PissEarth, 2025

Originally published on The American Sun by John Chapman on December 16, 2018

PissEarth, 2025

Originally published on The American Sun by John Chapman on December 16, 2018.

““If much in the world were mystery the limits of that world were not, for it was without measure or bound and there were contained within it creatures more horrible yet and men of other colors and beings which no man has looked upon and yet not alien none of it more than were their own hearts alien in them, whatever wilderness contained there and whatever beasts.”

Cormac McCarthy, “Blood Meridian, or the Evening Redness in the West”

“BORN TO DIE
WORLD IS A FUCK
鬼神 Kill Em All 1989
I am trash man
410,757,864,530 DEAD COPS”

PissEarth, 2025

It is cliche at this point to speak of how horrified you are at the detritus of our postmodern world. There is, of course, a certain kind of thrill in digging beneath the pallid white corpses of decency to see what strange and mutated life is writhing beneath, just so you can scoop it up and toss it in the faces of your friends. However, it has become rote and formulaic to look at just another story of neoliberal capitalism functioning in its just-as-planned absurdity and pull out the clown horn to signal to your friends how far we’ve fallen and how far left there is to get to hell. Our receptors for rage-flavored dopamine need something more, our haterade must be topped off. So I come to you as a prophet and I offer you a vision of the world to come.

I offer you, PissEarth, 2025.

When one hears the name PissEarth, it may conjure up images of ammonia-scented oceans of fetid yellow water, ebbing and flowing in tide under a bloodmoon in a night-sky bereft of stars, while little islands of human refuse taper across like logs of flotsam and jetsam. The spirituality of such a world is not that far off. The seers who are blind know that they were blessed to have lost their sight. You, too, may find yourself in such a state, like Oedipus staring wistfully at the golden pins after his terrible, horrible, no-good very bad lunch date with the shepherd. Like Oedipus, you’re all tainted motherfuckers.

You must understand, I do not tell you these things to hurt you, but to warn you that this new world wants to hurt you. It will. Oh, believe me it will. PissEarth, 2025 is accelerated humanity, and there is no more room for obsolescent units that think in terms of the abolished humanity. They will not return you for store credit or sit you up in Dorothy McGillicuddy’s Home for Antiques. Anything less than total depravity of your spirit, dispossession of your body, and annihilation of your mind would be a mercy. I say ‘you’ because if ‘you’ are still reading this past the first 150 words, then you are already a member of the abolished.

Everything you hate, everything you fear, everything that disgusts you inside, all of that will come quite naturally to PissEarth, 2025. A totalistic reality wholly assumed with no history. What you see now as the “slippery slope” will simply be the waterslide into a community piss-pool everyone will be baptized in. You will never gawk, never sigh and point at just how far we’ve come. You’ll be amazed at the efficiency of it all when it whittles down the Buddha’s Four Noble Truths down to just the very First one.

“I teach suffering.”

some Indian who sat under a tree

Let us be clear. There is Clown World, and there is PissEarth. When we speak of Clown World, we speak of the contradictions and absurdities that the present culture and political order are built on. We speak of a president who is able to shoot impotent missiles at a country his own citizens can’t find on a map but who is powerless to stop a caravan of admixtured Aztecs wearing the hand-me-downs that Fat Bob of Fat Bob’s T-Shirt Emporium wasn’t able to sell. We speak of the nation grounding to a halt over whether or not little girls should be exposed to the Halloween parade hopped up on homemade HRT hobbling into their bathrooms. We speak of dozens of men who have lost gainful employment for making OKAY signs in photos because the Morris Dees newsletter fell for a prank from mischievous, anonymous frogs.

When we speak of these clownish things, we speak with a feeling that dragging these things into the light and exposing them for all the world to see will allow the light to shine in and obliterate the vampires with its cleansing sunbeams. These are all flashpoints in the broad and all-encompassing culture war that the West has found itself embroiled in, with each day yielding a brand new skirmish to deploy for, though the war is already lost. When we speak of Clown World, we speak of trying to find a way to shoo out the clowns.

PissEarth is different. PissEarth is the surrender. PissEarth is the occupation. PissEarth is the Morgenthau Plan for your shattered psyche. PissEarth is the moment this has all been building up to. Clown World ain’t nothing on PissEarth, 2025, the real Greatest Show on Earth.

WORLD IS A FUCK

“Get on with it,” I hear you (and the editor) say, “You’ve talked enough, like you’re trying to warn us from hearing out your vision, like no matter how awful it is we aren’t going to look anyway. Just put me in the hurt-box, please. Just show me what sights there are to behold.”

Very well. Behold, PissEarth, 2025.

Behold PissEarth, where the tech-giants have spread their privatized favelas far-and-wide, where debt-ridden PhDs hustle from gig-to-gig, chasing bounties that allow you to snitch on anyone insufficiently committed to diversity. It will become a game all unto its own, with high scores for ‘scalps’ that were claimed, no matter how absurd the bounties one gets. The dopamine must flow.

