPS in every car, one child limit for secular families- complete control, done”.

His eyes were as a flame of fire, and on his head were many crowns; and he had a name written, that no man knew, but he himself. -Revelation 19:12

Having squeezed through the Caribbean, the oil was gushing northward now, up the eastern seaboard, interfering with shipping and inundating the coast. Even offshore oil rigs were being bogged down. Fires were burning everywhere, off and on the coast, as appliances and engine sparks were causing oil patches to ignite. Dead and dying water fowl littered the beaches as far as the eye could see, joining with the skeletal remains of those who had died long ago of emaciation. Whales beached themselves the length of the shoreline, many still wearing rusted harpoons. It was a scene right out of…Armageddon.

 The great white cloud shot bolts of lightning this way and that, navigating powerful winds like an Eagle to the kill. It arrived on the opposite side of the delta in an instant, and set itself down on pillars of fire.

A soldier entered the tent to warn the congregation, but they had heard the clouds thunderous approach for themselves. With the armies of a thousand nations behind them, they feared not, and together they lusted for the power to be had in routing yet another enemy.

“All weapons ready and aimed, sir”, came the gunners mate advisory. “

“Aye” said the tall man with a wicked smile.

“Missiles standing by, jets approaching”, said the Sergeant of Arms.

“Aye” came the reply.

Behind them, Mr. Magic entertained his friends, fans and fanatics with dazzling light shows, beams emanating from tricky fingers. “See that one?” he asked the bedazzled crowd.

“oooooooh! Ahhhhh!” came the answer.

Suddenly, the flags of a thousand nations dropped on their poles like bees in smoke. The cacophony of clanging bars, slapping ropes, whipping canvas and moving metal all ceased as if on cue.

Across the Mississippi River, something in the white cloud began to stir.

And the beast was taken, and with him the false prophet that wrought miracles before him, with which he deceived them that had received the mark of the beast, and them that worshipped his image. These both were cast alive into a lake of fire burning with brimstone’ ‘-Revelation 19:20

 Once a fisherman’s paradise, the Gulf of Mexico had erupted into a hellish scene. Thousand foot tall flames licked at the sky, emanating from a witches cauldron of toxic charcoal soup. Blackened vomit with the consistency of a gravel driveway covered the surface of waters made bitter by the stuff of greed and wickedness.  This did not go completely unnoticed by the immense figure emerging through parting mists from the great cloud. A ghostly pale shielded him from plain sight, but his presence was nonetheless alarming to any and all who watched him unfurl his twelve white wings.

Across the river, the tall man walked down to the shore to meet him, the crunching of each slow, deliberate step framed like a Picasso by the unnerving silence. “Who are you and why are you come in this, my hour of triumph?” asked the tall man. “Who?”

Oily, humble figures kneeled by the riverside, as the white-winged giant fully emerged from the cloud.

“Arise!”, he admonished them. “Arise, for I am but a fellow servant and only one is worthy of your praise”.

Struck by terror, they did not move from their knees, and so he raised a voice wrapped in the folds of seven thunderclaps as he unsheathed a sword as large as a flag pole; “Arise!” –and arise they did, scampering off into the shimmering distance. 

He slowly turned toward the tall man with eyes like lasers and graced him with but one word in answer:

“Samael!”

The word bounced off the base of distant hills like a mining charge set with too much explosive. The gathered world armies lay spread before him, locusts on the land, guardians of the wicked, cherubim of flaming swords that would block a return to the garden. Spreading his wings like a Teratorn, he raised a thunderous voice once more, and called forth all fowl of the air, to join him from afar in the feast of all feasts. “Birds!” he bellowed. “Avia!” he roared. “Gather to the feast! For on this day in triumph over the despoilers of your Earth shall ye strip the mortal flesh of all who are come to the precipice of their own doom.” His voice rang from the Rockies to Appalachia and back again, heard from the oil gushing in the depths of the seabed to Sherpa on the pinnacle of Everest.

And so they came. Come one. Come a thousand. Come a thousand million and even a trillion, to the ready and they dared not utter a squeak or chirp nor a whistle in the presence of Samael the killer among angels.

The flames of a special hell raged behind him, silhouetting the twelve great wings of Sameal. And he leapt, moving faster than the eye could see, upon his prey. Golden talons dug deep and to the bone and it was without a struggle the tall man was cast alive into the lake of fire on the strength of  twelve powerful wings. The press corps took photographs of every shape and angle, but no one would ever see. The jets of Armageddon pressed to the attack as Samael banked at mach 40 for the false profit in the silly suit. And in his last moment of life, Mr. Magic was held aloft, center stage in the bloody talons of a real magician in time to look down at the rapidly approaching conflagration below him. He sizzled in death like too crisp bacon.

