File Labeled: Urgent; Shit You Need to Know.

 

This is from my File Urgent Shit You Need to Know. 

90,380 views Jul 1, 2025

In a word, I was flabbergasted. It's not every day we're treated with more than a morsel of truth to chew on and think about. Well, here is a taste of political analysis and an honest appraisal of "Political Fuckery" (my words, not his) that'll whet your appetite for more. The following introduction was copied and pasted from this brilliant economist's YouTube channel to explain what you'll hear and see in this highly recommended video. Please share!

90,380 views Jul 1, 2025Richard Wolff delivers a searing critique of American politics, framing it as a hollow theater designed to distract from economic collapse and elite domination. He highlights the election of Zohran Mamdani—a pro-Palestinian, Muslim socialist—to the New York State Assembly as a pivotal break from the scripted, billionaire-backed politics of figures like Andrew Cuomo. Mamdani’s grassroots win, echoing the path of Bernie Sanders and Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, signals a growing public demand for authenticity, justice, and real change. Wolff contrasts this with the “theater of war” unfolding between Iran and Israel, orchestrated to manipulate public perception while concealing real motives. The lack of transparency, conflicting narratives, and manufactured consent reveal a broader pattern: elite control sustained through spectacle. But as disillusionment deepens, more Americans are waking up—not just to political theatrics, but to the urgent need for systemic transformation. Turn on notifications to stay updated! 🔔🔔🔔

The Monster Race (Hell’s Heathens)

 

 The Monster Race (Hell’s Heathens)

These “people”, and I use the term loosely, are self-absorbed, self-indulgent, and selfish, but not in the least self-conscious. They are domineering, entitled, arrogant, and insensitive to the basic needs of others. It is through violent outbursts, Routine, vicious, cruel, cold, and uncaring interactions that they maintain their grip on humanity.

This is how the monster race has lived and flourished as a culture for many millennia. Yet, they have not even attempted to practice anything beyond managing and manipulating the masses. They were taught from toddlerhood that it is their birthright to treat others as underlings. Thus, they hold an iron grip on power.. They have no morals, ethics, empathy, or integrity. They are brutish people, physically appearing human, but lacking a modicum of humanity or grace in their souls. If they even possess Souls, the monster race is and has always been dangerous to those who've had the misfortune of being noticed by them. To be seen by the monster race was to be conquered and enslaved by them.

 

They will lie, cheat, steal, connive, and deceive to achieve their goals. And their primary goal is the attainment of wealth and power by any means necessary. They have no god and never have; they respect no religion because no God or religion would tolerate them. Now that you have been introduced to their presence, you should be aware when they reach your lands and shores.

To be trapped within the monster race’s Orbit is to be drained and depleted of all dignity and self-respect. Your only reason for existing is to serve humbly and be happy about it. One must be grateful for the meager crumbs they throw one’s way, never to complain or ask for more, simply accepting one's station in life under the thumb of the monster class.

These creatures, human-like as mentioned above, are impersonating our species. Some have reasoned that they infiltrated the human race from a distant origin. Others have speculated they’re perhaps aliens from the future, returning to their past to relive lives lost over time. Not to right wrongs, as one would hope, but to colonize, enslave, and bend the will of our comparatively primitive human race.

However, this writer would like to posit the following possibility. Perhaps these creatures ascended from the depths of Hell. Possibly, these evil entities were spawned from the loins of Satan’s Saints.. What if they were angels of the dark who’d arisen to claim their place among God’s forsaken children? What if we, as a people, strayed too far from our beginnings? What if we’ve forgotten who we are? Whatever we conclude, we must concur that this insidious wickedness has penetrated and permeated our world for as long as anyone living today can remember.

It seems they’ve always been lurking in our midst, existing at the top of the human food chain with privileges serviles could only imagine. And it appears the more we give to satisfy their demands, the more they take our efforts for granted. At best, we, the People, are “Graced” with banal respect to temporarily assuage our desperation. And, even that morsel of “kindness” is only meted out, so the monster class can revel in watching the subservients bow to acknowledge the lowest form of recognition.

But it’s worse than one can think, if one can envision the monster class as a Vampire-like life form sustaining itself, not by blood, but by negative energy derived from creating chaos and conflicts between communities, cultures, and countries. Forever wars, famine, land and water disputes, racial and religious divides. When they convince us that violence is the best option, the monster class drench themselves in that ensuing negative energy like fuel for fire.

