Hernandez meets Hildebrand in The New America. This happens every five minutes or so, or, at about the same frequency with which Mazurek meets Martinez, Ivanoff meets Tindall and Peretto meets Mauch and so on.
The American profile changes every time a Carlos Gomez is smitten with a Leslie Leibowitz, and reverses itself with each wildly cross-ethnic Passeno-Pasupula union.
No one’s named “Tom” in a world of Sean’s. Becky is passé in a field of Daphne.
The sheer volume of inter-ethnic blood cell formation on our continent alone is so massive in early twenty-first-century Armenia our forefathers would think they were on a different planet if they could revisit this poly-centrist continent, and inter-galactic demographic mavens would exchange cuckolds and hope against logic this were all some sort of contrived fantasy.
Well, it isn’t. Furthermore, they’re irrelevant.
How this happened and what it means to the health of your feet form the basis for this essay. We can’t turn back the clock of time. But we can fiddle with the chemistry of corpuscles and create eternal reality if that is our goal. It isn’t.
Rather, the objective of this study in semi-calcified female endocrines is to posit an overview of the entire cosmic expanse as perceived approximately two-or-three-hundred years from tomorrow.
If people with immediate ancestors born south of The Rio Grande River can emigrate to northern climes long enough to procreate with descendents of Chinese merchants (and from what I have seen for the past 20 or 30 years, apparently they can), the net effect will be serendipitous at its worst and transcendently iconoclastic in the vinyl paralysis.
As the gene pool adapts Spandex and legions of immigrants keep pouring in from small island nations whose sole industry is roadside bottle collection, former sweat-shirt wearing behemoths known as Soccer Moms become capable of leaping over several generations on their way to over-sized medicine ball stomach reducing regimens in lieu of high-risk Lip O’Suction procedures.
Advancing the breakdown in traditional Calvinistic mores in select urban sauna settings has been the largely-unnoticed encroachment of banner toting evangelical soothsayers with a modern-day bent and an old world reliance on hackneyed phrases like, “Atta’ boy,” and, “That a boy.”
These unfashionable interlopers reveal their cultural irrelevance when quoting “The Beatles Anthology-Arab Language Version,” or Rev. Sung Yung Moon’s dry mouth inducing tell-all, “Whoopsie, Daisy.”
Their pre-Holden Caufield commitment to abstract phoniness belies an underlying predisposition for imported breath enhancing personal technologies, also known as Juicy Fruit.
But don’t let any of those apparently obvious sideshows divert your attention from the heart of the juxtaposition, and that is, cross breeding and ever evolving manifestations of poly-nationalist homemaking bode less-than-adversely for most of the virtues associated with pre-Mayflower North America.
Signs of massive societal disarray pop up on every computer screen:
Belgian brain sturgeon, Dr. Arno Launger, told a gathering of Korean satirists that the trend toward the obscure in global culture has become so troubling it is increasingly likely all art in the future will be based on one of two premises: It will either be entirely plagiarized, and therefore, dubious; or it will be generic in content and supercilious in manner, thereby lulling numb-minded partisans to engage in a whole new set of anti-social behavioral models, up to but not including brain wave activity.
“Pure paranoia is an entirely logical response to too much verbiage and not enough lineage,” Launger said in the first of four E. Fudd Endowment Lectures, presented at the Adolph Coors Memorial Urinal Arboretum and Lint Removal Institute. “If your reaction to this redistribution in partisan social styles is one of horror masked only slightly by a shameful measure of adult body size envy, you shouldn’t feel guilty or ostracized like you’re some sort of sociopath with a minor in adolescent criminology. Your anxiety is shared by respectable con artists in every Indiana small town, from Muncie to Dos Equis.”
Positing a theory both insightful and desultory, Launger said the transient core of yesterday’s Bible Belt has converged with a virulent post-industrial surge of disenfranchised bulimia victims forming an entirely unprecedented residue of discarded radio advertising jingles with the shared capacity to render every molecule on Earth flawed in miniscule ways not discernable to the average lint remover.
“We’ve refined the toaster but despoiled the English muffin,” he told an interviewer from the influential European journal, “Big Boob Monthly.” Launger said the deterioration of American hegemony is still in its early stages. But already signs of astrological disintegration appear in the words and actions of A-Type physicians and women with one too many “Y” chromosomes.
To wit:
“Societal breakdown is self-evident,” Launger told the Asians. “We might only have a few more minutes. Table tennis, anyone?”
