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GROUND XERO: LIVE FROM L.A.
Wild web surfin' safari, part deux

By Xanadu Xero | RAW STORY COLUMNIST

Do you have yipping banshees trapped in your brain, bouncing like pinballs lobe to lobe, pushing agit-prop for The Abyss, wailing doom?

Duh, yo. Doesn’t everyone?

On the tail end of the old, senile millennium, Western Culture saw fit to insult the Systemically Haunted (a.k.a. Nutballs) with such crude fixes as electroshock ‘therapy’ and drugs that sort of work, sometimes, for some people, somehow. (No one is truly sure what they do.)

So how barbarous, really, is trepanning?

Trepanning is the process of drilling a hole in your head. Yes, you heard me. It is one of earth’s oldest medical therapies, along with Botox injections.

No, WAIT! Damn. I got lost in the space/time continuum for a mini-scoot there. Sorry.

‘Trepanning’ is the ancient, crude procedure, where a small skull hole ‘cures’ mental illness, migraines, fatigue, and can ‘restore,’ to anyone, the health, gusto and cosmic one-ness of the childhood mind.

 

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‘Botox’ is the modern, advanced procedure where a small dose of lethal poison is injected into a healthy person’s face, paralyzing natural muscle motion to ‘cure’ an obsession with one’s youth and, for three months, bolster self-esteem.

One of them, clearly, is ridiculous.

Evidence of trepanning dates back to about 3000 B.C. The drillin’s been thrillin’ around the world, but is illegal in the U.S. “Rogue neurosurgeons” have pulled its practice underground, according to one site. Call me old-fashioned, but I feel that the words ‘rogue’ and ‘neurosurgeon’ simply should not mix.

If one’s need to Outlaw Trepan is like flowers’ need for rain, hopefully one finds an un-disbarred doctor, unimpaired by Tourette’s, indifferent to smoking crack, whose M.D. doesn’t mean ‘mutilation death’ from practicing on kittens.

If not, however, you have two options. The, like, obvious one is to do it yourself.

Trepanning’s modern prophet, Bart Hughes, is a Dutch scientist who dropped out of med school in the early ‘60s to pursue a vanguard enthrallment with hallucinogenics. ‘Scleened, (translation for the tiresome, old and young: ‘After the advent of taking mescaline’) he had this satori:

Our skulls stop growing after we are twenty(ish). The brain’s ‘server cage’ becomes hardened. Finite. Blood flow to the brain becomes constricted; its pulse sabotaged. Gravity’s no help, that son-of-a-bitch. Remember, we were built to die at thirty.

Somewhere in early adulthood, most of us stop living expansively. Humankind goes humanoid, losing its emotional/spiritual… buoyance. Once spinning rims on the wheel of All, we’re now hubcaps in the street. Our concerns drop to the petty. Life moves from adventure to pain.

(What’s that? Yours hasn’t? Oh, shut the fuck up.)

Hughes felt that a rigid skull and life force depletion were connected. He searched for a doctor to uncork his head. The medicos, even in Amsterdam, thought he was eight cans shy of a six-pack. Imagine. So what could the man do but self-trepan?

There’s a photo of Bart, post-op, sporting his trepanning scar and stitches. I’m not sure if it was snapped before or after he was thrown in the looney bin.

The wound is on Bart Hughes’ forehead, since he did it himself. If that famous close-up of Charles Manson was put next to this photo of Bart, and you were asked which one you’d rather have baby-sit, you just might pick Chuck.

Option two is to fly down to polluted, industrial, Monterrey, Mexico where trepanning advocate and entrepreneur Pete Halvorson has a clinic. I must say that the articles and testimonials on his goth-y site (www.trepan.com) entice the flaming horns out of me. Pete has chosen, however, to reveal nothing of substance about himself on it, and his photo is rather… police line-up-esque, muting any, you know, gung-ho feelings.

You can buy cool, creepy stuff there too, like black t-shirts with drilled skulls on them and a mega-raw, gory, skank video of Bart’s acolyte, Amanda Fielding, trepanning herself.

