Pro Forma Field Trip Protocols
Or Why We Sign the Affidavit of Future Self Communication
You see, we1, the Virillion CyberJansenists of the Final Doomrite (Cadillac-Fairview Deployment) are a guerilla movement. That’s why the Hair Shirts and Cilices. That’s why the flagellators flagellatin’ to bead the band. That’s why the Lemurs, Jungle Music, and IBM5100s.
Let’s just get this out of the way before another of your little “insurrections,” k?
Before we can go you must swear the oaths of you must sign The Affidavit of Indemnification for Future Self Communication, and that all might sound a bit onerous and potentially “life-ruining,” and, of course it is, but life is a blessing, right? As in a ruined one is better than one that ends this very hour.
First, our HR manager has a few words from a WHMIS perspective regarding the mal-onerous gaze of 1996’s Malacto-Men.
Big Jim? Are you there? Oh who could miss him. Give it up for “Big” Jim “Bautista” Vico everyone.
JimBautistaVico: “Hello everyone. Looking hale, maybe a touch of malnutrition, but overall: hale. Given the volatility of ▽ℂʖ opposition, we have by necessity modelled ourselves after the ethos of the biker gang. To firm up your loyalty, you will need to be “beaten in.”
Please form a lane; own the Rite. Excuse me, that is my little joke.
Alright fellows, don’t think the end of the line gets it any easier because our brothers in Viriliosity get “worn out.” We only get angrier. Angrier at Devoid Cronenberg. Angrier at the elect, if we are the unelect, and vice versa.
Beatings don’t last longer than 3-5 minutes so I don’t want to hear a lot of whimpering. Time has stopped, k. That’s something worth whimpering about.
So put on your Devoid Cronenberg masks and **screaming** get psych’d for the beat-in.
Okay, going well. Going well. A little more moaning than I expect of nascent 𝕍𝕮𝕵 brothers but not every man is elected with Jansensist Steel in his veins.
Oh, I notice a little freckled boy cowering behind the gauze cobw ebs. Can a recently beaten in 𝕍𝕮𝕵☉ker of the AutoMoto Catalytic Converters of Cyclical Cataclysm Club please kick him back into line? That’s a good lad. Please don’t cry. Many of us have children of our own. But we’ve got to trust you, son. What’s your name, son? Justin. Why Justin you already seem tougher than half of these “My eye, my eye”-types.
And now don’t you feel the enhanced brotherhood. Speaking of male bonds and bounds, a quick word on traditional approaches to monogamy and relationships we have also borrowed from the gang ethos from our director of inclusion Paoline Pascaleniquity.
“Jaundicedmen…you seem in need of some resolves…
but still, Better with the ▽ℂʖ of the Final Doomrite, is it knot,
than the Malacto-Mood Men, those murderous Highwaymen of the Heart and Hearth, forever on the roam, from home to home.”
You have been warned of the Malactophylegerii of Spirit2, am I correct in assuming this? The MalactoMuckety-Mucks find the seminary sludge of 1996 to be a very “productive” environment for their foul urges towards
**picture*
And so it’s tough, you know, to witness. And we must pass the Malacto-Men in order to get to The 401 and Dixie Mall. And when we do, they will consider us the trespassers. Saying we thought their Malacto-thoughts first. You will have to look into your soul and ask yourself if you are yourself a malactophylegerii of spirit. At which point, after many violent intrapersonal incursions, we have come to an accord with the malactophylegerii of spirit, that you can then join their guild. It is my heartfelt suggestion and hope for each of you that you don’t.
Anyway, looks like that does it for the beat-in and the business concerning all of our Old Ladies.
