The Shining American Jewel from Another Dimension
ADAM MICHAEL LUEBKE
I was listening to an old radio broadcast where a man called in and claimed he was from a different dimension. In that alternate reality, the South had won the Civil War, but existed peacefully with the North. Slavery had been abolished. In that America, we had set up a colony on the moon and landed men on Mars long ago. Mexico had been annexed by the South. Canada had become a part of the North. There was much prosperity and solidarity among the nations. Curiously, our major auto industry was in Atlanta instead of Detroit.
Here in our dimension, I can’t help but feel we’re slipping behind. One should never compare himself to others, and I suppose it should be that way with our respective dimensions. Just because alternate universes far more developed and intelligent than ours lay stacked upon us like blankets on a bed doesn’t mean we should concentrate too hard on our failures. It could be worse (check out the dimension where the Nazis won WWII). Yet, look at our realities. Look at the nature of our successes. Perhaps we could strive to do better.
The creator of Beavis & Butthead lives in a Malibu Mansion, but also keeps an unassuming condo in Santa Monica to which he brings back his date, or the girl he met at the bar, so as not to give away how truly rich he is, so as not to have to bring up the truth that he is, indeed, the creator of Beavis & Butthead. Instead Mike Judge can find out if the girl likes the bald, chill, well-dressed man for who he really is, and not what successes he’s had.
Sure, the multimillionaire Mike Judge happened to have a bunch of other hit productions a little more intelligent than B&B, such as King of the Hill and Idiocracy, but it was those two gnarly teenagers watching MTV and grunting and talking about boobs that really sprung Judge to the Big Time. That seems to be an apt indicator of America in our dimension.
Essentially, the two worst students in American history, and arguably the two most despicable and expendable young people on the planet became the two most popular, mimicked teenagers in the nation. Meanwhile, our constipated American history buries other human accomplishments, like Nicola Tesla’s invention of free energy.
What teenager strives to be Nicola Tesla?
Well, kids, he discovered how to suck unlimited energy from the ionosphere and, through a “huge magnifying transmitter, discharge high frequency electricity…turn[ing] the earth into a gigantic dynamo which would project its electricity in unlimited amounts anywhere in the world.” (source)
Imagine unlimited energy in houses, cars, and industrial plants. Imagine everybody on earth with clean water, food, transportation, and no oil or coal pollution.
Tesla, despite receiving awards and being featured in Time magazine on his 75th birthday, still died after living in a diminished condition in a New York City hotel room. His pastime included feeding the pigeons in the park. I haven’t received official word about what happened to Tesla in any alternate realities, but in this one, he was squashed by his own benefactors, such as JP Morgan.
Morgan, who bankrolled Tesla’s experiments, was rather impressed with the brilliant scientist, but when he realized Tesla had found a way to create free energy, Morgan asked the quintessential question that sums up virtually everything that is wrong with America today. “If anyone can draw on the power, then where do we put the meter?”
Where, indeed? Well, I can think of a couple of places you can stick it, Mr Morgan.
We’ve also got a president who admits it’s tough to know when to pull the trigger on bad guys and evildoers overseas, especially when there are women and children living in the area where the missile is going to strike, but he still makes those decisions, and innocent people die.
But for this conscientiousness and judicious use of predator drones, and the fact that unlike his predecessor, Obama has only been directly involved in about 4500 innocent deaths, rather than 1 million, he’s been celebrated. It’s for this sort of level headed scaling back that Obama has been awarded a Nobel Peace Prize. War is peace…freedom is…ah hell, you already know the drill.
Why don’t we get back to greatness?
Why doesn’t the president pitch the idea of America erecting a giant pyramid — a great pyramid — in the Midwest. It’ll put folks back to work. Give them a reason to shine their boots and make meaningful love to their wives. The workers will get a substantial living wage. There would be two gangs of 100,000 workers. The project will take 20 years, roughly. It will be a boon for the American economy, and for tourism. The damned thing will pay for itself in a few years.
