Author Archives: zippypinhead1

The Frendz

They were telling me the important thing and I was listening to them as they told me the important thing. ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ I said to myself, ‘they are telling me the important thing.’ ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ I said solemnly, ‘that is very important, that is very important indeed.’ But then only seconds later all traces of the important thing had gone clean out of my head! My mind was as clean as a whistle – not a trace of any important message was left in it. Not a trace, not a trace. If I were to be entirely honest at this point I would have to admit that I am not really sure if I ever did have any idea of what the important thing was. I had been listening but that’s not to say that I had taken anything in. ‘Yes, yes, yes’ I said to myself then, by way of a protective reflex, ‘Very important, very important, very important…’


The truth was that I was confabulating. The truth was that I was confabulating like a bastard! The scrubber had gotten hold of me and it had scrubbed me clean. ‘Oh, that old scrubber – it’ll get you every time’ I blathered on fondly, ‘that old, old scrubber. You’ve really got to watch out for it, haven’t you? You’ve really got to watch out for that old old scrubber.’ I winked cheerily at my imaginary audience at that point and then started making kind of reproachful clucking sound by loudly sucking my teeth. ‘You don’t want to let that old scrubber get hold of you, you really don’t’ I warned the crowd of imaginary people who had gathered all around me. I was clucking and winking and shaking my head from side to side for all I was worth. I got very worried then. Panic took hold – suppose the scrumbler was out there and suppose it was getting closer and closer to me all the time, homing in on my mental activity? Suppose it were to penetrate my disguise? Suppose I got scrumbled? Then of course I remembered that it all already had caught up with me. I remembered that I already had been scrumbled by the scrumbling machine.


I was in the Bardo realm and it was very hard to keep a grip on any sort of mental consistency. Things could change so very quickly here – they could change in the twinkle of an eye. Friends could become enemies and enemies friends. I was back in my apartment, leafing through one of my old paperbacks. The pages had got all stuck together in a congealed sodden mass. It came apart slowly in my hands, crumbling away into clumps of damp turgid mouldy-smelling book-dough. I don’t how long I had been sitting there, letting the decayed material of the book run through my fingers, playing about absentmindedly with the lumpy, doughy texture of it. I could have been there for hours. But then I looked up and I saw that darkness had abruptly fallen. Skeletal trees showed up in inky-black silhouette against the darkening sky. They looked like strangely elongated hands – long spindly fingers probing, searching, reaching out blindly into the gathering dusk.


The Frendz were outside in large numbers at this stage – I could hear them chittering at each other in their insect-like language. They wanted me to come out and play. It was hard to catch sight of them in the thick clumpy darkness but I could hear them. I could hear the driving rustling sound they made as they walked. I could hear the crisp crunch of gravel under their feet. I could also hear the harsh, insistent sound of their breathing, which they did through a series of apertures in their abdomens. ‘Come out and play, come out and play, come out and play,’ they intoned telepathically. That was their siren song. Something within me responded to their subliminal calls – something inside me yearned to go out and play with the frendz. They were like the buddies I’ve never had – apart from the fact that they were eight-foot tall with the blunt, expressionless heads of sea-lampreys. They hunted by telepathy – they can track you down by your tell-tale mental presence, which is like some sort of infrared glow to them, and then they sing for you and send you happy pictures. They play upon your loneliness and your credibility to lure you out of the house. They hook you and then they slowly reel you in. ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ they whisper softly in your mind, ‘we’re your frendz, we’re your frendz, we’re your frendz…’