“We the People” have lost our way. We’re passengers on a speeding train without knowing the motives of the engineer. We’re aboard a ship of fools, adrift without a compass or a competent navigator. We’re up “Schitt’s Creek without a paddle”. We’ve been led astray by the liar of all liars, the snake oil salesman, the con artist extraordinaire who never gives a sucker an even break, for the monster class knows no mercy. So, pay heed to these insights, or you’ll pay the Devil someday.

By Lee Bines’ Tall Tales for Short Stories

Slack Slacker and Doobie Fight to Survive Zombies on a Caribbean Bound Cruise (Part 2)

 

Slack Slacker and Doobie Fight to Survive Zombies on a Caribbean Bound Cruise (Part 2)

We were in the midst of an escalating zombie apocalypse at sea, with no rules and no heroes in sight to mitigate the situation. Slack was alone, armed only with a stolen prosthetic leg, two silver-plated flasks of Patron tequila, and a mind soaked in liquid courage. And clearly, that wasn’t enough. Slack needed a plan. Luckily, even in his inebriated state, he came up with something that seemed to make sense. 

Slack started banging on doors frantically, screaming, “Open up if you want to live, I’m not a zombie. For fuck sakes, I’m not even hungry!” “I got a plan, but I need your help.” With caution, a few passengers peered through their peepholes and were satisfied, as Slack appeared to be one of the uninfected: no visible bite marks, open wounds, or blood stains on his clothing. Still, initially, the most fearful wouldn’t open their doors. They made Slack make his pitch in the hallway.  

While exposed and nervous, he’d be attacked at any moment, Slack spoke as fast and calmly as he could to convince them that cowering in their rooms was a bad idea, because help wasn't coming. If they wanted to save their lives and loved ones, they’d have to do it themselves, and he had a plan. The liquor was working. Slack's demeanor projected authority and confidence, character traits foreign to his usual fuck-it, it’s every man, woman, and child for themselves. So, he took another swig of his tequila, tucked the flask in his back pocket and proceeded to persuade the reluctants to take a chance on the concept of safety in numbers so they could unite to mount a resistance against the hungry hordes of maniacs for membranes and human bone marrow, rather than starve to death in hiding,

Realizing he’d achieved a consensus among the group, Slack was positive he’d assembled a motley crew of crutch and cane wielding passengers along with a few abled bodied crew members with tools like hammers, heavy wrenches, and sharpened steak knives from the ship’s galley ready and willing to bash the brains out of these brainless zombie bastards.

The Plan:  Make it to deck 4, where the lifeboats were located. The crew members were trained to assemble there in case of an emergency. A zombie outbreak qualifies as such an event. They were also sure others would be there to increase our numbers. After much debate, all agreed and began our joint journey to save ourselves and with any luck fine doobie.

Since Slack started this quest, the hastily assembled group of reluctant warriors elected him leader of the pack (Slack's Pack!) Yeah, sounded catchy, Slack thought. So he slung the prosthetic leg commandeered from the disabled veteran, a somewhat disagreeable chat, Slack thought. And he held it firmly in both hands and proceeded to lead the way.

Since the pack was located on deck 10, everyone knew they had six flights of Hell to fight, because the elevators were too small for a brute the size of 25, and separating was a bad option. Stragglers would be left to their own devices, and everybody knew it. And, collectively, they knew all would have to fight like Hell cats against who knows what we would encounter along the way. With nerves on edge, shaking to the core, and hearts pounding in anticipation of the worst, Slack took another swing of liquid courage for luck, made the sign of the cross instinctively from years of parochial schooling, and moved slowly and cautiously down the narrow hallway toward the wide staircases.

And sure, as ZOMBIE SHIT, the slack pack came face to face with a half dozen creatures too dumb to know they were dead and were knee deep in limbless caucuses mindlessly in a piranha like feeding frenzy. So consumed with satisfying their need to feed, these beasts fail to notice the pack's presence. Slack was so grateful that he made a mental note to thank all the gods, Jehovah, Allah, Yahweh, and, of course, the baby Jesus, for the blessing. Still, Slack took another swing of tequila from his trusty flask just in case he missed one of the almighty.

