Fuck James Randi––right? Do you know who that guy even is? Good for you if you don’t. A lot of people don’t know who that pollen snorting crab spider actually is. Let that be known. If fame can be translated by a metric, then famous humans can be scored for fame, but it seems that “importance” or, public awareness of your name, is the solitary element of fame which can be gauged, based upon one’s media presence or, one’s pop cultural resonance, and James Randi barely really even moves the needle with his straight shooting magic man schtick, but it’s no hallucination however if you think that Randi does move the needle A LITTLE BIT by being the anti magician that he is; it’s just however all that James Randi does: my only point. Fuck James Randi––in any way possible––that’s my James Randi rule. In good sense, it’s not unthinkable, based on James Randi’s estimated FQ, or his estimated fame quotient, that if James Randi Googles himself with any regularity, he’ll make time to read this writing. Psychology suggests he will do so, no matter who I am, provided he has the time to read my hate post. And fuck him if he does. I hate you James Randi. I honestly do not like you. It’s guys like Randi who make me think the Gods must be crazy. For being a wannabe bastard of God, Randi really games the cosmos it seems, but how does he do it? Clearly the cosmos responds to vibrations, is my theory, as to how blasphemy actually works out for people. Even ideas of atheism and outright delusions of human supremacy can channel any type of vibration in the cosmic index, some of which are more conducive to fielding prosperity than others in this cosmic conspiracy we call human existence, I guess. This is probably correct; the cosmos responds to vibrations over visions because humans can never be right it seems for humans are flawful animals. Flawful animals do not know the way, even when they happen to walk in right directions. Vibrations clear the paths that we take. No, I’m not talking about the vibrating snake that James Randi feeds through his p-hole. I’m talking about energies that envessel our ideas and bake our fates in earns of divine providence; the paths we take are paths we make.
Importance is easy to define, but it can be tough to quantify. Even so, picking out the bigger celebrity, even when we compare Nobel winners to Hollywooders––the task is child’s play in many cases. For example: who’s more famous, Honey Booboo or James Randi? The answer is of course Honey Booboo, all day, any day, forever and ever and ever. Yep. This nickel of truth just about sums up the impact of James Randi, if we are rational. All this really means is that Honey Booboo is superior to James Randi when it comes to actually mattering; her drawing power beats his own by like 3 or 4 folds, and whereas James Randi has been grinding on the edges of comparative obscurity for decades, Honey Booboo made her case in a mainstream torrent, in only 2 years. Honey Booboo’s agency of influence upon human minds is humanly rare, and paradoxically powerful, but entirely real; under the spotlight in competition, she proved her importance was elite and bonafide, whereas James Randi really couldn’t ever do that. So, if you see James Randi today, be sure to downvote him on Youtube.
James Randi is a natural born man slut hooked on science. Yes, James Randi enjoys blowing/eating scientists under bridges on muddy riverbanks littered in needles, doll heads, used condoms, tires and various trash items. Under the bridge to Cambridge you can find James Randi dancing to Boys II men on a transistor radio, roasting expired hot dogs, pierced upon a broken antenna. You’ll see him there in a fishnet top, acid washed jean shorts, powerlifting gloves, and a flimsy thin neon green baseball cap with a plastic adjustable buckle and an oversized white brim. You might see him also sporting airplane headphones connected to a Sony Walkman playing Depeche Mode on tape cassette, with undersized combat boots on crushing his feet. Under the bridge to Cambridge, Randi is usually found dressed like this, lurched upon his knees, unzipping brown pants and making umbrellas out of dresses. James Randi does this all for practitioners of science simply out of pride, and he charges absolutely nothing. In James Randi’s mind, it’s like some kind of tax that he owes society. Under the bridge to cambridge, you can find James Randi’s cottage; it’s a shopping cart with a kicked out bottom, draped in a blanket. Next to his cottage, he has a firepit, and leading to the main road from his cottage, he has stomped into fruition a desire path out bootprints––hidden from afar by 2 tall walls of weeds so the cops can’t see it. There’s a small patch of purple and mustard wild flowers just outside the shadow of the bridge; it’s kind of nice to see from behind the peephole in his