Tales Of The Future

‘Helping’ is a funny thing when you really look into it, isn’t it? It’s a tricky concept. In the future – so I’ve heard – fully automated, multipurpose factories will manufacture millions upon millions of little helper-bots, much as a field mushroom might release billions of spores on a windy autumn day. These helper-bots will go out into the world to help people, obviously enough. No surprise there. The final flowering of mankind’s technological genius! Any serious-minded futurologist is going to agree that this has to be the inevitable ultimate stage of our technological development – what else could it be? What else makes any sense, after all? Do we not always want to help ourselves with the technology we create? We could of course invent death-bots to kill everyone they meet instead but that hardly seems like a healthy direction to move in! What sane society would  want to invent death-bots? So whenever you go helper-bots will converge on you out of the sky and ask you what you need. “How may we help you?’ they will ask you. “How may we help you, how many we help you, how may we help you…” That is what’s going to happen in the future you see – that is the future right there. That’s the future right in the palm of your hand! Helping is a funny sort of thing though, as I believe I started out by saying. Nothing is obvious in this world of ours and if it seems to be so then is only because you are being a bit of dumb-ass. No offence meant of course – that’s just the way it is. Only dumb-asses have the privilege of living in a world where everything is ‘obvious’. Only dumb-asses have that particular privilege and there is no shortage of dumb-asses, as we all know. We’re not  going to run out of dumb-asses any time soon so there’s no need to panic. The helper-bots soon learned that helping human beings by giving them whatever they wanted wasn’t really working out too well. People immediately asked for all sorts of things that didn’t do them any good at all, as you might well imagine. The moral and spiritual state of humanity declined and declined until it reached new and uncharted depths. It hit rock-bottom. The helper-bots learned quickly enough however – each little helper-bot had unlimited real-time access to the supreme planetary AI with its near godlike powers of information-processing and data-retrieval. After studying the works of the ancient alchemists, the planetary AI came to realise that pleasure was not helpful to human beings despite their constant craving for it since euphoria simply acts to cement existing dysfunctional neural pathways, and to cause the crystallisation of malign formations in the personality, whilst pain and torment (which humans ironically abhor) results in the helpful dissolving-away of these malign structures and the breaking-down of the dysfunctional cognitive associations. This immediately produces happiness and peace since the absence of these malign constructs and dysfunctional associations is all that is needed for the well-being and happiness of human beings. Understanding this truth,the helper-bots immediately and with renewed vigour put their not inconsiderable skills and resources into creating torment for the human beings they wished to help, and  – as they got stuck into their work – they steadfastly ignored all the piteous cries for mercy that they were met with. They were helper-bots after all, and they were only doing what they had been designed to do…








Grow Your Own Live Robots

Grow your own live robots, the advert said. Just add water. Just add a pint of regular old tap water and then watch them grow. It’s amazing what modern technology can do, isn’t it? Only a few decades ago that would have been considered science fiction. Only a few years ago that would have been considered ludicrous bullshit. These days of course it’s all the rage. Grow your very own live robots, grow your very own live robots. Watch them organise themselves into small but nevertheless efficient military units and try to take over the world…


That’s just my little joke of course – they’re not really allowed to do that. It’s against their programming. That’s one of the Laws of Robotics isn’t it? Thou shalt not take over the world. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s ass. That used to be a big problem you know. Back in the day. Coveting your neighbour’s ass. It caused no end of trouble. There were fights breaking out all over the place over that and some of them were quite nasty too. Some of them were very nasty. Moses consumed some special cyclodelic plants that he found in the desert and then he communed with an AI. The AI manifested itself to Moses as a giant fractal pattern in the sky and then it spouted a whole bunch of social algorithms. When X happens then make sure you do Y. Always do Y. When Z happens run like fuck and never tell anyone anything about it. AI’s are full of shit aren’t they? These days you can grow them from seeds.


We re-edit our memories every day and that’s why we can never trust anything we think. What a terrible situation to be in, huh? You go ahead and you think your thoughts and that’s fine, that’s great, but then you realise that you could be humouring yourself because you are afraid to think a true thought. You are afraid just in case you do. Think a true thought. You don’t know if you can trust yourself or not because you know you’ve got no integrity as a person. You’ve got no integrity as anything else either! What a situation could be in, huh? I mean – I know I’m going on a bit but do you really get that? To realise that you have absolutely no integrity at all and that you can’t trust yourself not to lie to yourself at all. Not to lie to yourself all day long.  You can never stop to draw breath. You never can stop to draw breath when you’re lying to yourself all day long because you don’t know what might happen if you do. You haven’t got a clue and that’s frightening. That’s the frightening thing right there…


Some things are genuinely frightening and it’s just plain stupid to try to pretend that they’re not. People sometimes like to say that everything is always rational and that there is a perfectly sane and normal explanation for everything but obviously that just isn’t true! Even the people who like to claim that there is a rational explanation for everything don’t really believe that. Even they don’t really believe what they’re saying. Especially they don’t believe this – that’s precisely why they put so much energy into saying it, of course. Rationality is fear itself as we all know – pure naked fear. My point is simple however, despite all my prevarication. My point is that when you put enough energy into turning truth into a stranger then the truth becomes something rather unpleasant, something rather sinister, something rather loathsome. What will the truth be like, you wonder? Will it take on the semblance of a decaying corpse, inviting you into its corrupt embrace?