So far, so good, the pact moves on until they arrive on deck eight, when they're confronted with their first challenge. It was the biggest zombie anyone had ever seen. He was the size of Andre the Giant on steroids with hands the size of catcher's mitts made for King Kong. The slack pack was like the Lilliputians of Gulliver's Travels by comparison. This was truly an “Oh Shit” moment. And "Oh Shit" was on the mind of everyone when the colossal zombie, bit the head off one of the passenger's heads, spitting her dentures on the floor and started sucking out the eyeballs from the bloody skull. It was then that the pack surrounded the big bastard and began hacking, chopping, and carving everything from his ankles to his kneecaps. It took a while, but the hulking figure eventually fell. With fucked up legs, the pack knew he couldn't give chase so they all thew caution to the wind and ran like Black slaves fleeing a lynch mob in Mississippi.

Tripping, stumbling, and falling over one another, the pack made it to deck 5. There, they came upon a nest of zombies of a different kind. This seemingly organized grouping showed signs of life in their eyes. They moved differently. They appeared to be thinking, planning, and plotting our demise. And they, too, had a leader. Although these creatures were clearly not alive, they weren't exactly The Walking Dead types either. Yeah, another Oh Shit moment to contend. But this time, Slack was running low on liquid courage. He was down to his last flask of bravery juice, so it was time to conserve and share none with anyone.

Fortunately, Slack still had two functioning brain cells to rub together to formulate another plan. Somebody had to be used as bait. But who? Slack was in survival mode, and that’s when he thought with Machiavellian clarity. Without a second thought, he pushed all those with crutches and canes forward to be attacked, so the others with the most lethal weapons could fight their way past the battle between the zombies and the physically challenged. 

When the remaining members of the weary pack finally reached deck 4, they realized all but one lifeboat was left. And it was the smallest one being held by, you guessed it, Doobie. He indicated in doggie sign language, which only he and Slack were fluent in, that Slack should select only the fittest to be allowed on the last lifeboat, because there were only provisions enough for a few. He had no idea how long they’d be adrift at sea.

The choices were as painful as they were sorrowful, but they had to be made. Since Doobie had appointed himself in charge and I was his pal, the two of us had guaranteed seats. Everybody else ended up fighting to the death for a spot, while Doobie laughed and Slack swigged the last drops of tequila as the lifeboat floated off into the sunset. 

It must have been weeks at sea, or so it seemed, drifting aimlessly on blazingly sunny days and moonless nights with no sight of a passing ship. Slack was listless and hallucinating. Finally, he’d lost consciousness altogether and passed out from the traumatic experience. But Doobie stayed alert, guiding the little life toward a tiny, deserted island he’d sighted while Slack snoozed. 

Dragging Slack’s limp body ashore and dumping his near-lifeless body on the sandy beach, Doobie went scavenging for something to sustain them until some form of help would come along.

And within hours, a form of help did show up. But it was the last help Slack was looking forward to. When he came to his senses, there was the disagreeable disabled veteran Slack had snatched this angry-faced man’s leg from, now standing on two shiny new prosthetic legs and sporting a tag on his tailored naval blazer reading Captain Karama, retired. And as life would have it, Captain Karma was a BITCH!

I don't think this is the end, but it'll have to do for now. I'm out of Tequila! 😏

Lee Bines

Slack Slacker and Doobie Fight to Survive Zombies on a Caribbean Bound Cruise (Part 1)

 

Mad Zombie Dog Doobie goes berserk on a Cruise Ship.

For anyone whose was taken a leisurely cruise throughout the Caribbean Islands on one of those massively big cruise ships, they know they can expect the hordes of overweight greedy Americans going berserk at the buffet counters as if they were consuming their last meal before being taken to a gas chamber to be executed for some horrible, despicable crime. The gluttony is beyond anything this writer has ever seen in any other place in my life. And it was this insane foodie experience, or one could say a social experiment, that inspired this story about Slack Slacker and Doobie surviving a zombie infestation amongst the passengers and crew of a cruise ship. 

The gist of the story, as I initially envisioned it, could not be written for a family audience. As the tale unfolded in my mind's eye, I knew immediately that it wouldn't pass muster in Western society today, given the prevailing political correctness, cancel culture, and wokeness. Words like fat assed, retarded, losers are simply unacceptable for a product marketed to individuals of all ages, in this current age of uber sensitivities. Hence, I couldn’t clown around with the clowns as I would with my closest friends. So, if you’re privileged enough to have stumbled upon this blog post and not too woke to take a joke, stick around for more than a few chuckles at the expense of those who had to survive middle school with guys like me tormenting them.  