The great army now stood in disbelief, as it was over without a shot, arrow or sword. They awaited orders but none were forthcoming. They found themselves completely immobile, having left their ability to think out in the streets of Iraqi neighborhoods, where the blood of a million children still stained their souls.

And Samael called again in a thunderous voice, “Condoleezza Rice, come forth to your judgment!”

The tent door opened and a foot kicked the well dressed former Chevron Board member and US Secretary of State out on her face and into the sand.  

“You are charged with making the false claim the people of Iraq would unleash a mushroom cloud on Americans, leading to a million deaths and a billion tears, how do you plead today?”

“What? She said in a quivering voice, “What are you, what…why are you…Not guilty!, she cried.

And in the sky across charcoal clouds came the holograph of a smug Condi speaking those very words, and a thousand soldiers craned their necks in time to watch the angel pounce like a space born Jaguar, talons rending flesh for a grip, wings beating with tornado force and it was with a scream she perished into the flaming ocean of oil, lake of fire.

The tent door kicked open and out ran a bespectacled man, hunched at the back, service pistol cracking off shots as former US Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld, wanted in Europe for war crimes shouted to the paralyzed troops, “Fire your weapons! That’s an order, soldiers, fire all your…”

But the angel scooped him and deposited him where karma long ago wanted him and he was gone.

“Colin Powell, how do you plead, as you are accused of making the official case for war, though you knew better, resulting in many sad holiday seasons for American soldiers families for the rest of their lives?”

Colin walked out the door and replied, “Guilty”.

There was a moment of hushed silence as the angel looked at his own hands, studying them for a long minute. “Mr. Powell, I have examined the evidence and you are indeed guilty. I have also examined myself, and have seen clearly that I am the Angel of Death, and not the one of mercy.” And Samael the killer lived up to his name –and assigned task- and sent Colin Powell to a fiery un-death for a thousand years. He died without a sound.

“Richard Cheney, come forward” spake Samael.

A commotion was heard behind the tent and the sound of digging lent itself to the proceedings. At this, a gust of wind lifted the tent a mile high and there stood former US Vice President Dick Cheney, dripping sweat, digging for all he was worth. He refused to look up and began to dig twice as fast.

“Fuck you!” said Cheney, “Go fuck yourself!” “Do you even know who I am motherfucker? I’ll have you hung by the…”

Samael spoke again: “Richard Cheney, you are accused of stealing the 2000 election, the 2004 election, telling a right wing journalist that Iraq war critic Joseph Wilson’s wife was a CIA agent, torture, rape, murder, genocide and assorted and sundry, how do you plead here today?”

Cheney still refused to look up and grunted to himself as he dug, “Uh uh unggh, dam weirdo bastards, it’s Hillary I know it is, that’s behind it all, I know uh, unh, ain’t going with you, you 50 foot freak, unh, ungh,!…”

And as the holograph played sin after morbid sin, the watchers turned away in disgust and disinterest, except for the oil volunteers who cheered the angel on to high heaven, smiling from ear to ear, crying tears of joy from long overdue frustration.

Cheney screamed like a schoolyard bully caught by somebody’s older brother as he went for his final air force two trip to oblivion, “Karl! Get me out of this, Karl! Where are you you chubby little- I made you karl, I fucking made yooooooooooooouuuuu…………” Splash!

One by one they were judged and burned, drowned in a sea of burning sorrows that eclipsed what even they had smote upon the lands –and now bitter waters.

And the birds in their minions descended dutifully from the skies, and they stripped the bones of an army made of armies, and the oil gushed and bubbled and seeped and slopped, and coated and covered, and shined and sheened and spilled and squirted, and flowed and ebbed and lay and slipped and snuffed and smothered and on and on and…..

 Dedicated to all the poor creatures who died in the unthinkable oil spill of 2010 -joey racano

 joey racano

our founder

Tags: bp, oil, oil spill, armageddon, dick cheney, obama, condi, condoleezza rice, rumsfeld, general, mccrystal, petroleum, volunteer, angel, samael, antichrist, judgement, battle, soldier, iraq, genocide, mississippi, gulf of mexico, dry tortugas, tar, estuaries, helicopter, black helicopters, heaven, karl rove, weapons, artillery, missiles, judgement day, lake of fire, burning oil, hell, brimstone, revelation, the beast, mark of the beast, false prophet, deep water horizon, pat tillman, patriots, rupert murdoch, arizona, discrimination, immigration law, immigration, illegal alien