Editorial: 2011 and Still No Flying Art Cars? WTF?!?

by Thomas Friedman

I’m not alone in my utter shock and disappointment with the almost complete lack of the Jetsonification of society, am I? Where are the moving sidewalks (other than airport terminals) and robot maids? What about teleporters, Mr. Fusion, time travel? Where are the pneumatic people mover tubes? I want my JETPACK! Why don’t we have FLYING CARS!?! Hanna-Barbera fucking LIED to us!

We could all be living with a 9-hour work week and letting machines do almost ALL the labor! Imagine what the default world would look like, not to mention how amazing the Playa would be! Burners arriving in gravity-defying caravans with all their gear in tow and a small workforce of robots to set up domes, tents, kitchens and art installations while we humans could get to the more fulfilling part of the trip by socializing. God damn it to Hell!

Instead of sweating my nuggets off building a ginormous Flying Art Car Wash I could be at Bacon Without Borders’ 31 Flavors Bar sipping on some habañero-infused bourbon and munching on crispety bacon fried up in Bloody Beer mix and dipped in creamy cheddar cheese sauce.  Not only would that be a more fun and delicious way to spend my burn, but with nanobots to scrape the plaque off my arterial walls I wouldn’t have to worry about cholesterol anymore.

And who wouldn’t rather be at Hot Topic Thunderdome watching a guy dressed up as a leprechaun take on someone from Unicorn Camp instead of having to make dinner?  You could be off etching your name into the temple instead of sweating over stoves. That would be a reality if we had portable instant food dispensers, or dinner pills. Let’s face it; the denizens of BRC aren’t likely to be opposed to getting their nutrition from a pill. Seriously.

Think of the amount of dust you’d be spared in your hair and clothes if we had flying art cars and playa bikes and floating camps. Can’t you just see an Ashram Galactica in the sky? That’s dead sexy. Not to mention we’d get around Black Rock City much more quickly than having to roll at 5mph.

We should stand up and demand the Jetsonification of our society so we can cut and paste it onto our beloved city in the desert. Of course if no one else agrees I suppose I could be quasi-content holding hands and singing EEP OPP ORK AH-AH.

Editorial: I Went to Bed With a Fuck Buddy and Woke Up With a Fucktard.

by Ms. Hot Tamale

Okay fuck buddy, let’s get this right: we fuck each other as often as is convenient and in return we do each other the courtesy of not having feelings for each other, right?

So, I have to ask: Did your male period suddenly arrive in the middle of the night? Are you cramping, honeybunch? Because you’re acting like a real fucktard.

Last night we moaned and fucked, and this morning for some fucking reason you’re moaning and whining like a little crybaby — right out of my vajajay’s good graces.

Frankly, I don’t want to hear about your idea for an eco-friendly chain of gas stations, how you were adopted and abandoned, or your plans to travel to Haiti and save little orphaned children. It’s whiny and annoying like that wet blanket of a singer from Coldplay. Maybe worse.

Awww, don’t cry.

What I want is a certain horse-like appendage to make me walk a little bowlegged, and a tongue to sweep me into any orgasms that your (very able) cock leaves behind. But not in a sweet, slow softly lit kinda way as we French kiss in the sun-dappled sunrise. Especially not before we’ve brushed our teeth. Ick.

I really don’t want to hear about the drama in your camp. I really don’t want to hear about that epiphany you had. I really don’t want to hear about, well, anything about your life back in whatever shitty town you live in.

To quote The Fugitive: I don’t care. I don’t care about anything you have to say, unless it’s spoken directly into my cunt while I strangle you with my thighs.

I don’t want you to make me eggs benedict in the morning; that’s what I have my gay campmates for. I don’t want you to sing me a song, that’s what I have my hippy campmates for. My priorities with you, if they weren’t for some fucking reason already explicitly clear, are: 1) have you fuck me and 1a) have you leave.

So, fuck buddy, if you have to spend the night, I really don’t want or require any physical contact with you unless it leads to 1) more fucking or 1a) you leaving.

In summary, please don’t tell me about your novel. Don’t tell me about your last girlfriend. Don’t tell me about anything, unless it’s directions on how better to pleasure me, and I promise to do the same.

So, are you a fuck buddy or a fucktard?

Now let me shut you the fuck up by sitting on your face.

Editorial: Mercury Won’t Always Be in Retrograde, But You’ll Always Be Crazy.

I wanted to say thank you to a special woman out there. You know who you are. I wanted to let you know how wonderful the two days we spent getting to know each other were. You’re a lovely, funny, creative, nurturing, intelligent woman. Unfortunately, you’re also completely batshit crazy.

It was all very cute at first. My being an Aries and you being a Leo make a great 5-9 sun sign combination; our moons are both exalted; our ascendants are harmonious, blah blah blah. I figured it was harmless; perhaps even fun. I finally saw what was coming when you suggested we not go to the Temple of Flux together while Mercury is in retrograde, which, I found out, is for the duration of Burning Man. That’s when I decided that I’d have to pull the ripcord.

I don’t know if waiting until the Moon is conjunct with Uranus to spend the night together in my tent in order to help ensure a long lasting union, or if having Sagittarius trine to your 12th house before discussing whether we’d like to continue to see each other in the default world are solid life strategies. Under most circumstances I’d say, “whatever works for you”, but it’s painfully clear these things aren’t working for you.

Perhaps I should have recognized your constant referrals to us as ‘soul mates’ after our first night of sex for the red flag it obviously was. But even though Mercury was in Retrograde, I will take the blame for missing that one. The 2C-B was just that good.