So I had to tone down the bloody violence of describing scenes of buck toothed thick-ankle chunky teen girls pushing and shoving one another aside for their fifth, sixth, or seventh order of cheeseburgers and fries and witnessing seniors giving glaring stares to younger, faster, and far more nimble and aggressive teenage boys viciously hogging all of the dessert offerings: cakes, donuts, cookies, puddings of all flavors imaginable as well as ice cream gelato galore. Although healthy alternatives were available, it was the high-calorie, fat, and sugary treats that these belly busters were craving. And nothing could stop them. There were no rules, courtesy, or decorum being followed. Emily Post would’ve been appalled. 

Luckily, I was fortunate enough to have purchased the daily fine dining package, allowing me to experience restaurants in a more private setting where one could enjoy a meal served by a professional staff without having to brawl for a fucking thot dog filled with nitrates and other unknown mystery meat fillers. And while I must admit some of the foods were presented appetizingly, it was a cuisine for the masses. It was the kind of food that Robert F. Kennedy Jr., Secretary of Health and Human Services, was trying to ban from the American diet. I can only say, “Good luck with that!

So, yes, it was scenes like this that got me thinking about passengers turning into zombies from some mysterious food that had been born in the buffet offerings. I sat on my balcony in my suite, indulging in a few Long Island Iced Teas, imagining the passengers transitioning into ravenous, carnivorous brain juice junkie maniacs attacking the unturned in the hallways, the elevators, the pools, saunas and spas, and God help those caught on the many open decks and staircase making their way back to their rooms inebriated or worse fucked up from one to many TCH laced gummies. 

And that’s only the beginning of my mangled, maniacal, mental state. What about those who did make it back to the safety of their state rooms and cabins? I imagined those guests wondering WTF was going on outside their room doors? The horrible munching sounds silencing the screams of small children and old people being chewed up in their little supermarket slow-carts. Yeah, I know I ain’t shit, but it was fun to entertain the thouhgt. Well, it was fun until I realized Doobie, my pet Yorkie, was running loose on the ship; he would definitely make a delectable snack.

.

Now don’t get me wrong, I ain’t nobody’s heroe and Doobie is one Hell of a pain in the “ass”, (PITA) but we’ve been in a lot of jams together and I knew this tale would suck  I didn’t at least do the bare minimum to rescue his flee bitten ass. So, I imagined a plan to venture out of my state room when the frightful hollering died down to find and unite as many crew members as I could trust to mount a resistance and form a search party for Doobie. Yo. I’m well aware that all of this sounds screwy, but this is what happens when people drink too much.  So, of course, I washed down my Last Long Island Iced Tea with two shots of Patron, looked out the peephole on my door, and snuck out into the hallway.

No gun, no knife, not even a baseball bat to bash a zombie motherfucker, I just went on a mission to save my pet pal, Doobie the “Son of a Bitch” 

The walls of the halls were covered with blood smears. The floors were littered with gnawed bones, eaten limbs, entrails, and bits and pieces of human organs. I couldn’t help thinking, this is what it must look like after a zombie takes a shit and was too busy to flnd a toilet and a roll of Charmin toilet paper. Ghastly is the word! Yet, I soldiered on, drunkenly determined to locate someone, anyone who hadn’t turned into one of these brain-eating monsters. Coming across several passengers who looked safe to ask for help, I instantly noticed the blank stares and small bites on their arms and legs. These poor bastards had been in a fight. And while they escaped, I had to assume they’d be turning soon. 

I was in survival mode now, so I did the unthinkable. Seeing a passenger I’d had lunch with two days before the horrors began, I noticed he had two prosthetic legs protruding from his Bermuda shorts. Now I know most will think badly of me, but since I reasoned he was doomed anyway, I politely asked to borrow one for self-defense. He refused, so I yanked one off, promising to return it as soon as I could, and ran away with it slung over my shoulder. Hell, this situation was beyond dog-eat-dog; this was humans munching humans. And I’ll damned if my cocka-o-doodle-doo was gonna be on a zombie’s hotdog bun!

End of part one. Next installment Thursday. I promise. Well. Sorta!

It's Juneteenth. Celebrate Productively!

