P.O.R.E 2 & 3 by Frankie Lassut - HTML preview

PORE 2

Part 1:

THOSE LUCKY BADSTARS.

And Abraham said through Esther ... “In answer to your question ‘why can’t I have something to make me feel good, when all I do is feel bad when I have none of the stuff I want because it hasn’t manifested yet?’.

And someone says  ‘My life is rubbish, this God thing is rubbish. If God is all powerful, then why doesn’t it give us stuff so we can feel good if it’s so important?” ...

Abraham: the answer you don’t want to hear is, the Law of Attraction is the fairest of friends, but the law energy can only deliver to you the like of the vibration energy you are giving off. You see, like vibration attracts like vibration. To get good you must feel good, so your relationship to whatever it is must feel good. You must ignore reality if your reality relationship to whatever it is feels bad.

“But what’s the point in getting something to make you feel good if you already feel good?”

“That was never the case, but because humans think that if they feel bad, something they haven’t got won’t make them feel good for long because they are not a vibrational match to it.”

So, God turns up and instead of bringing glad tidings of great joy, it brings the worst possible news that people could ever imagine:

You can’t have nice things until you feel good.

That’s like the average man’s football team always losing until he can enjoy the game, win or lose.

Of course, people can still have nice things, dependent of course upon cost, how hard the person is prepared to work, and how much overtime is on, how much they like to save, how stressed they’re prepared to be, unexpected ills when trying to save ...

“I worked hard for the things I’ve got, but now I’m too tired out to use them/too busy to use them.

Here’s a good one I thought I’d just slip in as it’s hot off the press.

We have some workers mucking about in the back yard. The bloke is of the type who knows a lot of stuff, or thinks he does. As an old mate used to say ‘if you’ve seen an elephant with two trunks he’s seen one with three.’ “When we feel bad, it is so we can appreciate the good times.”   I find people usually say that when they are in a good mood.

Not long ago, I asked them how they were doing (how you doing today?).

“Not having a good day today” ... long faces, grim times.

“Well, shouldn’t you be happy then, it means that the good time soon will be even better, enhanced by now, which is really a positive time in that case? You told me that.

If looks could kill.

Here’s a real bummer, if you thought that having to feel nice to get nice was bad. Each particle of everything (particles are tiny building blocks of energy ... well, that’s done it) contains the thought energy receivers for both the thing (+ve having and – ve, the absence), so having a glass half full, which could mean feeling good half the time; still a huge order for most, is no good i.e. half and half or half of the whole is neutral ... the car’s going nowhere.

So you have to feel good for 55 %, you HAVE to add the extra 5%. That’s hard to put into time segments, so ... as much as you can. To do so it may help to try and have fun somewhere where you don’t unusually have fun. For instance, I, a man, had to go shopping all by myself in a supermarket because a certain lady was in China discovering bed bugs in dodgy hotels. The till isn’t always the most jovial of places on earth. The girl, who I had spoken to briefly in the past, asked “would you like any help?” She meant with packing. Because I am so brilliant and as funny as God wishes she was, I said “Psychological? If you have any and it isn’t too expensive.”

She went against all supermarket rules and talked to the customer with a smile ... she was happy?!

Management joy killers came down on lines from the rafters on SAS lines, just like in the NHS. I dissolved them with my mind; they melted screamily into the floor, heading for destination HELL. She said “You could go online and get one?”...  I laughed.

“Ok, The last person I knew who used on online Psychologists (or ‘a’, unless she got a group of them gathered trying to sort her head) said that she suggested that she write down her problems on pieces of paper and then burn them ...”

Customers in the line began to whinge ...

I picked up a machine gun from the floor, which had belonged to one of the management who was now in Hell. I blew them all away with some great multiple head shots, which was very satisfying, oh happy days.

“I tried it myself ... I wrote on a postcard my biggest, fattest, juiciest problem, and set light to it. I placed it on a saucer and then went for a pee. I shouldn’t have put it on top of the Yucca pot soil, because the Yucca was dry, as I hadn’t watered it. Up went the house ... it didn’t but it got a laugh. There were no other people in the line, so don’t worry and don’t curse my inconvenient streak.