Behold PissEarth, where you celebrate your abortion from a mail-order kit as you make a public pledge to reduce your carbon footprint by remaining childless while Nuevo Americano rides a river of trash into your welcoming arms. Adopting enormous underprivileged families becomes the norm as a form of public atonement, and their weak-chinned fathers beam with pride and joy that their daughters are doing such a public service to the world.

Behold PissEarth, where pornographers have the social capital to demand and force aggressive men to watch pornography lest their employment and finances are endangered, mocking them for the damage it does at the same time. A thousand smirking social climbers, all in unison saying “have a fap, you’ll feel better” as their malice goes unchecked.

Behold PissEarth, where procreation is a quaint novelty–every boy a girl, every girl a boy, belonging to everyone and no one, in beautiful rainbow shades of light brown to dark brown, as even the socially ostracized will respect the pronoun and they will suck the feminine penis. Then real communism can finally be tried.

Behold PissEarth, where war is abolished but skirmishes are constant and daily with little purpose to them other than the grim remains of human resistance or simple lashings of animal rage.  No one is happy, but at last they are free. A friendly notification pops up in your latest smart-device, warning you of which roads to avoid for threat of most recent self-contained riot.

Behold PissEarth, with such technological wonders like the IUD that filters the microplastics out of your dick, “air purifiers” in place of trees, and artisanal soylent green but it’s from free-range, cruelty-free cockroaches. Status vloggers chase clicks by dumping half their paycheck to eat dressed up prole food made for them by a group of queer hijabis who receive their funding from a nearby corporation.

Behold PissEarth, where the purpose of a lifetime of labor is to fund research into how corpulent immovable masses of flesh can have better and more revolutionary forms of sex. The research and test subjects themselves become their own programming, another screen to pass the time in your shrinking apartment.

Behold PissEarth, where every neurosis has become a fetish to be enacted in order to attain collective cummies, to be taught in schools, and to be talked about incessantly on perpetual content devices. While the fear of pedophiles will always remain as a release vale for anger, its normalization will be so thorough that vigilantism against it is arbitrary.

Behold PissEarth, where the President will be a figurehead American idol, sworn-in on a human resources manual as they pledge to do their utmost to continue the pursuit of equality before a million teeming masses yearning to breathe at all in the crowd so that they can snap selfies for their social credit score. Though the president will be known as a figurehead, and though everyone will acknowledge that tech corporations have all the power, everyone still states solemnly the importance of a hallowed or is it hollowed democratic institution.

Behold PissEarth, where the gods of the new world are men disfigured into chimeras made from the new sacred rituals and paraded out in victory for their ascendance. Where children are made to be their wards by loving and approving parents. The parents will allow their children to be “babysat” by these creatures, in order that values of acceptance be inculcated at an early age.

Behold PissEarth, where any intellectual curiosity beyond the new and revised canon will be immediately suspect, where not having a strong opinion on the most current pop culture multimedia franchise will mark you with a big red flag on your social credit score, where you will never be able to escape the perpetual content stream as the algorithms pioneered by Netflix find a way to be lodged inside your brain like some kind of mind-control slug slithering its way inside. Your future has been written by media mathematics.

Behold PissEarth, where your experience with nature is a virtual reality simulation that you share with the few people online that you’ve been able to light any embers of a human connection with. Though the simulation glitches and shimmers in an unnatural way, you cling to this image because that little voice in the back of your head fears what you will do if you lose even this little bit of hope’s simulacrum.

I can hear you protest that this is already happening. Yes, the sprouts have sprung but they have not yet bloomed. Only when you have accepted all of these things as assumed and normal, when instead of being complacent your friends and family applaud it will you truly understand the reality of PissEarth, 2025. There will be no more pieces to point and gawk and decry that the world has gone mad. It will all be as staid as the abolished Sunday dinner.

This is what you must understand about the reality of PissEarth, 2025. Everything you joke about is assumed. Everything you satirize is simple reality. Whatever protests you think you’ll register against it simply won’t exist. You’ll keep your head down and just try to get through this life if you have any thoughts of rebellion, because you saw what Clown World did to the ones before you. You saw what it did to your friends, your family, and your brothers. You have accepted that you are but a drop of wine in the entire piss-bucket.

Technology will improve, but your quality of life will not. Materially it will not. Spiritually it will not. Every force that champions this great progress being made will be actively trying harm you every which way in totalistic system if there is any sense that you are not on board or there was a point you were never on board.