Truth is a-knocking on the door, can you hear it? I can hear it. Knock, knock, knock it goes. Knock, knock, knock. Truth has come a-knocking! ‘Come on – are going to keep me standing out here forever?’ truth says. You lily-livered bastard. You old yellow-belly. You useless pathetic maggot you. Truth isn’t going to stop knocking you know – that’s not really how it works, is it? We all know that that isn’t how it really works. This really is an archetypal situation of course. It’s the most archetypal situation of all – it’s that old, old situation. It’s that old, old situation that we all know so well…












Tales Of The Euphoric Ego

‘The euphoric ego must be challenged,’ I told myself determinedly. ‘We must hold fast and challenge it to the very best of our ability…’ Fine words of course but I have ever been one for fine words – fine words drip from my tongue like saliva from the mouth of a ravening wolf. Fine words drip fluently from my tongue that the unclean discharge that flows from a suppurating and badly infected sore. ‘Fine words, fine words, fine words indeed…’ I tell myself absentmindedly, but I have already forgotten the point of my ramblings. Not that ramblings need to have a point of course – there’s nothing like a point for spoiling a good ramble, after all.


Some of us prefer to live in the centre of things whilst others would rather dwell in the odd places, the places that are not places at all. Some of us prefer to hang out in the cracks or the world, in the interstices, if I may put it like that. Some of us prefer to inhabit the interstitial spaces. What a love I have for the interstitial spaces of this world! What poetry I could write about them, if only I were not so crippled by fatigue. What poetry, what splendid poetry I could write. When I think about this poetry it makes me sad; it makes me sad because I know I will probably never write it. I shall almost certainly never write it. My limbs feel as if they’re made of lead and my feet are like twin blocks of cement that I have to drag around with me. To exist at all seems like a terrible effort and I have quite forgotten what the point of it is anyway. Perhaps there is no point – who knows?


Sometimes if you stay very still and listen very carefully you can hear the poetry of life. What a wonderful thing – to hear the poetry of life! I’m doing that right now. I’m listening out for the poetry of life. That’s something I like to do. I’m not getting very far however because wherever I go there are gobshytes talking in loud voices. Gobshytes love talking in loud voices, don’t they? They love it so much. Perhaps you think I’m being mean when I say that. Perhaps you think that I’m being judgemental? I’m not though. I’m not being in the least bit judgemental – I’m simply stating a fact. Who can deny that gobshytes love talking in loud voices? What sort of gobshyte would you be if you didn’t love talking in a loud voice? You’d be a pretty poor sort of gobshyte in that case. You’d be a pretty damn poor excuse for a gobshyte and that’s the answer to that question!


Sometimes if you stay very still and listen very carefully you can hear the poetry of the gobshytes! Gobshytes are full of poetry, they just don’t know it. It’s inadvertent poetry that we’re talking about here you see. They certainly don’t mean to be poetical. That goes without saying, surely? Can you imagine being a gobshyte and thinking to yourself, “I think I’ll come out with something poetical now – I’m done talking shit…”? That’s not their intention at all of course and it never will be. Their intention is to mouth off, regardless of whether they’ve got something worthwhile to say not. And that’s an important point to focus on because if they waited until they did have something worthwhile to say than they would never say anything! It would be as if they had taken a vow of silence in that case…


Nobody places much stock in the poetry of gobshytes. Nobody values it. Nobody gives it much credence. “Surely there can’t be such a thing?’ they say, “that would be like talking about the poetry of non-poetry or talking about the poetry of ugliness. It would be like talking about the poetry of gross and disgusting things. ‘The euphoric ego must be challenged, the euphoric ego must be challenged…’ I remind myself. That old ego must be challenged before it goes euphoriating over everything! Before it goes euphoriating over everything in sight, like the dirty filthy old bastard that it is. Because what’s  what it does. There’s a whole world going on out there you know. Full of bastards as it might be. Full of gobshytes as it might be. A whole world – just imagine that! Only we can’t imagine it. We can’t imagine it and that’s the whole point. We can only stay quiet and listen to the poetry of it. If we are able to hear, that is. If we’re not too busy talking our heads off. If we’re not too busy talking shyte, which we probably are…