As ever, sardines can be fished from the Sardinaire's, should you grow desperate enough. And we are out of water, so it may become necessary to drink from the Sardinaire’s ancient mulch of fetid oils. However, doing so will have you licking your lips compulsively, which the Malacto-men also do, so they might then take a yen to you, and ask you to visit The Feeding Troughs of The Shared Experiential Disgrace with Them./ This, you must decline, even if morbidly curious. Decline the investigation to those Troughs, brothers of the 𝕍𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔩𝔩𝔦𝔬𝔫 C𝔶𝔟𝔢𝔯𝔧𝔞𝔫𝔰𝔢𝔫𝔦𝔰t Election and Others of Puerile Predilections.
On the fieldtrip, there will be lunch, provided by Aramark; oh, and maybe I shouldn’t spoil the souer-prized, but save room for popcorn, and when you eat the Club Silencio Popcorn, it is essential that you wear the latex gloves we will provide after
Some of you 1996 AOL subscribers (you know who you are) have been asking where User Steev Mike is. We’ve come to know and loathe his awful, ugly ways.
Look, we are User Steev Mike. We live through his head, type through his fingers, and blog through his email harassment web application. He is the original author of the Affidavit, which is why we get to be here. He is fed just enough to perform the maddening number of Two Fucked Whore Auto-Negations this timeline requires.
Oh, relax, he’s fine. We give him a bottle of Zambuca, erase his mind, and send him out with a good pair of headphones that also communicate his instructions. We took him off Dylan and onto Jerry Garcia—same setlist for 40 years, you don’t get anywhere new with that kind of Deal. Currently, he’s doing a bad rap of “ain’t no bread in the breadbox” thanks to the Phenibut we re-transfer into his GABA-SeptiCity of Blights.
GG Malactophylegerii of Spirit
The Malactophylegerii of Spirit is a term for entities who perform a “microscopic, near-invisible sequestration of Being” through “successive acts of subtle occupancy”. This process is not overt theft but a form of “ontological parasitism”—an “infratheft” so subtle it evades detection. They siphon a subject’s essence through the mere act of acknowledging them.
Named after soft-rayed fish (Malacopterygii), their actions are symbolized by the fish’s flexible fins, representing “persistent forms of psychic attachment”. They “drift softly but hook deeply”, embedding in a subject’s metaphysical tissue to “extract identity as rent”. This reconfigures the ‘Self’ from a person into a “layered tenancy” or “asset-backed occupancy”.
They operate in the shared experiential space (SESE), which is not a physical location but a psycho-geographic or technologically-mediated zone where emotions, traumas, and perceptions are stored and transferred. This space functions through an “osmotic breach between bodies,” allowing for a “shared ownership of the trespass.” Within it, perception and time are distorted (”touch lingers longer,” “sound distorts”), and events are “stored at sub-narratable density,” often in technologically mediated environments where “perception can be inhabited parasitically.”
The SES was a neuro-social technology that promised to end miscommunication by linking participants’ sensory and emotional data in real-time. It was marketed as an empathy tool and adopted by governments for peacekeeping.
Initially seen as a utopian way to “de-privatize interiority” and foster deep empathy, it quickly became an exploitative economy where intimate experiences were commodified.
Private emotions and memories became salable public signals. Users could sell experiences like panic attacks or orgasms. This created a market for “unsanitized shame-traces” and other intimate data.
The system was vulnerable to hacks and “experience hackers” who could insert false memories or modify people’s affective states.
Users began experiencing “identity disintegration” and difficulty distinguishing their own memories/emotions from others’. This was called “intraspatial affective bleed” or “Stolen Subjectivity Syndrome.”
The “Index Crisis” occurred when the system for keeping identities and experiences distinct collapsed, leading to rampant violations of mental privacy.
Factions emerged promising “Subjective Coherence Zones” to protect against intrusion. The technology that was meant to foster intimacy ultimately led to its collapse.
Critics saw it as a totalizing system of surveillance and control that rendered even passive perception ethically suspect.
Ultimately, the SES failed to account for the ethical terror and exploitation that would result from making interior lives mutually legible and commodifiable. What began as a utopian vision ended in dystopian collapse.