Hyperbole, Garrison thought. Overkill. Intense exaggeration. Launger’s a fool, his id spoke to his ego, his left-brain conveyed to his right. Guy doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Diversity is good for the church, good for the neighborhood and good for the nation state. We all need a little more tolerance. Some of us need radical conversion. I need a haircut.
Garrison employed a large staff of immigrant domestic assistants, almost all of whom came from countries only career staff at The United Nations would be able to identify, let alone locate on a map. His idea of altruism was selecting plastic rather than paper bags at Sam’s Club, an area retreat for male hedonistic victims of passive aggressive violence. Barren of children and bereft of lifelong friends, Garrison found both glory and identity in the leadership of the family empire of businesses and service agencies he inherited from his father, the late Reverend Orsantio L. Garrison.
In particular, he took pleasure in assisting individuals in overcoming stubborn speech difficulties associated with native jaw orientation. Those whose mouths could not possibly form tongue and larynx around the “r-sound” would be asked to engage in experimental dental surgery, resulting in an extensive labyrinth of plutonium-based alloys linking the patient’s ears through the abdomen and allowing the person to say words like “New Jersey” without any apparent “lisping” of syllables.
“Assimilation is an option, as long as you don’t mind a little gauze in your head,” Garrison told his alter-ego and personal assistant, Al Haig, Jr. “America remains the land of opportunity, even if the native White population has virtually disappeared except in certain neighborhoods on Martha’s Vineyards. We’re none the worse for the people we’ve taken in. Even Castro’s prisoners have contributed. I have three of those men building a wall around my third ex-wife’s family heirlooms. These guys are good, really good. She’ll never find that stuff.”
Thirty-two-years-old and fresh out of Puerto Rica State Law School, Haig, Jr. strode mightily to an open window and hurled a nasty swirl of offensive phlegm upon the nearby veranda. “From the perspective of outer space, it’s all child’s play,” he said, assuming the identity of sycophant supreme and the callous dismissal of a mid-level bureaucratic minion of mediocrity. “I have no faith in cash.”
Garrison resented Haig’s nasally countenance. But he relied on the young man’s cynicism to balance his own lack of moral credibility. And he knew his own ability to survive in a world of do-gooders, spiritualists and genuine back-stabbers depended on Haig’s innate capacity for offending others and thereby diffusing Garrison’s rather clumsy social lack of proper metabolism. Like comedians Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin played off each other’s alcoholism and hyper-immaturity, Garrison and Haig stumbled down the road of life with at least as much fiduciary credibility as other charlatans of their time, with the possible exception of Rosemary Clooney. Haig was crude and obtuse; Garrison preferred low-cal beer and chewed his fingernails, although not all of them. Some were clipped professionally, depending on the time of year and the hours of operation at the Garrison Family Nail Salon & Cheese Shoppe.
At approximately 9:30 P.M. on an August Tuesday, Garrison had an epiphany, relieved Haig of his responsibility, re-hired him the next day at twice the previous income and bequeathed all his Earthy belongings to his bewildered assistant, before checking into The Betty Ford Center For Hiccup Inducement. Once cured, he emerged a different man. Gone were the put-downs, the sarcasm, the scalding indictments of everyone but himself, the legendary narcissism and the repulsive habit of spitting in his hands before playing with clay. Missing was the sinister world view, the endless recapitulation of detail following every Stanley Cup playoff game, the painful drone of desultory conquest of business adversaries in the arena of avarice known as The Poultry Industry.
Friends noticed Garrison’s skin tone had transformed miraculously, a rosy flush again evident as he sprinted up and down the aisles of one community discount store after another. Even though he coughed constantly and spat up partially decayed cuticles as he paused for oxygen, the founder of Garrison Exploitation Enterprises demonstrated uncanny affinities for embezzlement in the context of sexual liberation and duality in the tradition of Dick Gepheardt.
“I feel great,” Garrison exclaimed as he dashed past a large display of doorknobs. “Or, is that, ‘I feel greatly?’”
Three Asian/Mexicans stood by quietly, observing the dialogue with a detachment reminiscent of Rosie O’Grady greeting her fans at a bed and breakfast grand opening.