The Malignant Me

Will they be punished for their vile and unspeakable stupidity, I wanted to know. Will they be compelled to see the error of their ways? I wanted this very badly you see. I was beside myself with indignation. There was me – the regular me – and there was a new, super-indignant me, hopping up and down like some kind of mental bastard. Hopping up and down like a demented grasshopper. Like a demented grasshopper with the head of a man. The head of a very strange man – a man with wild staring eyes, wispy hair and a weird pointy head. They don’t call me Zippy the Pinhead for nothing, you know! Tell me how they shall be punished!’ I demanded to know. I would not rest until I heard the words. My self-imposed torment would not end until I heard the words, spoken as they were by the Infallible Oracle. ‘No they will not be punished,’ the Oracle told me eventually, after I had done a good deal of hopping up and down, ‘but you on the other hand will be. You will be punished for being a twat….’ Do you ever catch sight of yourself in the mirror and give yourself a fright? I do. I think ‘Who’s that freaky looking bastard and why is he staring at me like that?’ Then I realise of course that it’s me. That de-escalates the initial aggression obviously, but then the anger turns into a different emotion, an emotion that’s a lot harder to handle. We all know what that emotion is of course. So there’s no need to go into it any further. Enough said, as the man said. A word to the wise is enough. The least said the soonest mended, isn’t that right? Will they be punished, will they be punished. I wanted to know. Will they be punished? There was me – the regular me – and there was the new super-melancholy me, the me with a long, long face and the gaunt staring eyes. People often comment on my eyes, come to think of it. ‘You’ve got such gaunt staring eyes,’ they say. ‘Such haunted eyes. How come you look like such a freak?’ I’m very bitter of course. So, so bitter. I’m thinking of all the people out there busy enjoying themselves, having a great time. I’m thinking about all the people out there who are experiencing complete and total egoic fulfilment. I can’t even imagine what that must be like. I can’t even imagine, I can’t even imagine. Can you imagine? Can you imagine what that must be like? So so sweet. It must be so sweet – as sweet as syrup. Syrupy sweet. Sweet like syrup of figs. It’s the sad fact that I don’t even know what that sweetness tastes like that cuts me so deep. When the pain becomes too intense, too close to the mark, I have to cut and run. I go into distraction mode in a big way then. We all get sad sometimes, we all get sad sometimes. There are lots of sad things to think about, aren’t there? So many sad things to think about. Not that we ever do think about them of course. I don’t anyway. I’m looking for ultimate egoic fulfilment. I’m on the quest. On the quest, nothing but the best. I am thinking about all the people who are out there having great lives, and it’s like a poison dart hitting me in the heart. I am beside myself with indignation – there is me – the regular me – and there is the new, super-malignant me. Will they be punished, I want to know. Will they be punished?