blanket, even though the flower patch is constantly bestrewn in plastic bags, candy wrappers, construction ribbons and other items of garbage. It’s also waterfront property. Yeah. One time Randi built a crawfish trap out of chicken wire, and that night he had a feast, but he never did it again, because flame roasted unseasoned crawfish caught straight out of the river made Randi violently ill. But life on the river is nice, Randi thinks. And the best part is, Uncle Sam doesn’t tax him a dime for it. That’s his cottage in the summer. Or at least it was. In 2014, an angry bum who also enjoys sexing up scientists got super angry at James Randi for landing a night on the town with Stephen Pinker; this angry bum was so jealous and angry, he stole James Randi’s cottage and he shit on James Randi’s blanket; he kicked his shit all about the blanket, smearing feces all over it, to ensure that Randi could no longer use it; he also wheeled James Randi’s cottage up the road and threw it over the Cambridge bridge, smack into the middle of the river. James Randi never saw his cottage again. In the winter, you can find James Randi most usually in San Diego, frolicking in an urban garden, checking on tomato projects, mixing soil with vermiculite, chasing after butterflies, praising Mr Rogers, making shelters for baby voles out of mini clay pots, and humming Paula Abdul songs––all the while viciously sucking down on science’s hog with a voracious hunger for the cum of enlightenment. From magic tricks to sucking dicks––or one dick, that is––the dick of science, James Randi giveth to science his divine carnal dream; he just hands that shit over like some perfectly normal woman who, seems kink-less both at her core and on the surface but, at her nucleus, wants to fart all over your face, shit on your chest, and suck your mouth with a plunger, so that you may pee on her with dignity in return. But Randi doesn’t get out of the closet, and that’s fine, I guess. I only hate James Randi because he blames God on the Westboro Baptist Church, (at least in this argument, he does) though I’ve seen bonafide uncloseted gay men who are pious and choose to follow Jesus Christ, or whoever, despite any and all HUMAN attempts to take the church or God away from gays. James Randi has got a case of the “I’m surrounded by idiots” syndrome, 24-7, which means that he lives life in such a way that he suspects at least half the world is “crazy,” or whatever he actually means by that, if he does not mean literally.
James Randi is an under player in his vocation––retired or not, he is a catfish in sweatbands––a true bench sitter; he sits so much, his ass hurts every day; though he does sometimes see a little action in the secular crusade which presently wages and preaches resistance against beliefs in God and beliefs in the supernatural, Randi is not even 5th Man of The Year material––at least not anymore; maybe one he was best bench player in the league, but nowadays Randi looks his age, which is pretty old, and he seems out of touch with his own mojo, which was never so thumping if you know what I mean; wearing those cheap, traditional but very cheesy magician’s garbs with the shiny polyester capes, and the plastic aesthetic wand; he looks more ready for a birthday gig in Jefferson City than he seems fit for celebrity-grade adoration. One night in Jefferson City, Randi sucked off a biologist with such profound suction, Randi outright ripped the mans dick clean off the body in one mighty horrific rip. Randi seems a lot now like a living, breathing, still dancing modern Cher analogue, but the masses never loved him like that, and he never made it to Vegas; therefore, the promise land escaped Randi when he had his real shot, just as it does to this day, and it probably always shall––somewhere in Reno. In Reno James Randi once set up camp for a few weeks after he got thrown off of a train for sleeping in a cargo box full of ginger soap bars, some of which he stuffed into his asshole. Anyway in Reno, Randi was a big hit in what was a small but thoroughly serviced scientific community.
Facts are facts and, what that means is that James Randi, despite a charity of sexual energy on his down time, is a professional persona. When he’s on the job, he plays ball on the highest stage, but he is an under player in the ostentatious modern day sport that has become the pro-sanity movement. This is undoubtedly true for we may know that Randi seems less important these days in the movement, since he’s not finding much work anymore due to whatever, or so at least suggests his scarcity in the media as of late. Even so, Randi’s influence remains a living entity; I can still hear Randi’s anti-nerd persona; it’s in the wind; I’m in the public Alps of pop culture, and I can hear James Randi yodeling echoes of his manifestophic bid for relevance.