Look, you can’t blame your every little neurotic tic on the alignment of the planets. If you took the time to examine your life I’d bet you’re sure to find a wake of devastation and insanity behind you. No, it’s not due to a poorly placed Saturn in your birth chart or the temporary location of our smallest planet. It’s due to your being batshit crazy and refusing to apply reason or accountability to your life.

Editorial: You *NEED* Me on That Trash Fence.

Colonel Jessup, MOOP Master

By Colonel Jessup

People, we live in a world with MOOP. And that MOOP has to be contained by people with a trash fence. Who’s gonna do it? Barbie Death Camp & Wine Bistro? Opulent Temple?

I have a greater responsibility than you can possibly fathom in your little non-DPW brain. You weep over having to leave your feather boas at home and you curse shelled pistachio nuts. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know: that making a trash fence out of plastic, while ironic, probably keeps you from getting red on your MOOP reports. And my existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves the Playa.

You feel entitled to the truth? YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE TRUTH!

You don’t want the truth.

Because deep down, in places you don’t talk about on art cars, you want me on that trash fence. You NEED me on that trash fence!

We use words like Green Dot, RNR, Intercept. We use these codes as the backbone of month or two a year defending something. You use them as a punch line.

I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to people who enjoy the MOOPless sunrises at the temple and adventures through the deep playa dressed in bear costumes and fairy wings that I provide, then question the manner in which I provide it! I’d rather you just gift me and go on your way. Otherwise, I suggest you pick up a shift and walk the fence!

Editorial: Parents of Campmate Actually Cooler Than Campmate

Campmates of Disorient Camper Shaggy reported that his first-time Burner parents were hipper and more fun than their son.”We were kinda unsure about a pair of 60-something lawyers being part of the camp,” said Bacchus. “But they could really party.”

Other campers mentioned the pair giving dual massages, displaying extraordinary culinary skills and telling riotous stories about their exploits with Timothy Leary in the Sixties. “We’re glad Shaggy camps with us,” said The Eye. “Otherwise we might not have met his parents.

Editorial: Don’t Post My Photo on Facebook, you Fucktard.

by Everyone with any sense.

‘No permission asked for’ equals ‘no permission granted’.  Their privacy settings are bullshit enough without you posting and tagging a topless photo of me, douchenozzle.

Editorial: Camp Lynyrd Skynyrd Freakin’ Rocks!

Enough said.

Editorial: You missed ME. Not the other way around.

by your bed.

I know you ordinarily take me for granted, but a week in the desert on a thin piece of RV foam or ‘self-inflating mattress’ has certainly altered your perspective. Yes, I could hear your proclamations of how much you’ve missed me out there on the Playa. But do you know what? I didn’t miss you one single bit. I finally got out from under that extra weight you’ve been packing on. Not to mention that smelly, patchouli oil piece of crap you call a boyfriend. And I’m not getting any younger. Do you know that the average mattress gains 10 pounds over the course of its lifetime? I’ve put on 15 over the past 6 years. It’s no walk-in-the-park bench-pressing your weight for 8 hours every night. Don’t get me started about my aching springs. And I don’t even want to talk about what happens when you turn on a black light around me. I’m all for exercising your kinks, but really, some of that stuff you do is just plain gross. Remember, I see all, hear all, smell all, and unfortunately, absorb all you do in the bedroom.

Welcome back. You weren’t missed.

Editorial: What our Fine City on the Playa Needs Now is a Sports Bar

A Letter from the Editor

You know what the worst part is about Burning Man? No, not the heat, not the undercover cops, not the gonorrhea outbreaks, it’s the lack of a good sports bar. I mean how hard could it be for someone to open one up? You could even call it something like ‘O’Shea’s Sports Bar Camp’.

Who will step up to the plate for this home run of an idea? Don’t even try to argue that there’s a shortage of big-boobed girls willing to wear next to nothing while serving a real sportsman like me. I guarantee you’d have at least one good customer. Do you know just how many blowjobs you could get for a good basket of Buffalo wings? I’m even willing to concede a few points to the heat – no ranch or blue cheese dressing.

The editorial staff of this newspaper would even help clean up a little at the end. We could even open up a sports book. This is Nevada after all. If we are ever to realize our dream of having a Black Rock City sports franchise we must first show a commitment to the televised sporting event! And you know what the best part would be about O’Shea’s Sports Bar theme camp? We could burn it at the end.

Editorial: Hey, Steampunks! Give Us Back Our Goddamned Feathers.

A letter from Anne Ostrich.

OMG! There’s a beautiful feather on your chapeau! How quaint! How noble! How dashing!

Look. I know you think you look fabulous wearing a piece of us on your head. But how would you feel if I ripped out a clump of your pubic hair and dangled it from my ear?

You wouldn’t like it if we came over to your house and sheared off your mustache as an accent piece would you? What if after skinning you I cleaved your unborn children from the womb with my beak and brought them home with me to have for breakfast? Just because something is organic doesn’t make it a commodity for you biped motherfuckers to covet and exploit.

You know what’s harder to remove from your car than Playa dust? Bird shit. Tons of it.

Do not fuck with us.

You view a feather as an accessory that says, “I’m avant-garde, stylish, sophisticated and clearly on a more enlightened path.” To us, it says, “I like mutilating fowl for vanity’s sake.” The last people who could wear feathers and pull it off were shoved off their land by your great grandparents.

It does not complete your outfit. It makes you look like Robin Hood decided to start fucking Jack the Ripper. Asshats.

Ooooh. You’re all Jules Verne. What panache. Go back to LA. I’m sure you have lines to memorize so you can get off book in preparation for the role that gets you ‘discovered’ in between serving salads, pouring wine and clearing plates…slowly I might add.

The Man has been bird shit free for 20 years now. Don’t make us come out there. We stay out of your way and leave you to your lives. Can’t you do the same for us?