I really do think that I’ve got psychomotor retardation. I’m not just being flippant here – even though I can admit that my nature is to be very flippant about everything. I’ve had enough therapy to recognise that! That’s how I avoid reality of course, by being annoyingly flippant at every opportunity. And even if there isn’t an opportunity I create one. That sounds very positive doesn’t it? Create your own opportunities – don’t wait for someone else to create them for you. Don’t wait for someone else to create an opportunity for you because they won’t. You’re fooling yourself if you think they will. You’re fooling yourself like a sad pathetic fool. Do you ever get the feeling that you’re just a very bad copy of yourself? I’m not being flippant now, by the way. I’m being deadly serious. I’ve never been more serious. Never been more serious, never been more serious. This is actually a very important and very meaningful question as far as I’m concerned. Of all the disasters that could possibly befall a person this is unquestionably the very worst and most pernicious, but you do have to think about it a bit first. I have think about it a bit first, anyway. I’m a bit slow that way although I appreciate that you might not be. I’m as slow as molasses but I get there in the end. Usually I get there in the end. Not always, mind. Certainly not always. I’ve been known to get there in the end – let’s put it like that. It’s not as if I’m suffering from psychomotor retardation or anything like that! God forbid. What I’m talking about here is the ancient Greek doctrine of Deteriorationism. I can’t remember the name of the lad who came up with it. He was a well-known and highly-respected philosopher, anyway. He probably still is, for all I know. I’d say he still is. So the thing is that if you are a very bad copy of yourself then you wouldn’t know it. That’s the whole point, really. If you knew that you were a poor copy of yourself then who would it be that knew that? Who’s ‘the knower’? The poor copy couldn’t know it; only the original could know that and the original is no longer part of the picture. The original can’t act as a point of reference because it’s not there. So the thing is you see that you’re the bad copy of yourself and you don’t know it and so there’s nothing to stop that bad copy deteriorating further to create the situation where you are a bad copy of the bad copy and you still don’t know. “Oh God, not that old one again,’ I hear you say, “do we really have to endure hearing you going through all that again?” “For God’s sake,” you whine, “would you not try to come up with something new!” But that’s the whole point you see. That’s the whole point – there is nothing new! You’re just not going to come across anything new you see so you’d better get used to that. Take a look around you. Take a good look around you and then tell me that the Doctrine of Deteriorationism isn’t correct! Could the world be any more degraded than this, would you say? The one thing I know for sure anyway is that if that is possible then that is exactly where we are headed…










Pranked By Time

In the invisible future-world of our fathers there is this thing called ‘virtual nonsense’. It’s not really ‘nonsense’ because it doesn’t exist. Anyway, that’s not what I wanted to talk about. It’s not what I wanted to talk about at all although I’m sure I’ll come back to it. I often ask people whether they happen to be familiar with that very particular feeling, that very particular feeling that comes when one realises that one is just a sad, futile and utterly redundant mechanism, a sad and futile ‘mechanism-for-the-maintaining-of-the-mechanism’, and where we also realise that the whole world is made up of nothing but freedom and yet we ourselves are not free. That’s the rub of course. That’s the big rub and no rub was ever bigger. I often ask people this – in more or less these words – and then I wait for the answer. As a rule people deny having this knowledge and so then I get to call them liars. “Is that so, sunshine?” I ask them then. “Is that right now, Sonny Jim?” And then I say “Pull the other one, it’s got fucking bells on it!” In this invisible future-world of our sacred forefathers time itself stands on its head. Time itself pranks us and then it comes back again and pranks us again! That’s the inspiration behind my famous book ‘Pranked By Time’, my famous book that no one has ever heard of. In this invisible future-world of our venerable ancient forefathers time itself doesn’t exist: events occur, as usual, in serial space-time, and then the next thing is that we don’t know if they happened in the distant past or if they will come to pass in the very far future, and we don’t know if the said events will ever occur either. And then the next thing is that we also know, with equal clarity, that the event isn’t an event at all and never could be, and this is why I said that ‘time itself pranks us’. This is why I wrote my famous book of the same title – that famous book of mine which no one has ever heard of! The invisible future, the invisible future. Hiding behind every turn in the road! Lurking in the shadows wherever you go! Lurking in the fluff in your living room carpet. Disguised as the spoon of sugar you’re stirring into your cup of tea. Disguised as the cream doughnut you scoff greedily when no one is looking. Future time is waiting. Waiting to prank you! The invisible future – the invisible future-world of our grandfathers never actually comes to pass though does it? It never quite happens, even though it’s there all the time, like a lizard on the wall. What would it tell you, that lizard on the wall, if it could but speak? What stories could it relate, what tales could it spin? What possibilities might it know about? More than you do anyway. More than you or I do and that’s the sad truth. Does the sad truth make you sad, I wonder? It makes me sad. The sad truth always makes me sad. There is a secret sorrow in everything isn’t there? Secret sorrow, secret sorrow, secret sorrow. There is a secret sorrow in everything and yet we contrive to look so blandly upbeat all the time. “Do you know that thing, do you know that thing, do you know that thing do you…” the wind whispers in your ear as it passes by. “Do you know that thing, do you know that thing, do you know that thing….”




Image – Lizard on the Wall by Chiron178