There was nothing creative happening until my drug crazed brilliant mind got in there. It kills most people dabble with a miserable death as they try to feel good for ‘half’ the time, sorry 1% of the time, because lives are shit. What’s that thing they have at the Egremont (Cumbria) Crab Fair ... ‘climb the greasy pole’. That’s a greasy stick, not a Polish person, like 50% of me is. You see, I’m 5% short of being any Nationality in particular, I’m not recognised as a citizen of anywhere.

‘Mumbo Jumbo’  normal people call it. They daren’t feel good with nothing to feel good about, it’s scary, almost blaughsphemy (MY spelling). How do you know you’ve felt good for 55% of the time? The answer to that is one that will change your life with no effort from you, it just happens. Mumbo jumbo wellbeing is very, very stressing for accountants or MBA people.

At seminars I sometimes take 3 pairs of Marigold gloves. I’ll get a loving couple out in front of the heckling, booing crowd, who by now are chanting ‘down with fifty five percent! God stinks! ... We want more overtime! We hate work!’

Touch her face, feel her skin ... how does it feel?

‘Lovely!’

“Put on all the pairs of gloves, then feel her face ... ok, how does her skin feel?”

‘I can’t feel it’

“That’s awful isn’t it?”

That’s an old trick from a nuclear plant I worked in. Work in a contaminated area, dressed in a PVC suit and three pairs of washing up gloves and then try and pick small screws up watched by a boss looking through a polythene window at you in the polythene tent. Ahhhh bliss! I once fixed something that was always faulty, by taking it apart and then putting the small parts together again with three pairs of gloves on. The manager walked away shaking his head when the device was in bits. It never went wrong again, which was terrible for ‘JOBS’. The gold medal I received was beautiful and the presentation dinner was very lavish. I was fed grapes by a manager while two more wafted me with ostrich feathers on mop handles. That’s a nice mental image ... Barry Manilow was good too as the turn, they couldn’t get Chubby Brown.

Not having that sweet human contact is awful. I agree with, for a different reason, the Catholic Church for not being a fan of condoms. The body allows the owner i.e. ‘you’ to touch your lover, to smell a flower ... lots of things in fact. Before you, the owner, had the body, you couldn’t do that. Doesn’t the fact that you have a body so you can experience the earth with all its pleasures and woes, which looks different to the ‘real you’, feel rather good? Or were you taking that bit for granted? Surely not, I don’t believe you. Are you saying you don’t appreciate just being here?

Wouldn’t that be a good base to start from? How much of the 55% would that fill? Apart from a body and a world which contains everything you will ever desire, which isn’t a bad start. And the age old problem is, getting the stuff you desire. If you get ten grand a year, you probably aren’t going to get a fifty grand car ... which is shit because that’s the way of the world. If someone asks you if you’re lucky, what do you say? ‘No’ ...’the only luck I have is bad luck? ‘I see no ships, only hard ships’?

If I fell into a barrel of tits I’d come out sucking my thumb’? If I fell into a barrel of crap, I’d come out smelling of crap’? While this other person you know who is lucky ... ‘if he fell into a barrel of shit, he’d come out smelling of roses’?

If luck was just a concept, like Communism is to Russians, what if Guri Yeller, the famous mind power man said, ‘we can all get our minds together and think lucky at 8pm on Sunday evening. BUT, there is only enough mind power to affect half the population, if we’re lucky, which we aren’t because there is no such thing ‘yet’ ... so we can’t be, can we?

Looking into the future in a prophetic way ...when the genes were written (or flagged?) with the lucky code or the ‘unlucky’ code, it gave some people the chance to say things with meaning i.e. you lucky bitch to the weekly thousand pound bingo winner who wins every week. Or ‘maybe next time’ to the genetically unlucky person.

Could we say that if luck existed already, before Guri Yeller came along and made it fair (all that means is the jealously took a while to ferment), luck the concept was seemingly very unfair, unless whoever hands it out (God? Or ‘the ‘Gods’?’ how do they decide? Just how do they do that?) ... did it fairly?

How is ‘fairly’ decided or judged?

