The House That Zelmo Built

“Others that bear no name, who feel that life’s a game,
My verse they will defame, we suffer all the same.” ~ ‘Misery and Famine’ - Bad Religion




Before we delve any further into the hows and whys of our existence, I suppose that we ought to get a few formalities out of the way. First and foremost, I’m not the nicest guy in the world, and a lot of that will translate into these pages as you read on. I swear, drink, and make racial slurs as a part of my everyday conduct. Political correctness is a term used to describe pussies in my book (not the one that you’re reading right now….but I guess that works, too); people who are too afraid to truly speak their minds use the P.C. philosophy to sugarcoat their own words and meanings. This in turn often makes them come across as either holier-than-thou or patronizing, or both.

For example, we often see news reporters and/or news anchors on TV refer to black people as “African-Americans”. Just once in my life, instead of watching Tom Brokaw say something like, “2 African-American men have been indicted on murder charges in Orange County after the body of a 29-year-old woman was found half-buried in a park”, I would love to see Ol’ Tom blurt out, “2 niggers were indicted today on murder charges in the O.C., after the carcass of some 29-year-old bitch was found buried in the dirt like a doggy bone in some rundown, shitty-assed park in that stinkhole Los Angeles dump”, just to make me laugh out loud. But then again, that would only be for the sake of humor. *evil laughter*

Political correctness, in all seriousness, translates into nothing more than a lot of needless tact and too many goddamned syllables. My above example was just me kidding around, naturally. You wouldn’t necessarily have to say the word “nigger” to describe an African-American; you could simply refer to them as “black”. This in turn could translate to any other race of people in this country; why call them Hispanic-Americans when you could just call them Hispanics? The same goes for Italian-Americans, Chinese or Japanese-Americans….even Native Americans. In fact, why even call them hyphenated Americans at all? Why not simply call them Americans? I mean, they all live here in this country as Americans, at least the legal ones do. So why bring their country of origin into the mix? If they are not American nationals, then call them our guests. Unless they’re here illegally, of course, in which case we could just tell them to get the fuck out of the country and send them packing back to whatever third-world shithole that they came from like the sneaky little criminals that they are.

But I digress.

Know this, O World of Mediocre Miscreants, Dullards, and Insignificant Miscellany, that I call myself Zelmothustra! I am the Alpha; the Omega; the brashest, most arrogant motherfucker ever to breathe the same air as you impotent fucks! I like to vent. I like to talk about bullshit. I like to bitch and moan and complain to no fucking one in particular about shit that pisses me off. Whether it be the fat lady standing in front of me in the express lane at the supermarket with her WIC card in hand and her shopping cart overflowing with junk food and baby formula while her cell phone is ringing and her remote starter is getting tangled up in the car keys to her brand-spanking-new 2005 Pontiac GTO, or the stupid old fart that drives 20 mph down a 45 mph stretch of godforsaken wannabe-civilized country road stuck smack-dab in the middle of East Bumfuck, Illinois…and my ass is stuck behind him in traffic, or the fact that I absolutely hate to repeat myself to some incoherent-to-the-English-language fuckwad wetback who just stepped off the boat and is asking for directions to wherever when he can’t even read the fucking English roadsigns to begin with; or the fact that I believe that the world is actually a better place without Saddam Hussein in power over there in Iraq, but leave it to the bleeding-hearts in the United States of Americanically-correct to question how our government, the greatest friend to nihilism in the history of the world, is providing them with the freedom that they take for granted.

Yeah, I know. Everyday life is one grand catastrophic mess on this carbon-based, biologically-enhanced rock floating in a vast sea of eternal cosmic pitch. But hey, a few 40-ouncers of Icehouse makes it all good in the end, nigger. (cracks open a cold one)

Don’t worry though, dudes and dudettes, not everything that I will dictate to you here will be negative. I’m actually a pretty nice guy. Come to think of it, I’m probably one of the nicest fucking people that I’ve ever met. You see, I have to be nice in order to keep my charming façade alive, since that is what disguises Zelmothustra (or Zelmo, for short) from the rest of the idiots in the world who wouldn’t understand my brand of logic.

“But wait a minute, “ you ask, “Aren’t…you Zelmo?”

Well, yes and no. Most people, when they see me out in public, assume that I am a mild-mannered dipshit Eskimo from Alaska named Roger. This is just fine with me, because it keeps me legit, so to speak. But know this, that I am not the civilized everyday man known as Roger. Roger is a fucking pussy who would rather see the good in all people, instead of strictly the worthlessness in them that I see. If I had my way, I would cast Roger aside and take control of his organic vessel of a body, and then show the world what a real bad motherfucker is all about. But sadly, I need the twit to keep me respectable, and he’s a bit better at the written word than I am. He can barely speak worth a shit; I swear he’s never gotten any formal spoken word training in his entire fucking life. But he’s a hell of a damned good writer, and a top-notch speller. Who needs a dictionary and a fucking secretary when you have that piece of shit around, anyway? HA-HA-HA!!!

But back to the point, bitches. Regardless of whether you love me, hate me, or don’t give a shit about me is inconsequential. All that matters is that you are you, and I am Zelmo, and the world is what we live in, and the universe is what that world consists of. In this mortal coil of three-dimensional sequential carbon-based half-life, that’s really all that matters. A wise man by the name of Hutton once said: “There is no vestige of a beginning, no prospect of an end…” And as I study that phrase, I realize that in the end, what sins we commit in this lifetime, or what accomplishments that we achieve, matters little to nothing in the Grand Scheme of Things. The measure of a man or woman is not in the man or woman themselves, but in what they have accomplished in their lifetimes, and what lasting effect that their accomplishments have had upon others who share the same society that they have. But since accomplishments that we achieve matter little to the Grand Scheme of Things, it must be reckoned and deduced that we ourselves matter little to it as well.

What matters to us as human beings, matters only to us, because human beings are trivial beasts. Look at the birds and the bees outside your window, wifebeater! Do they care that you beat your wife? Now start beating the birds and killing the bees! Does your wife care that you’re beating and killing them? No! She’s just happy that you’ve stopped beating her!

Because it’s all about relativity, you see. What matters more than the entire world to you, would undoubtedly mean less than jack shit to me, and vice versa. Human beings are so arrogant in this way that it is astounding. Mankind believed for centuries upon centuries that He and His Planet Earth were at the very center of the Universe! But as time passed on and as technology advanced, Science proved to Mankind that the Earth was but a tiny speck of organic debris set upon the dark vastness of space and time. And Mankind was humbled, while the Universe was busily destroying whole stars and galaxies; cosmic bodies and collective gargantuan proportions that dwarfed the Earth in circumference and mass.

And who am I in all of this, you ask? Well…..to put it in layman’s terms, I am the all-encompassing Perspective; the One who has seen and accepted the fact that Mankind is nothing in the face of all that truly matters. Zelmothustra is my name, because without a name, your human mind could not categorize me into a convenient and understandable thought process; you therefore could not understand nor comprehend my purpose and the very reason I exist.

For example, your God needs a name. Otherwise, who would you pray to? And if you did not pray, then you would feel all alone in this vast Universe, cowering like a lost little child with no one to watch over you. Because that’s really all that God is in the end, isn’t it? Mankind’s babysitter.

Poor, pathetic, and worthless Mankind.



Thus spake Zelmothustra!




This was written over a year ago.






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