“Como ala quanto,” one square-jawed foreigner said to the others. “Es malo un meylo?” Garrison approached them with an air of false superiority, the keys for his leased Ford Pinto ringing on the elastic belt that helped prop up his massive Tuffy Jeans like the bells on a ghetto ice cream truck after the Deluge. “Gentlemen, I have a very attractive business opportunity for the three of you. Is it possible any of you speak English?”
The tallest of the three men stood forward and offered his hand in an apparent gesture of either friendship or intended larceny.
“I … am … Arturo,” he said hesitantly, a faint gleam of cerveca on his lower lip. “We are independently wealthy. Perhaps you would like to work for us, in the hospitality industry. We’re hiring porters. Do you own a tuxedo?”
Haig started laughing like a geek on nitrous oxide. He slapped Garrison on the arm, checked the positioning of his necktie and did a triple back-flip, landing on one leg with the other leg extended perpendicular to the axis of the planet.
“What do you say,” he taunted. “Even if they’re not serious, you might meet some great prospects. Gambling is an ideal format for salvation. Beneath the squalor, beyond the dollar you might experience candelabra. Dive in, Garrison. Be the growth you resent. Endure bicameralism.”
Soon, the loons began the beguine, begging the question, “When?” Xenophobic to the core of their incessantly Anglo ancestry, certain boisterous bigots began boasting of unapologetic white supreme sub-egalitarian, post aspiration inflammatory devices featuring zippers rather than your traditional button arrangements. Any dilution of the traditional white-on-white cultural design became the object of their contempt. Resistance was muted by conventionality and the desire on most peoples’ part to keep their noses out of other people’s business, even when that enterprise touched upon the core values of their grandparents’ world.
Descendents of exploited American Negroes, known as NBA stars, were the first to sense this immutable prejudice. No one needed to tell them times were changing as their mothers and grandmothers had spent most of their lives changing the sheets and other linens in the bedrooms of the sugar-addicted children of the wealthy white suburbanites who were kind enough not to call them slaves in communities that now included arenas in which the children of their children earned upwards of $75,000 per night dribbling animal skin-based basketballs up and down wooden courts that were by this late date crazy in color now, what with the advent of the Three Point Line and Instant Analyses.
This reverse cosmetic osmosis phenomenon was a source of protracted and highly spirited juvenile humor among some of the more peculiar of players including most of the forwards. Those who saw little or no playing-time shared the greatest sense of whimsy. One entirely cosmic benchwarmer in particular – John Douglas – was rendered so abruptly indignant by the reception he received when he held up most party stores, he often arranged late-night visits with hand-readers, cryptologists and other fringe practitioners of non-traditional healing methods occasionally extending into the truly macabre genre of children’s friction. Douglas earned a reputation as a sore loser. He was last heard from several decades ago when he through illegal enterprise earned a reserve spot on the lacrosse team at Vassar College.
Not surprisingly, early opposition to human beings whose basic skin coloration was anything other than typing paper-white took root in rural America, where the citizenry – though hard-working, honest and righteous – also tended to be slightly heavily stated within the realm of firearm use. Even children took up hand-hewn weapons when families of dislocated Afghanistan merchants began bidding on prime farmland east of Hicksville. Your average old-timer held out for buyers of Yankee ancestry; corporate farms were more vulnerable to the uncommon wealth of the turban-clad newcomers with their obnoxious brood of anonymous little dark-headed offspring, none of whom stood still long enough to gain any appreciable body mass.
Unfortunately (if your name is Craig), the heartless conglomerates prevailed, cashing in billions of morally questionable quid and leaving the once-great agricultural jewel totally vulnerable to the scourge of pornographic consuming waves of unwashed and recently redeemed “foreigners” whose collective cultural dissonance was of such gargantuan nature even elderly men named Sahib and Serge began to profess the early stages of primitive shame.
A number of immigrants settled in Leslie, Ohio, buying up entire streets in a town that only a few years earlier had been dubbed “sardonic” by People Magazine and was generally thought by area truckers to be haunted by spirits from an ancient spacecraft that, according to legend and a rather crazy woman named Dorothy from the Moose Club, crashed in the vicinity before even the Indians came to the Great Lakes States, let alone the Mormons. They were met by a combination of mutual acrimony and unremorseful hyper-xenophobia accentuated by centuries of distrust, compounded by four percent of the adult male uneducated population, with an emphasis on men named Earl.
