The Mysterious Case of The Mysterious W.W. & Lumps of Grease
1.
The Mysterious Case of The Mysterious W.W
Aug.14.2037
Who is W.W?:
Lit. giant Arthur Jinks takes on strange protege, but is he for real?
By Chazz Pewilter
Having gained world acclaim in the early 2020’s for his controversial book This Novel Stinks Like You, author and professor Arthur Jinks established himself as the preeminent figurehead of the incipient Neo-Iconoclasim movement for a number of years before fading into relative obscurity, once he became (unsurprisingly) disillusioned. Jink’s has taught English courses in San Francisco, CA for a number of years through the state’s TeachSim program. In recent months, however, Jink’s has once again been in the public spotlight, though not for his own glory, at least not according to him. Rumors began to circulate late last year that Jink’s had taken an unknown homeless artist off the street by the name of The Mysterious W.W, and was planning to have their work published.
According to Jinks, he first happened upon W.W in the wee hours of the morning, roughly a year ago, when he was passing through the Castro District on his way home and “saw a man, who looked like, well, some kind of walking anachronism, like a Santa Claus from hell, who was being violently kicked out of what I believe was a bathhouse.” Jinks normally would not have paid the incident much mind but “there was something in his eyes that, at the risk of sounding absurd, seemed to reflect the whole universe.” Jinks parked his car and intervened in the altercation, and ended up taking W.W home, much to the dismay of his girlfriend, “The first thing he did when we got home was punch a hole through one of my partners Monet paintings and throw it out the window, he was mumbling something about how nature was more than mere impressions, needless to say, I took some heat for that, but talk about an iconoclasm!”
In the weeks to follow Jinks found it impossible to have anything even close to a normal conversation with the man who would only refer to himself as The Mysterious W.W. There was, however, “some real music in him, a kind of smack-head slam poetry that was truly mesmerizing, he was like some kind of 21st century prophet, totally authentic and outside of the post-postmodern post-irony of the last 30 or so years, a man who can only speak his truth through a kind of… pop-cultural schizoid symphony.”
Having found his messiah, Jinks took it upon himself to spread the gospel of W.W by taking him on an ill fated publicity tour that ended abruptly after W.W urinated into a gluten-free vegan cake batter in front of the live studio audience of Namaste Mornings with Debbie Stewart. Both Jinks and W.W have stayed clear of the limelight since the incident, but with the much anticipated release of W.W’s works set for next month, we can all expect to see them again soon. Can W.W live up to the hype? Only time will tell as this mystery man continues to unravel.
Chazz Pewilter is an automated journalistic algorithm, if you are experiencing factual errors plz contact us at globonews.support@bingbong.com
2.
Lumps Of Grease
A Bong To Myself
By The Mysterious W.W
1.
I sell a bit of myself,
I sling myself,
I take selfies…of myself.
I am myself sometimes, and sometimes I am not quite myself.
And what you are assume about me, so what if it’s true?
Every atom of my being is rubber, and every atom of your being is glue,
And every atom of the universe bounces off me and sticks on you.
I loafe in the living room and eat my roommate’s lean pockets, and I observe my danks nugs of grass.
And the room fills with smoke of dabs and wax and smells like sweet axe body spray, and I wipe my sticky fingers on my three week old sweat-pants in perfect peace, until the undocumented extraterrestrial who lives on my couch tunes his antennas to let me know that:
All we are is lumps of grease.
2.
And the girl, she dances naked in the pixelated light of the EYE-Phone screen,
And the men on the bus,they laugh at the way she masons’ her low down dixie,
But I don’t laugh, I stay quiet when I yankee doodle my dandy.
That’s real democracy.
3.
O’ Captain Crunch, My Captain Crunch!
I do the the dew, and I obey my thirst,
I snapple crack pop my freshmaker,
Because once you pop, you can never stop,
Not even if you beg for it to stop.
And I eat fourth-meals eight times a day,
Because I can have it MY way,
I am the last to give witness to the deep fried crucifixion of JEHOVAH-God Chickens.
By JESUS CHRIST, I am finger licking good,
But Allah, she peeks from behind the veil of Maya,
And she asks me: Where’s the beef?
Well, I hamburger help myself to a handful of infidels,
And I tell her happy cows come from Kalifornia
But they are only happy because ol’ Uncle Sam:
MICROWAVES THEIR BRAINS WITH MIND CONTROL SATELLITE’S YOU FUCKING IDIOTS! MY SANITY IS MELTING LIKE A MAD COW DANCING ON STEEL BEAMS!
AND IT FEELS LIKE A MAGIC BULLET HAS COME FROM AN IMPOSSIBLE DISTANCE AT IMPOSSIBLE SPEED TO RIP THROUGH MY BRAIN! AND MY TEETH ARE COMMITTING SUICIDES IN FLUORIDE! OPEN YOUR THIRD EYE SHEEPLE! THE REPTILIANS ARE STILL CASHING MESOPOTAMIAN PENSIONS, IN THE 4TH DIMENSIONS!
And Im’ lovin it.
Ba-dap-bap-bap-baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa’!
4.
I saw XENU! flowing from the soda machine.
Enlightened fizz auditing all the ghostly thetans from a 12.oz L RON.
I AM L.RON!
And so are you, let’s just make that 1 billion years Crystal Pepsi clear.
I saw the Gold Plates of Moroni, shining in the seer stone eyes of a young cashier,
I AM MORONI! Playing my golden horn to the bitter end,
Till’ I baptize of the dead.
And as I pay with the pearl of great price (the VISA MASTER RACE CARD I swiped from from my roommate)
I know that I AM BECOME DEBT — DEFAULTER OF LOANS!
And as I stare into the salacious shape of the cheesy gordita, it stares back into me, and it tells me to-call-my-mother.
And as I crunch down in oedipal fury, I know that time is nothing but a flat tor’tilla.
And all the fire-sauced buttholes,
Are burning hot like bong-loads,
And through the misty EYES of fog city, these lumps of grease know,
At long last,
For whom, The… Taco… Bell…Tolls.