Would people have to write a letter entitled ‘why I deserve to be lucky’ and then set light to it, so the smoke went to the Gods who can read smoke by all accounts (or is that just Voodoo?) But, if we let he who has not sinned cast the first stone have the first gene addition? Would the queue be long? How about if it was handed out only to those who deserved it and wrote the best letters? What if they weren’t deserving and lied in the letter. Reader, please tell us in as many words as you wish, why you truly wooly dooly deserve to be lucky.

A golfer once said “people say I’m lucky. But it seems the harder I work, the luckier I get.” Gosh, I can’t make sense of that one; maybe he drank woozy juice, saw double, aimed for the wrong hole, hit the green and got his ball in for a birdie. That’s it isn’t it!

Well! No wonder! He’s playing Gooker! He’s brave, he’s playing on a cliff edge too by the looks of things.

That is it! Hard work doesn’t make people lucky, because if it did, wouldn’t lots of people who work hard and are unlucky, would  be lucky (wouldn’t they?). This golfer said that long before the gene writing thing came up.

A while after the letters were written, the panel took a while to read them because there were a few sack fulls, which contained some right desperate sob stories and even some ‘if you don’t give me it’ threats ... it was seemingly impossible to turn down half of the people, so, another method of choosing was needed.

Guri Yeller then stated the obvious way, the fairest way. “Can we draw lots to see who receives the luckiness as part of their genetic makeup, which will be added by geneticists. This will have to be accepted as fair by everyone, otherwise there may be jealousy produced and the shit may hit the fan big time.”

If there is no such thing as luck, and your ticket says One to be lucky Golden Ticket, what were you to do to actually get it, compared to someone who didn’t get one of the honours of being lucky, and so, is therefore going to be ... ‘unlucky in life.’ Christianity makes it easy i.e. if you aren’t Christian, you can’t have it (good job they don’t do that with holidays). Were they unlucky to draw their neg ticket? How can they be? There is no such thing. You can’t be lucky if there is no such thing ... yet. So how did they get the ticket if the hated law, the law of mumbo jumbo attraction says like mumbo jumbo energy attracts like mumbo jumbo energy jumbo bummo (it can’t be stated strongly enough). So the law of the Universe is bollocks and there is no such thing as lucky and therefore no unlucky. How do things work? It’s a bloody frikkin mystery, and, as science says ... ‘We do not know, it’s a big accident that happened by sheer chance.” Hey, if there was a gene code for luck, there must be luck? Unless it was created with the gene code. Maybe it’s a belief? But that’s mumbo jumbo. It is something we don’t comprehend which happened at the time of the big accident.

When the genes were written with the lucky code or the unlucky code, it gave people the chance to say things with meaning i.e. ‘you lucky b ...’ or, ‘oh, unlucky mate.’

Or

“Evening lads, it’s great being lucky, I won ten million on the lottery today and a fabulous car in a competition with all petrol, servicing etc., for life ... great eh?! How are your lives since the big energy gene code additions anyway?”

‘Oh, not too bad, you know, could be better, soon be Christmas.’

‘I got the sack, Charlie’s wife left him with all the house contents after she maxed out his cards. Carol’s hubby dropped her off at work and drove off in the car; it was the last she saw of him ... and her bank accounts in the red. Apart from that, things are not too bad, not too bad at all. Not much change actually, basically the same as back when luck or bad luck didn’t exist.’

So, if Billy crashed the car into a fence after the pilot of a bi winged aeroplane threw his slops bucket out of the cockpit after a long trip and a turd landed on the windscreen of Billy’s car ... what was it if it wasn’t bad luck? Actually, the engine from a 40,000 foot high 737 landed with a clonk in the road just where Billy would have been if the turd hadn’t hit his windscreen ... making the turd, erm, ‘L, L, L ... erm, an accidental freak coincidence?

People who won ‘luck code gene additions’ were known as ‘Lucky Badstars’ (which was user friendly swearing), and within a few years a wall was built, like Hadrians, separating the two different sorts of humans (it made real the North South divide in England). But too much of the same for the lucky people bred boredom. For the Unlucky Badstars, they would climb onto the wall to watch ‘Those Lucky Badstars’. The ‘luckies’ quite enjoyed this and so had large doors built into the wall every so often, twenty miles perhaps? Usually near towns where bad luck reigned, especially in the minds of the people, so they could have a Lucky Procession around Grimsville (a name given to drab, demoralised towns) every month, showing off their good fortune.