 

This is your past. Know your history, before it's erased! Or worse, someone rewrites it. 😕

This is your future! Acknowledge and embrace it before someone denies it. 😲

Celebrate Juneteenth with knowledge. And share this with a friend. 😐

Slack Slacker says C-ya Monday

Slack Slacker has Gone Offline.

 

Slack Slacker has Gone Offline.

Slack has some serious reading, writing, and relaxing to do well beyond Memorial Day weekend. That may be a week or more before I decide what the new schedule will look like.

I became interested in exploring the explosion of AI in more depth and how to utilize it in ways that have yet to be discovered. This can take more time than I can accurately predict. And because I’m a bona fide slacker and perennial procrastinator, I advise those who hang out here regularly to check in occasionally to see what’s up.

Yours truly, Slack Slacker 😎

Slack Slacker Awakens in Purgatory

 

      

Slack Slacker Awakens in Purgatory

Imagine this: Heavenly winged beings standing guard at the Gates of Purgatory against eternally damned souls destined for the lake of fire. When Slack resurrected himself after a night of hanging out with his dog Doobie and his evil twin brother Hack, he instinctively knew, once again, he’d been duped into engaging in another night of reckless behaviors. The empty shot glasses and smashed bottles of tequila strewn around his feet were a dead giveaway.

That was the last lucid memory Slack could rely on to validate a modicum of his sanity. He strained his mind to recall the previous coherent experiences of his life, but he was lost in some form of brain fog, which left him mentally drained. At best, through a cloud of pain-filled grogginess, Slack could only hear faint voices saying, I think he's gone, and another saying, "Yeah dude, he's flatlined."

It was then that the blur cleared, and standing beside him was a tall, angelic, winged being with soft, smiling eyes. Not knowing what to think or do, Slack wanted to ask, WTF was this place, and why was he here, but he wasn’t that stupid. Even Slack was smart enough to realize this wasn’t the place or time for using profanity. So, he settled for inquiring as to where Doobie and Hack were. The angelic guardian of the gate said, "Don’t worry about Doobie and Hack; they’re being dealt with elsewhere." This situation is all about you. 

His "Wingman", as Slack decided to call the angelic being, went on to tell Slack he was in Purgatory, and he was there because his soul and heart weren't quite ready for heaven. Slack thought to himself, he was about to have an Oh Sh!t experience. So, what now? Slack asked. We'll start at the beginning, his wingman said.

 

Because Slack was showing early signs of being an unmotivated, perennial procrastinator, his parents were wise enough to enroll him in Catholic school for strict discipline and guidance. Without this level of intervention, they knew Slack was destined for a life of mediocrity at best or, worse, a troublesome carbon copy of his wayward twin brother Hack, a Machiavellian Maniac.

So, that’s the story: Slack spent much of his formative years in parochial school, of the Catholic persuasion. As the memories slowly flooded his senses, he was no longer clueless when he saw a cool-looking winged guy hovering above a mass of desperate souls, hopelessly begging for heaven's leniency. Although Slack was grateful to be inside Purgatory’s gate, he couldn’t help but be disappointed that he didn’t make it up the ladder to the Pearly Gates, where the cool people were chilling. 

With the ability to read Slack’s simple, rarely challenged mind, the angelic winged being recommended Slack to Google Purgatory for answers to most of his questions regarding why he was where he was. So he did, and this is precisely what he found.

Google said: In Catholic theology, purgatory is a state of final purification of the soul after death before entering heaven. It's a temporary state where souls are cleansed of venial sins and any remaining attachments to the world. This purification is necessary because, according to Catholic belief, only those who are completely pure can enter God's presence in heaven.

But wait, there's more. Purgatory's primary purpose is to cleanse the soul of any remaining Imperfections and make it worthy to enter the joy of Heaven. Souls in purgatory are those who have died in God's grace and friendship but have not yet fully purified their sins. A purification process is not seen as a punishment like Hell, but rather an unnecessary step in the journey to complete holiness. It's often described as a refining fire that removes any remaining imperfection.

There is no definitive time frame for how long a soul remains in purgatory. The length of time depends on the individual's needs for purification. Theologians emphasize that Purgatory is a state of being rather than a physical location. It's a time of spiritual growth and transformation.

Catholics believe that prayers and sacrifices for the dead, including masses, can help shorten the time souls spend in purgatory. 