From what I’ve read about her at that time in her life, she is probably on acid. She wears sunglasses to keep the blood from pooling in her eyes. A little vidiot treat for the gross teenage boy in all of us. Some of us. Well, at least me.

* * * * *

I was going to take the High Road for this entire column, but I’m afraid that plan just didn’t work out. The following subject is so oddly disgusting that… I had to share it with you.

WARNING: You may subsequently view Pooh, Mickey Mouse, and Barney as sociopathic predators. Toy stores may grow dark as fetid abscesses of vice. If you are a minor, or if you believe you may be offended by descriptions of erotic acts with plush stuffed animals please stop reading this text now.

First, some words from a leading online expert!

* What is a 'plushie'? What is a 'plushophile'?

A 'plushie' is a plush stuffed animal, like a teddy bear. 'Plushie' is also sometimes used as a short form for ‘plushophile’: an adult who loves or is otherwise attracted to stuffed animals.

* Why be intimate with plushies instead of with people?

The great thing about stuffed animals is that they can always be there for you, whenever you feel the need for intimacy. People can be ‘too busy’ ‘too tired’ or 'have a headache', but a plushie will never say 'No!' when you crave closeness. Stuffed animals can be truly ideal companions. No plush partner will ever break your heart, give you a disease, or hurt you in any way. Plushies can bring pure, unfettered happiness into your life, and if you're open to it, wonderful sensual experiences, as well.

Some may view their plushies as just sex toys, while other plushophiles love, even venerate their stuffed animals.

When I read the above, I heard Mr. Rogers’ voice.

Love is a beautiful thing, of course, never should it be discounted. Love can come from unexpected places, and gosh knows it helps to have a devoted partner along life’s bumpy road. Right?

So what’s wrong with having DOZENS of devoted partners at your fingertips, never bitching about ‘faithfulness’, adoring all of your slobby, disgusting habits with that First Lady (bar Hillary) smile? Wouldn’t that be INCREDIBLE?

Guys — get a clue and bag those ballbuster human broads. Lay pipe 24/7 with a stable of hot furry hos. They can’t cook, but these workaholic modern women will burn frickin’ water, eh? And Plushies — they’re all bi, man! They do ‘back door’! Check it out!

Gals — can’t find a man without commitment problems? Tired of pretending size doesn’t matter? Thinking about all of the shoes you could buy if Mr. Sub-Genus didn’t blow your cash on Rogaine and beer? Plushies won’t buy you flowers, but face it — does your man?

Gays — why not live a promiscuous lifestyle since the media is sure you do anyway?

My plush web walkabout first took me to sites I ‘d hoped were parody, but alas, no. Centerfolds of a ‘spreading’ wolf. A Harpo Marx-like dog with pierced ‘nipples,’ chains connecting the rings, in black bondage gear. Big Bird with a fat, black rubber hard-on.

There are umpteen porno sites of women having plushie ‘sex,’ but they can barely keep a straight face. What a way to pay the bills. We really do need to create more jobs.

You can learn how to best modify your plushie for ‘intimate access,’ or ‘peak penetration.’ Get steamy Tantra tips for plush ecstacy, or nasty booty pix of “spooged”(plushie lingo) post-coital faux-fauna. Some plushophiles like to have orgies in fuzzy animal suits. They go to Disney World the way normal perverts go to Bangkok.

Scads of gay sites are available too (Bert and Ernie?), but I left them unexplored. By that point, I was queasily info-gorged, like when I read too many Enquirers. Make that plays of Sophocles in the original Greek.

So I closed my laptop, threw back a Mescal, and tried to think about the majesty of man.

###

You can write to Xanadu Xero at [email protected].

Xanadu also cordially invites you to join the Raw Story Forums and visit her fiefdom, The Raw Bar, to discuss these topics, any other damn thing, or just bitch and talk trash. You can also view an archive of her columns by clicking here.


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