Atop the pyramid might be a golden spiral that can spit and flick bursts of controlled electricity to the entire population of North America. We ought to resurrect Tesla’s inventions, only this time we won’t put a meter on it. We’ll trash all the ‘smart meters’ that will, in the future, divvy out each family’s quota of power for the day, and shut off when it’s been used up. That’s how we’re going to save the earth. Bring down the standard of living rather than sacrifice the profits for the criminals who keep the world’s energy sources crude and scarcity-based, and who once and will always ask, “So, if anyone can benefit from this service, then where do we put the meter?”
Not all the details are in place for this pyramid, but be assured there won’t be an intricate tunnel system leading to dank chambers. This pyramid will be empty on the inside, so as to prevent unnecessary complications.
There’s a good chance we won’t even need workers. Not with our technological advancements. There is a rumor the pyramid could be built from the top down in the fourth dimension, where the frequency rate is higher, and matter is less dense. When the project was completed, the energy would be slowed, condensed, and dropped into the clunky third dimension. A plume of dust will roll outward in all directions for hundreds of miles.
A pyramid almost perfect and more attractive than any shopping mall complex, drizzled in liquid rhodium. Or something cheaper. Maybe wrap it in tinfoil and let Reynolds sponsor the behemoth. Imagine a shining prism on the border of South Dakota and Nebraska. Folks will be able to see its glinting tip from coast to coast.
From space, it’ll be called the shimmering crown of America. It’ll blind the astronauts the way a gaudy pendulum hanging from a string around the neck of a rich woman, and almost buried between her flaccid but prominent bosom, can catch a shaft of light and beam it into the eye of an unsuspecting young man who wouldn’t have otherwise glanced at such a pair of bubs. He’d make note that they once, undoubtedly, had notable bounce and vitality.
There is nothing wrong with rerouting a little prestige from Egypt into the overflowing coffers of appreciation for America. There’s only so much exceptionalism to go around. “If people want to see a pyramid,” the mantra will go, “then maybe they’ll consider seeing the one built in America’s Heartland.”
George Bush Jr, the original Beavis, would say it looks like a giant titty, but we’ll only know that because he’ll forget he’s on camera being interviewed by a swishy reporter from the Lifetime channel.
Yet, in an alternate plane, or the next shade of reality beneath this one, America’s cowboy president was handed at the turn of the century the controls to the world’s most extensive array of intercontinental ballistic missiles, but thankfully he was only a cartoon character, still the same as we know him here, but relegated to the two-dimensional TV screen for his own good and ours. His soundbites are precious. He’s a hit with the working class. They watch him while they eat dinner.
They especially enjoy how in the cartoon most of American society considers the cowboy president a crackpot and a middle-aged fraternity boy dunce, yet still they buy wholesale his justification for starting decade-long military quagmires that cost hundreds of thousands of lives and trillions of dollars, as well as his administration’s excuses for why the nation’s most devastating terrorist attack happened on their watch.
The best part of the cartoon is when the administration periodically lectures the public on how to prevent terrorist attacks. In a recent episode, the grizzled ex-vice president, who has had half a dozen heart transplants, even criticizes the security measures taken by the next US president!
Who is that clever cartoonist?
Nicola Tesla, built a bit heavier in that parallel dimension, sitting in a sweat saturated computer chair, bitterly sketches the most horrific, ironic characters he can think of, in the most debauched, hypocritical society he can get away with. Garlic and salt still lingers in his mouth after his lobster dinner, which was washed down in a fine champagne. He’s got two young females in bed, waiting, watching a rerun of the last episode of the cartoon, where the cowboy president has his email hacked by a computer nerd and it is discovered that, in retirement, the one-time defender of world freedom now paints portraits of himself sitting in the bathtub.
Electrifying entertainment at its best, and blasted to any TV on the planet. No meter needed.
Dream big, America. We’re not dead yet.
[photo of pyramid, before manipulation, by Nina Aldin Thune]