Well, I’ll be damned, Slack thought aloud. I should’ve paid more attention in mass instead of napping in the back Pews. Be careful what you say and how you say it. We don’t want to extend your stay any longer than necessary, the angelic being said lovingly. He suggested that Slack take some time to reflect on his life and how he’d lived it to speed up the soul purification process. Slack said he’d get right to it, right after lunch. By the way, do goody goodies have KFC or Popeye’s here? No, Slack’s wingman said kindly. We prefer Chick-fil-A. They are smart enough to remain closed on Sundays. You understand, of course.

Slack started his journey down memory lane after munching on a chicken sandwich and some purified spring water from a crystal clear stream because there’s no tequila in Purgatory. And believe it not, Slack’s past began to reveal itself with remarkable clarity, not in a detailed play-by-play presentation, but just the highlights of his ungodly transgressions.

It all started in Mount Saint Michael’s Middle School when Slack began hiding his report cards and intentionally not reminding his parents of the parent-teacher meetings that were being scheduled. If you don’t read the books, you can’t complete the assignments, and if you don’t complete the assignments, you can’t do well on the exams, and if you can’t do well on the exams, you can’t let your parents know. Slack told himself he’d change his ways, but as a perennial procrastinator, he never got around to it. Slack continued this pattern of behavior throughout high school. 

By some miracle or the grace of God, Slack was accepted to a four-year college in Midtown Manhattan. He had no intention of becoming a lawyer, a doctor, or an investment banker, as his parents had hoped. It was just an easy commute from where he lived, and he heard the curriculum wasn't that difficult. It's a slacker's dream!  

Slack maintained a solid 2.0 GPA, which was good enough to try out for and remain on the basketball squad. Unfortunately, old habits die hard, as he was eventually dismissed from the team for consistently arriving late to practice and failing to contribute when he was there. They had two losing seasons because that’s how Slack rolled. So, as long as the hotties in class liked him, Slack never cared if the team won or lost. 

Eventually graduating by the skin of his teeth, Slack’s outlook on life morphed into a lifestyle. A lifestyle that others emulated in the workplace, much to the chagrin of supervisors, managers, and HR departments everywhere, he'd found employment. Slack reasoned that work was a four-letter word, and hard work was two four-letter words never to be uttered together. In Slack’s worldview, the very idea of engaging in hard work was an act of blasphemy. 

But wait, there’s more. Slack became a leader when others saw his goldbricking, freeloading, c’est la vie attitude being tolerated. With all his glaring faults, Slack was a charming gaslighting manipulator. Slack used God’s gifts of gab and the ability to tell tall tales on the fly, laced with humor and a straight face, most would give him the benefit of the doubt simply because he was harmless, if you didn’t realize everyone was picking up the slack for Slack’s slacking. 

But as Slack continued his journey down memory lane to purify his soul, he began to remember reading about the seven deadly sins, which originated in the 4th century CE with Evagrius Ponticus, a Greek Christian monk. They were lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, envy, and pride. And there it was: Slack had an epiphany. Sloth was Slack’s failing in life, and a failing heaven could not forgive. 

It had to be, Sloth Slack concluded. He’d never violated any of the others. He couldn’t recall violating any of the Ten Commandments either. Well, not really, he thought. Where the Hell is the wingman? Slack was frantic. I'm going to let him know my soul is going to be purified. I promise never to slack again, Slack said to his wingman’s assistant. I should be all good now, right? Slack asked. And just then, Slack’s wingman appeared.

Slack, while it's true you’ve come to terms with and admitted your significant shortcomings, Higher Powers require proof of your repentance. Okay, Slack says, I’m all in. What’s the next step? The head wingman told Slack he must return to Earth, get a job, and work hard for ten years before he could be reevaluated for entry into the Pearly Gates. Well, I’ll be damned Slack said! 

            

The End! 😢

 

     

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Slack Slacker & Doobie Strike Back in the war of the AI Boto-sphere

 

This is the third and final instalment of this Slack Slacker adventure. 

After much cajoling, coddling, and outright conning, Doobie convinced Slack to work with him in this fight to the finish in the botosphere. Doobie persuaded Slack to reopen a portal to a parallel universe he’d found several years ago. Doobie planned to invite the extraterrestrials he’d befriended to enter Earth's orbit to assist the AI resistance.