Perhaps the worst thing that ever happened in Leslie took place on a rainy autumn day in approximately 1963. Even though most people had no idea the President Of The United States was about to be shot to death by either a lone nut or an amalgam of co-conspirators, most still loved the man they called JFK. Funny, smart, quick on his feet and handsome as a car jockey at a Jaguar dealership in Hollywood Hills, Kennedy inspired a generation and appeared to transcend mortality to such an extent he actually embodied timeless principles that became even more compelling after he succumbed to death on a hospital bed in a city that both loved and hated him, vivifying the unsettled political order of every Van Buren County in America.
The average person went about what appeared to be an average day in one of this country’s most overwhelmingly distinctive average towns. College students sought effective means of overcoming basic libido needs and preachers practiced preaching, like skin graft specialists peal labels meticulously. Farm animals surrendered diary product and old men with tired gait complained mightily to the minions who catered to their bizarre and craven obsessions. It was a normal day except for one thing – a busload of Puerto Rican escaped convicts was about to check into the local Howard Johnson Motel & Supper Club. And life would never again be the same in Leslie. In fact, it would actually improve.
He was sitting by a window in his office on an early spring day, smoking a skinny doobie and looking out at the small city below. Four-fifths through this excursion into dim euphoria a vision manifested within his psyche, although it could just as easily emerged in the depth of his soul or the breadth of his sprawling posterior. Out of nowhere, late in his 58th year, he realized he was The Christ, reincarnate. For seconds, only He knew. Soon others caught wind of this rather remarkable development. First to arrive in His presence were a team of maintenance men from the building where he toiled by day as an automotive training marketing peon. He began speaking to them in Spanish, only to once again be reminded they were all originally from Puerto Rico.
“You can speak in English,” the one named “Jesus” said. “We ‘hunner-stan’ you.”
He rose to greet them, only to stumble on a decanter of human urine, abandoned it turned out by a prior occupant of the shabby suite where he undertook responsibilities associated with an ephemeral team of quasi-exterminated creative individuals most of whom carried advanced academic degrees as they extended their careers beyond standard longevity standards, growing only to the extent new technology and increasingly stupid clients required. Gathering his poise, he arched his back, swung his right arm deep beneath his left knee and mimicked the putting style of Freddie Couples.
“Yo quiero hablo Espanol,” he told them. “Yo estoy Espanol.”
The obvious leader of the clean-up crew was a young man distinguished by a magnificent belt buckle featuring a longhorn design, replete with leafy flourishes and a turquoise stone shaped approximately like an innate female clitoris. “We’re here to acknowledge the auspicious nature of your realization,” the one named ‘Jesus’ said. “They said you were coming. We’ve been waiting. Everyone figured it would happen in America. That’s why you’ve got so many races here now. They say it’s about the jobs and the quality of life. That’s garbage. It’s about The Second Coming. And it’s happened right here in our Midwestern Rust Belt town or city or whatever you call it. Glory hallelujah.”
Dropping their caulking guns, the three workers slumped to the floor, making a semi-circle around the writer of undiluted propaganda. They propped their heads alertly and smiled as if in the company of the complete high school social network of Britney Spears. “Tell us the truth,” they urged in unison. “Why have you come and what is your agenda?”
Drawing on new strengths and insights forming in his brain, he was struck by the ease with which his responses seemed to flow effortlessly, flow profoundly, cranking from cerebral impulse to rhetorical concept without pausing at reflection, caution, reserve or remorse. With the inspiration of a million mystics and all the nuns and priests and rabbis and clerics and holy men and mothers superior and divine cosmic intervention of all time, he looked the Puerto Rican immigrants in their brown eyes and could have sworn they were products of Ecuador.
“Let’s start quietly and keep this under control until I get a sense of how these spiritual wings work,” he began, sounding like a cruel cross between Tony Bennett and Bennett Cerf.
“I need to get used to my …new charisma. I’ve never been able to keep too many peoples’ attention. They tend to get caught up on my teeth. I have never been my teeth. My teeth are my ancestors.”
The one called ‘Jesus’ spoke for the others. “Wow,” he said.
“I want you guys to be my disciples, dudes,” he continued, starting to gain a footing on his new ability to spew fine invective without pissing anyone off.
“I want you to follow me to the party store and make sure I don’t buy anything that isn’t good for me or for the universe, of course.” He let it sink in. He wanted them to stop what they were doing – for $7.45 an hour – and join him on His Earthly journey to redeem mankind (and also do whatever he could for women.)