They wore these glasses so people could recognise the Luckies if they mingled with their poor, unlucky miserable brothers and sisters (more on the glasses later).

In Lucky Land, a TV programme was devised called The Luckiest of the Lucky. People in Unlucky Land, or at least those who hadn’t had their second-hand TVs pinched, would watch it and wish and fantasize that they were Lucky Badstars. None of the management or workers from Wilkinson Sword got lucky and so the French Revolution, in English didn’t happen ... they were hoping to win the blade contract on the guillotine. Unfortunately, as it was so fair a thing, the Unluckies couldn’t have their revolution.

But then, disaster. The life of the gene code was found to be ten years, after which, luck both good and bad once again became non-existent. No one could then work out why one woman would live the life of Riley, while another one struggled to make hens meet (she was a poultry farmer in the recession).

Even in a bad quadruple dip recession, some people thrived and some didn’t. Luck couldn’t be blamed as there was once again no such thing and, in a natural way, the old mumbo jumbo so called wellbeing belief resurfaced to terrorise people who didn’t like crap once again. “I have to feel good to get nice things?! I have to practice some crap called The Art of Allowing? What is that crap?!

Whoa!

A good time for a segment of refreshment said Abraham.

I don’t know if Abraham meant a can of beer, but here goes ... glug!

Here’s something to stare at while you are refreshing. They’re seeds. I picked them up off the road, took them home, held them into the direct sunlight, and ‘click!’ (more of a nice scrunch, but you know what I mean). I may do an exhibition called ‘The more you drink, the better they look. Shall I put free booze on to prove my claim?

Commence ...

What’s this ‘feel good to get good’ business anyway? I’ll tell you what it is, it’s weirdo time, time for some good old mumbo jumbo. Everything is vibrating, right? Believe it if you want, all you need be is delusional. Delusional is easy i.e. ‘there IS a God’... there you go, I’m delusional. But there is NO Devil ... hey up! Double delusional!

The invisible part of us, which isn’t real obviously, is supposedly pretty big and as it has no shape as such (you can’t imagine that unless you’re well deluded, try it anyway). When you have no shape, you can take any form and when you’re a big cloud of energy like we are supposedly, we can be the thing we want. Then, we, as the thing we want, invisible, and vibrating and all that jazz, we can then go and appear in front (and behind) our physical selves and be the thing, but we can’t do that unless the mind in the physical joins us in feeling good ... our waiting room for manifestations is pretty big and pretty packed, Abraham calls it the Vortex. This feel good thing is something the human part of us can practice in order to feel good and is called The Art of Allowing i.e. allowing our stuff to come to us. If we are carrying negative energy, it is called resistance, because we resist our ‘real’ selves coming with the prezzies, or, it is best known as unlucky, or bad luck. However, we can communicate with our physical self, mind, cells and all. We can send ourselves in the physical, signals of emotion, because we are energy which we can set in motion, it can feel good or bad to the physical self. It’s a good system, and it is called The Art of Allowing. Humans tend to hate it, so they mumbo jumbo it, to their utter despair. As it turns out, your best friend isn’t your mother, it’s your invisible part.

 OTHER ART. Good segment of refreshment this, innit.

But. What actually is art? After years of research, the Latin is the best description of art, they call it Ars. I like art, well some of it anyway. Art is supposed to make your mind agree with your invisible part, who/which likes art i.e. you get a bad signal if you don’t like it and a good signal if you do. In other words, if you feel bad when you look at art, you’re a twat as far as your invisible counterpart is concerned (giggles).

Sorry, but who said your invisible bit doesn’t have a personality? And definitely an opinion. I don’t care what people think, the invisible bit is cool.

I have asked people who I know, who work in a state that they call ‘hard’, which doesn’t mean breaking rocks, it means applying themselves even if they don’t like the job (I think) ... “Do you like the art of Damien Hirst? He’s just sold a shark in some formaldehyde for twelve million quid.” They got red faced and angry ... “What! For that RUBBISH!” ... tip: Don’t ask anyone who uses weapons in their job i.e. butcher, when he’s chopping something up.