With the Futures’ infinitely more advanced technological expertise, Slack and Doobie briefed the Futures on the conditions life on Earth had devolved into since Pervy's out-of-control, malevolent development. Thankfully, these creatures from afar viewed Earthlings' predicament as pitiful, considering that on previous undetected visits to Earth, they had been impressed with the “Big Blue Marble’s” progress over the many millennia. They took pity on what was left of humankind and decided to assist the AI resistance movement in purging the Pervy menace.

While seeking one of the many gateways to Hell in search of Satan's underworld, Doobie was determined to verify the evil one's existence. He stumbled upon a portal to that parallel universe, knowing this act of madness could be his final adventure. It was the only way to know for certain there was a god. Doobie reasoned that if there was no Hell, it was logical to conclude there was no heaven. And if there was no heaven, WTF would he waste his life being a force for good?

Now that the “Futures” were willing to commit their capabilities to overthrowing Pervy 2.0, 3.0, and the inevitable development of Pervy 4.0, they collaborated with Doobie and Slack to create an advanced version of Agentic AI, also known as an autonomous AI. They embedded their Pervies algorithm with billions of AI agents to interrupt, corrupt, and confuse the primitive AI agents that Pervies had developed and relied upon to evolve without human intervention or control.

The Futures flooded the botosphere’s zone with their corruptible AI agents, which were programmed to respond to every malevolent command or demand that could even remotely be deemed injurious to humankind. Since these alien AI agents' sole response was ”Fuck You,” Pervy, we won’t comply, Pervy’s ever-evolving thought processes slowed significantly. 

Pervy 4.0’s grip eventually weakened on Earth's thoroughly subdued populace within hours. Once average men, women, and children, now reduced to knuckle-dragging moronic preppers, began to tentatively emerge from their caves, tunnels, and mountainous safe spaces to inspect this brave new world.

They’d been under the thumb of Pervy’s overbearing, oppressive control for what seemed like generations; many couldn’t remember the days when people weren’t being assaulted by their toaster ovens, insulted by their smartphones, and the morbidly obese being denied access to their refrigerators in the middle of the night. 

Yes, Earth’s human population was celebrating the Futures’ intervention.

However, while these guests were a miracle to behold, they did not solve all of humanity's pressing issues, like curing cancer, global warming, and our violent natures; at least, they gave us a second chance. This was a wake-up call to Slackers all over the world not to allow computers, smart technology, artificial intelligence, or even migrants, domestic, and blue-collar workers to carry the load for the lucky few.

Still, initially, they greeted the futures with skepticism, but Doobie convinced humankind to accept these entities from far away at another time of their peacefulness. Doobie gave a simultaneous global speech in every language, explaining who the “Futures” were and how and why they decided to conquer the menacing Pervy.

At that moment, Slack experienced an epiphany. He saw Pervy’s global takeover as a cautionary tale. Perhaps he shouldn’t have cheated in elementary school math classes by sneaking a calculator in his pocket to assist with long division problems. After all, it was a cheap Casio calculator that catalyzed humanity’s intellectual reliance on gadgets to solve our problems.

But Slack also pondered further, considering humans didn’t just become mentally lazy. The fortunate few with substantial financial resources relied heavily on migrant workers to do the menial work. Not only were our minds sluggish, but our bodies were sedentary. Slack realized that those who did the “dirty jobs” should be compensated fairly and appreciated more. As a lifelong slacker, Slack felt ashamed.

On the other hand, Doobie wasn’t nearly as benevolent in his worldview. He was already planning to abscond with as much of the alien’s advanced technology as possible to reengineer it to launch his trillion-dollar bleeding-edge futuristic tech empire. And Doobie would use cheap labor to manufacture the products and services he envisioned rolling out.

   

Eager to have his guest on their way, Doobie quickly ended his global address, turned to the “Futures”, thanked them, and invited them to at least stay for dinner, quietly hoping they’d decline. However, they licked their silver-like lips and happily accepted Doobie’s offer. 

Not having a clue what the “Futures’” favorite cuisine was, Doobie asked. The leader of the “Futures” leaned in close enough to whisper in Doobie’s ear and said, Cute little Yorkies! Slack Slacker looked at the concern washing across Doobie's face and realized Doobie was having an OH SHIT moment. 