If you truly wish to understand PissEarth, 2025 on an intellectual level beyond the confetti-and-glitterbomb sermon I’ve laid out, then you must understand the nature of post-totalitarian ideology. Vaclav Havel lays out many of these concepts in his work The Power of the Powerless but elucidates the nature of PissEarth quite well in his concept of the greengrocer:

“{9} The post-totalitarian system touches people at every step, but it does so with its ideological gloves on. This is why life in the system is so thoroughly permeated with hypocrisy and lies: government by bureaucracy is called popular government; the working class is enslaved in the name of the working class; … Because the regime is captive to its own lies, it must falsify everything. It falsifies the past. It falsifies the present, and it falsifies the future. It falsifies statistics. …

{10} Individuals need not believe all these mystifications, but they must behave as though they did, or they must at least tolerate them in silence, or get along well with those who work with them. For this reason, however, they must live within a lie. They need not accept the lie. It is enough for them to have accepted their life with it and in it. For by this very fact, individuals confirm the system, fulfill the system, make the system, are the system. . . . .”

The difference between Havel’s greengrocer and the PissEarth denizen is that the people of the former are a people trained to avoid negative stimuli while the latter have learned to love the negative stimuli. They embrace it as a mission, as a religious calling, and like Andres Serrano’s Piss Christ they will strike their own perverted Christlike pose and submerge themselves wholly into these bodily fluids. They will immerse themselves and baptize themselves into a world they will lovingly embrace despite every dissonant thought, despite every horrible incident, and despite every pain that’s inflicted on them. They will hate you if you try to pull them out of it.

This is the totalistic reality of PissEarth, 2025.

Okay, Yeah, That Sounds Pretty Awful. How Do I Escape From PissEarth?

You don’t. You don’t escape PissEarth. You fight. You struggle. You take your Boomer father’s yacht that he spent your inheritance on and like Johansen you ram that shit as far into Cthulhu’s sleepy eye as you possibly can. Regardless of how it all ends. You delegitimize the system. You take everything you possibly can get from it and you rob it blind any way you can. Legally of course through any clever loophole you can find, because (taps NSA microphone) we’re good upright citizens who don’t commit any crimes and disavow any and all illegal activity.

Some seek a much more simple way to terminate this endless suffering. Listening to the wisdom of the modern nomads, they have joined the caldera deathcult and pray earnestly five times a day in the direction of Yellowstone for one final eruption to scald away our modern sins. Along this same vein, even the insects in people suits who work unpaid overtime to bring about PissEarth, 2025 stare hopefully up at the stars, not to explore them but to pull down a meteor and simply end it all. Personally, I’m pulling for a nice little grey goo scenario, an experiment of the Han Empire run amok that engulfs, smothers, and consumes the entire world. These are understandable expressions. The trashworld citizen, who knows the world for what it is, who often sat in silence like a totemic mystic once intoned “we are fucking up shit that cannot be easily unfucked“. It’s the bleak reality of a grim future, so why not end it all with a pithy “gg, everybody”.

I have another vision though. A hypnopompic one not as clear, like a dream that fades in the morning but you retain some inkling of it as you go about your day-to-day life. When I meditate I can almost see it within my mind’s eye.

I can see that even in a world lit up in gasoline-doused fires, where pain is maximal, there are men who have learned to love life so much that they will defend the last dignified patch of wood with their very lives, and not a care for how little it all means. I can still see little babies being born and suckling at their mother’s breasts in the dark of night as plastic meteors go down over the lonely mountains. I can see bands of foolhardy boys laugh about the stories they’ve heard, when technological demons once roamed the earth. I can see cold, bitter days made just a bit less uncomfortable by a fire that people learned to light by their grandfathers and great-uncles.

It must be made clear that these green dreams are not premonitions, only some slumbering notions of a better future after the inevitable long dark. Extinction is always on the table, always a possibility, and that wave of existential terror thunders inside like a beating heart in every action.

Short of a miraculous consciousness simultaneously sweeping across the great swaths of the abolished humanity, you will not stop PissEarth. It lumbers and slouches toward us, consuming everything it sees with the moral imperative of a brimstone preacher. To fight against PissEarth will be to engage in the inner jihad, to always be at war with one’s self and the world as the wars of PissEarth, 2025 are maximal wars. The forever wars.

We are not the middle children of history. We are the abandoned children of history, set down in the bulrushes of a river so polluted that it’s being set on fire. Like the Cuyahoga, I don’t know if this one has any chance of being fixed in time to undo any of the damage. Humanity has been abolished and PissEarth is rolling out the recall. You might call this bleak, you might call this depressing, but the facts are the facts and it has become clear there are two types of people in the modern world and there will only ever be these two types of people. Those who want to live and those who want to die. Those who want to die, who have given up on life, are the denizens of PissEarth, whose own lives are simulacrum broadcast back to them by malevolent entities charging them for the privilege. Those who want to live will, to a man and woman, be banished to the outer dark and be made to fend for themselves against every hostile entity, their own just desserts for rejecting the Superior Future.

Do you love life? Do you want life for your descendants? Do you want any hope against just how bad things are going to be? Then you better learn to swim in a burning river, my man, because what else are you going to do?

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