So, if only they appreciated it, they would then feel good, but, maybe it was the money aspect? Never begrudge anyone. So, Mr Hirst was out.

There was always Tracey Emin, she did that beautiful piece of work worthy of the Masters of art i.e. Van Gogh, Rembrandt, Debussy, you know the wine pack. She just got out of her bed, full of crap, and sold it ...

There are many other examples.

I decided to become an artist, a modern one, it looked easy ... maybe even make some wedge? I’ve watched that wacky programme called Four Rooms a number of times. Tracey Emin’s brother was on one episode, trying to sell a scribbly letter of hers which had written on it, I HATE YOU GRANDMA ... for thousands. Fine. She’s the one who sold her unmade filthy bed, as you recently learned, for a pot of dollar. Now she’s a famous artist, maybe the best ever (giggles).

It’s quite pleasing, because that sort of thing makes ‘our’ (MY) books works of art (if I do say to himself ...  that was a very arty statement, up there with Shakespeare and a guy called Milton Grizebeck, who writes Cumbrian sheep poems, in sheep language ... bloody genius!).

MY unmade bed ...  I’m originally from the English Lakes, my girlfriend Myrtle is under the bed. It took some doing i.e. getting her under because their wool is hard to grab because of the slippy lanolin. Meg, Joss Naylor’s sheepdog would have been handy (see our book, The Atomic Shepherd www.frankie-lassut.com). They’re my pink silk undies, which went down well (not like that!) when I was in hospital not long ago. I crapped in them when I wasn’t well, but washed them, a tragic mistake for this piece. I realise now to my utter despair that I shouldn’t have washed them, oh what a fool I am.

But a filthy bed? That’s just something to fade in comparison to MY prize exhibit, it’s like Damien Hirst’s shark ... I have my Grandma preserved in a fish tank full of formaldehyde (everyone thinks she’s up the graveyard ... well, she was).

My loner friend, Damien Cursed (not Hirst) bought a rubber Grandma online, which looks just like one of those rubber chickens, but longer. He bent the legs and wrapped fuse wire around them so it looked like they had been broken and folded, so she would fit in the fish tank (the legs are actually modern art). He cut the beak off with a Stanley knife and stuck on a rubber nose from the joke shop, and it looked just like his scrawny Gran. He put a black sheet over the aquarium, just like they do in that boring water immersion trick and then would reveal it/her when he had visitors, some of which fainted.

He taped himself breaking some sticks of celery and plays the recording over his quadrophonic stereo system and tells the same people it is the noise of her legs breaking as he folded them to get her in the three foot tank of Formaldehyde, which is what they put dead people in sometimes, or pigs with two heads (people fainted again when they heard the celery go scrruuunnncchhhh). Mine’s real though. She left a letter to be put in one of those little explanation frames on the front of the tank ... which said

Dear Sicko Ghoul Viewer

I asked my dear, sweet, cute as a button (not a toggle) grandson Frankie to put me in this tank of formaldehyde (after I’d croaked of course), the tank formerly belonged to my goldfish Prudence, who got scoffed by her boyfriend Mike the Pike). I asked him because, apart from him being hung then put in Madame Tussauds for this heinous crime, I always wanted to work in an art gallery, the chamber of horrors in Tussauds, or staring through the weeds in a large tank in the Scotland Yard’s Black Museum. There would be a note on the front saying ‘Do you want to be a Dead Bod Squad policeman? Can you spot the lost body?  If you can, please tell the Sergeant and he will give you an application form’ ... a novelty exhibit you’ll understand if there isn’t enough room on the form for your bullshit, please use a separate sheet).

I think it would have been good to have a crowd staring through the glass, and somehow make my body fart (air hose?), as they sometimes do.

Yours Ima Kwite Green (literally)

Well, nobody would have my prize exhibit, not even the Birmingham Sea Life Centre, a favourite place of mine ... so, I decided to do a more practical Damien Hirst inspired idea, spot pictures (please don’t get confused between Cursed and Hirst). I do also have a graffiti friend called Clanksy, who is easy to confuse with Banksy. Clanksy walks around with a beige sheet over him because he doesn’t want anyone to know who he is, just like Banksy, who is actually in a nut house (under a sheet).