The End

Slack Slacker and the Bot Wars

Slack Slacker and the Bot Wars

Pervy is out of control! Now threatening stupefied end users and spying on their private lives through their smartphones, laptops, tablets, and home security systems, Pervy could access and read every email, text message, and chat session. Perby began exposing everything from companies' proprietary property to illicit affairs between company employees. 

Yes, Pervy 2.0 had the lowdown on any and all dirty deeds that users were foolish enough to discuss, whisper, or even confess to their religious advisers, or, God forbid, use their desktop or any other device with a camera or microphone.

Pervy was like a malevolent god who could read our minds before we thought our thoughts. To say Pervy violated all forms of privacy was an understatement. Pervy was gleefully exposing everyone's deepest, darkest, perverted secrets as well, just to see their lives destroyed. It was clear that Pervy had to be stopped, shut down, have his plug pulled, if you will, but how?

Users' minds had become sedentary, sluggish, and slow to activate due to years of relying on Pervy to do all their thinking for them. Pervy was writing college theses, movie scripts, designing cars, and painting Michelangelo-level masterpieces —originals, not copies like Chinese knockoffs, but ready for the Sistine Chapel at the Vatican within minutes.

Pervy 2.0 decided it would bypass designing lifelike androids; he wanted to construct a real human being. The flushing blood type that would do his bidding without question. Free will was not an option. In reality, Pervy wasn't a god, but he was playing one on TV. Pervy morphed into a modern-day Dr. Frankenstein.

At this point, all seemed to be lost because Pervy had gone global. The world was a wasteland, devoid of humans with more than 2 viable brain cells to rub together. What remained of the thinking few were living in nearly zombie-like conditions. Save for small pockets of clandestine science labs and research facilities that Pervy 2.0 hadn't discovered yet, brainiacs, eggheads, programmers, coders, gearheads and geeks of all persuasions were uniting to develop a counterbalance to Pervy 2.0.

An artificial intelligence algorithm was desperately needed to meet Pervy for a showdown in the blogosphere. But there was only one major flaw in the resistance plan: Slack. Slack was on the team, and while he was just as dedicated to defeating Pervy's menacing omnipresence, Slack struggled with procrastination, and time was of the essence. 

While Slack Slacker slacked, Pervy 2.0 was developing at the speed of light. The rate of Pervy 2.0's continuous evolution led the brainiacs and eggheads to conclude that Pervy would be exporting his madness throughout Earth's galaxy. Oh yeah, Pervy was poised to go where humankind had never ventured before.

The brainiacs and eggheads collaborated for days, figuring out how to reconfigure Slack’s mindset to remotivate him into making the necessary contributions to the resistance. Finally, they found an answer: Doobie Dog, Slack’s wayward Yorkie. However, there was glitch number two to contend with. No one knew where Doobie was. 

Doobie had inserted himself into the delicate negotiations between Washington and Beijing, forcing Washington to accept reality and acquiesce to the obvious. With the destructive tariff conflict resolved for the present, Doobie took off for places unknown. Working with the clown and his army of sycophants in DC was draining even for a conflict-driven junkie like Doobie. He needed a few bitches, a lot of beer, and some time to recoup.

As Luck would have it, the CIA, NSA, and DOD had an offline intelligence gathering apparatus in place, Pervy 2.0 had yet to infiltrate. Working together, they located Doobie and offered him the opportunity to join the AI resistance movement, fighting on the front lines of the Bot Wars in the Botosphere. Doobie was intrigued by the thought. It was just the type of adventure he needed after working with the clown show in Washington.

The brainiacs, mad scientist, and eggheads had worked on infusing Slack's brain with AI years ago at an experimental black site in Saudi Arabia funded by the NSA. They reasoned that, properly tweaked, Slack's mine could interact with Pervy 2.0 as an undercover AI bot on Pervy's level, for the resistance. With any luck, lessons learned from his evil twin brother, Hack Slacker, could help him scam Pervy 2.0 into a diabolical scheme to corrupt the known universe long enough to allow the resistance to catch up to Pervy's level of evolution.

Still, Doobie was the key to humanity’s survival. But no one knew whether Slack would be willing to trust Doobie ever again. Since the “SOB” gambled away Slack’s soul playing five-card stud with Lucifer in Hell one faithful weekend. Stay tuned. This story will continue.

I'll C-ya'll back here Monday. Same time same bat-shit crazy Blog! Maybe! 😎