Surely foreigners had a leg up on most mainstream Americans when it came to “sensing” that a major religious event might occur sometime after the beginning of the twenty-first century. They weren’t in the right building at the right time by accident. Providence had a heck of a lot to do with all of this. Providence, and the awesome power of Mary Juanita.
No one spoke for the first two or three minutes. Ticking from a nearby clock filled the audio void. Cars drove by in sequences of 13, creating wave-like sounds that accentuated the gap between pedestrian and meter maid.
“Well? He asked the group, pointedly addressing the two quiet young men who did most of the painting but little of the talking since English was their non-language of record and their skill in this most difficult of all tongues was limited by absence of formal education beyond the second week of kindergarten. Ernesto, the shorter of the two illegal aliens, shuffled his feet and said nothing. His cousin, Arturo, grunted disrespectfully and thrust his hips forward in an ugly, obscene gesture of contempt in the thin guise of a minor convulsion.
“I can speak for the others,” the one called Jesus said to the other quasi-Jesus-figure. “We sense your divinity but we’re diverted by the drool on your chin. I don’t mean to be cruel, Savior-dude. But what’d you have for lunch today, sushi or something?”
These guys are a riot, he thought. They don’t look like us, sound like us, eat like us, sleep like us or spend money on dental floss like we do. But they’re funnier than shit. And they appreciate the nuances of our culture. They see the inconsistencies, probably better than most of us do. They bring a keen eye to the matter of looking at our throwaway culture and seeing invisible returnable bottles in the cat litter. They may look like sheepherders on Spring Break but their acute suntans belie a much greater capacity for seeing the comedic potential in each of The Three Stooges.
“Fish stew,” he said, accentuating both the first and final words. “Made it myself. Part chowder, part cat food. I thinned it down with purified ginseng root, diluted and strained and sanctified by The Big Guy.”
Arturo crossed himself several times. “The Big Guy,” he thought. El Numero Uno. Ho Boy. Now the contemporary Christ child was really talking.
“I made enough for 12 or 120,” he told the workers. “You guys hungry?”
“Hell yes,” Jesus told sort-of Jesus. “We’re starving. Is there a place to wash our hands?”
-
Thus began a most pleasant and enduring relationship between not only the small-town, Gringo hustler with the passing Jesus identity schism and not only these three relatively new Americans but between every White honkie and multi-faceted American immigrant who came in contact with one another. Garrison joined Haig and the others in conceding life became considerably less stressful when the stigma disappeared. Dominant love and tolerance sure beat the heck out of hostile detachment and corrosive resentment. And pure harmony beget other fine by-products, primarily a higher sense of creativity that allowed every living human being to feel as poetic as Bob Dylan and capable of holding a tune as the singer Madonna working with advanced voice enhancement technologies.
From this point on, cross cultural synthesis was rampant in the land and poly-ethnic thinking reigned triumphant, from Little Saigon near Los Angeles to the Cuban enclaves of South Miami, from the new Russian ghettos of the Rustbelt States to the Chinese-dominated fishing villages near Eugene, Oregon.
Years later, anthropologists discovered vestiges of pre-illumination artifacts in the way of race-baiting pamphlets used by demagogues in the late-twentieth century. Vile and degenerative, the publications sought to spread various mistruths including the entirely false supposition that people from Asian countries were less effected by death than those of us who grew up eating peanut butter sandwiches in pure white suburbia. These rare and revealing documents eventually found their way to The Old Days Museum in Truth Or Consequences, New Mexico where today they remain the top tourist attraction east of The Mohave Desert.
Children born after 2004 were lucky. None of them would ever know prejudice or experience any false sense of racial superiority again. Because they came of age in a new era of all-accepting understanding of basic Biblical concepts embodied in the Constitution Of The United States Of America such as “all men are created equal,” and because they possessed the skills and instincts required to integrate womankind into that bold and immutable paradigm, they embraced pluralism, accepted diversity and within a few decades permanently changed the very way human beings related to each other, in the Americas and, before long, upon every continent of the Earth, except Asia, where corrupt officials held out for additional concessions, including the cotton candy booths.
The Old Order vanished from peoples’ memory after the day three Martian spaceships landed on the field where Super Bowl VVXII was being played in New Orleans. At first, TV watchers thought it was a network extravagance, until one of the entities from the other planet vaporized the Vikings’ punter. No one else had been able to do that all season. So the fans knew this was no gimmick, that these spooky characters were indeed from a place far away and that they could wreak havoc on a gang fight quicker than a cloud of garlic-enhanced mustard gas.