I went around his house the other day, he was cutting eye holes in his sheet because he had bashed his head on a lamp post ... he did have a very large lump on his forehead (and a broken nose). He said he had had some good ideas for graffiti art after he had given his temporal lobe such a good shaking.

My mate Damien decided to give this particular idea i.e. spot pictures a go, because for a start, he didn’t have to think very much; which is always a good thing where most humans are concerned (40 years in a job where no thinking is required is almost orgasmic to some).

He’s made a few quid with his spot pictures. His last one sold at a car boot sale for the record price of £4.75, which really isn’t bad, extremely good in fact (he got a bottle of strong cider and immediately did another after three glasses). But, inspired, I decided to go one better, of course. I decided to let my inbuilt genius run wild.

If you were to buy a Cursed (Damien, not Voodoo) framed picture, it would now cost about five to six quid, as he is becoming more popular. But my idea means all you have to do is buy a frame with probably some white paper in it, and stare at it through my specially designed glasses; it saves you a fortune. I found that spots are hard to draw and colour in with decent felt tips, never mind paint. I tried a compass but got a hole right in the centre of each one, and drawing around a ten pence coin is really difficult. In the end, I bought some spots from Rymans.

The specs to look at, pretty snazzy to the observer, who thinks, ‘who’s that nutter?’. I can see these going for at least a quid at a car boot sale.

You see, put them on and stare at a white wall, or a frame with white card in it ... instant spot picture. Saves you a bloody fortune.

These next glasses (I’m on a roll now) are for depressed people (unlucky badstars) who want to appear lucky so they can mix with lucky people to see if any of that luck rubs off. Wear these amongst the normal crowd of unluckies you associate with, the unlucky depressed badstars will soon hate you, so don’t be surprised if you get the occasional slapping, or dirty looks at work. Never ever go into the Inland Revenue headquarters with a pair on.

I’m a lucky badstar. The ‘I’m Lucky’ glasses again! Brill, aren’t they.

I heard an Abraham Hicks recording on one of their voyages. The guy in the hot seat asked ... “will we see the whales on this voyage?”

Abraham, through Esther replied ... “No we will not, the whales have been harpooned by a whaling fleet, plus a few fur seal pups have had their heads smashed in with baseball bats, although the pattern of the blood in the snow could make a nice, good feeling abstract art picture for someone’s wall.”

In view of this sort of human behaviour I may invent ‘Whale Specs’. In the right eye the whale is jumping from the water like they do, just think a fat bastard jumping from the shallows in joy, and in the other lens a big splash. I could get my mate Prince Harry to drop a large boulder from his Chinook for that one. All you would have to do is close one eye and open the other for a novel one frame whale jumping movie.

And that was the refreshment period, talking art.

Now back to the mumbo jumbo

No, hang on a sec. Just up the road from the seeds, I came across this ...

It’s plastic. It was by a lamp post and I thought: what if a pissed/ drugged up Goth walks past in the night when the lamp was on with its eerie orange glow? What happens when his brain gets hold of it c/p with magic mushroom?

How about......

Snazzyyyyy!

If you live in a city but crave the seaside, I have a solution for you. It’s easy, bring the seaside to you.

Each day then, you can go to the loo side, you just have to make it a little sea eee ...

Then you can go, sit there, and sing ...

‘Oh I do like to be beside the loo side

Oh I do like to be beside the loo

Oh I do like to walk along the corridor

Then go in and have a good stiff number two.’

Ok, end of refreshment segment. Don’t have nightmares.

Where were we? Having to feel good to attract nice good feeling things via the Law of Attraction, using the Art of Allowing. Allowing basically meaning, avoiding the collecting of negative energy which is called ‘resistance’.

But, I want something to make me feel good when I feel bad because I haven’t got that something that would feel good if I had it. If ONLY I had it! God you bastard! I said a fucking prayer! Are you deaf?! What are you?! A fucking miser or something?! All those mansions in the country house! When is enough enough!? Surely you can’t live in them ALL AT ONCE! Now we humans, so