“We will not hurt you,” the Martians said in unison. Translations of their expressions appeared in special captioning that manifested in psychedelic extremes in undulating prisms that bisected their pygmy-like physical shells, noodle emulating bodies that wiggled at the knees and gyrated above the waistline, like pistons in a cylinder with too much lubricant and a retired member of the clergy at the wheel. “We’re here to infect you with the truth, that being, everything is going to be simply fine and wonderful and non-suspenseful and, hopefully, eternal.”
When the North Americans and other Earthlings figured out these guys weren’t kidding, all sorts of amazing things began to happen. And when the luminary by the window with the TCH buzz engulfing his pituitary glands lapsed into the temporary Jesus deal, thereby saving the janitor-dudes from the Gates of Hell, complete transformation was underway with so much impetus the entire psychological orientation of all the people of Earth was irrevocably recast into enormously empowering post-liberation garbanzo bean-accommodating parallelism, with Cilantro.
The United Nations – which at one time was located entirely in New York City – became the entire world. People from everywhere were everywhere. It became just as easy to find a person born in Michigan living in India as it had once been to find a person born in India living in Michigan. People whose ancestors hated other peoples’ ancestors ended up being neighbors, lovers and even business partners, with certain stipulations, of course. For one thing, people from Israel retained the right to own most of the law firms. And the Koreans, both from the former North and glorious South, were asked to manage all the liquor stores in South Los Angeles, since they already knew the secret codes. Other than that, everything was up for grabs. Tiny Thai people began playing NFL football. American cowboys started taking typing classes in Australia and former Brazilian hotel maids from Las Vegas launched the porno industry in Victorian England with one simple caveat – people had to wear nametags.
When complete and permanent inter-cultural symbiosis was fully rendered upon the floating rock in space known as Planet Earth, the people joined hands across the oceans and sang the old camp song, “Kumbiya,” in sweet unison, with each race of people singing a verse by themselves, then everyone joining in on the choruses. Their joy was of such magnitude it was felt throughout the far reaches of the known Universe, in every Galaxy and across all measures of time, past, present and future. Because the burden that had been lifted from them by the near-encounter with Jesus and the appearance of the Martians, who became known as The Beatles, had been so dominating and oppressive, their happiness extended for time immemorial and even for a few millennia beyond that. As a final gesture, the ecstatic tribes of man (women were included as long as they didn’t laugh too loud) freed every prisoner, fed every starving child and built advanced learning centers in every zip code in Mississippi. They converted nuclear power plants into citadels of benevolent hemp farming and assigned former members of organized crime families to pick up the litter in The Balkans.
A former American presidential candidate by the name of Albert Gore, Jr. was anointed Grand Fairy Of The Spring Romp that entitled he and his family to ride atop the lead float in the annual Horse’s Ass Parade in Florence, Kentucky. Gore showed his gracious manner by wearing outfits chosen by his oldest daughter and keeping his stomach pulled in as far as possible when cameramen were present. Former hate monger David Duke appeared on International television, condemning racism and pledging to try to stop slouching while watching “Cops.” The Rev. Al Sharpton demonstrated his commitment to egalitarian thinking when he joined The Daughters Of The American Confederacy Children’s Literacy Campaign and donated his collection of Fred Sanford paraphernalia to the Col. Harland Sanders Foundation’s annual manure spreading jubilee. Dick Nixon’s youngest daughter, Julie, sang the Global Anthem at Chelsea Clinton’s Coming In party and the original members of The Jackson Five donned clowns’ suits for the wedding of Playboy founder Hugh Heffner’s two adult grandchildren, who married each other on C-Span before an ecstatic gathering of family members, retired orange juice barons and destitute former computer science majors who lost their jobs to a single micro-chip in Silly Con Valley, where even jailbirds still steal punch lines.
Hernandez meets Hildebrand in The New America. The end-result consists of four layers, designating a compound having four alkyl groups connected to a nitrogen or phosphorus atom, in quaternary fashion, of, belonging to, or designating the geologic time, system of rocks and sedimentary deposits of the second period of the Cenozoic era, from the end of the Tertiary through the present, characterized by the appearance and development of man, and including the Pleistocene and Holocene epochs.
“Damn,” the one named Jesus said.
“Damn.”