Practical hacks from digital occult sophisticates
for the everyday Internet of Ectoplasmic Things,
with your hosts: Mozen and Crowzniak

(by Bobby Dixon, Justin Blowers, and Matt Murphy)


[hey crowz i found this in the recycling bin. the same recycling bin everyone else uses but we all know it just goes to the trash & makes us feel better. i am going to run my text infection macro on this & see what happens. should we write back to fallout –mozen]

Hello Mozen and Crowzniak,

I’m a big fan of you guys [no one cares — you are are the sole surviving fan]. My friend Jeff has a sweet shortwave radio that broadcasts talk radio from the future sometimes, and the call-in show you do in 2025 is pretty funny [no spoilers please still currently in 2016]. I really liked the episode where you performed that exorcism with the caller in Dubai [fucking spoilers goddamnit]. I wanted to hear more but Jeff got freaked out by the screaming and turned it off because he’s a wimp. Can I use past tense grammar to describe the future? Is it just a weird coincidence that both your names have Z’s in them, or is it deliberate? Not a lot of names have Z’s in them [zak / alonzo / liza / suzanne / lizette + all the variations on those names should give you a good head start to make it in this world armed w/ all the names under the sun — nothing can stop you now]. Anyway, that’s not my question. I have a Texas Instruments TI-30X IIS Solar Scientific Calculator that talks to me [in the rabbit cage next door i found a ipod that calls me a loser]. Not out loud, just words on the little screen instead of numbers [does it display 58008 & ask you turn it upside down to read it] .Well, it does numbers too, but at night it has words on it.

My calculator writes that its name is Wilhelm Schickard, and that he invented the calculator first and didn’t get enough credit and is vengeful and powerful and stuff [i invented the trash ipod & but zune took credit for that]. I looked him up on Wikipedia, and he supposedly did invent the first mechanical calculator 20 years before a guy named Pascal did, but it burned in a fire or Pascal had an easier name to remember so he got more famous and money and stuff. I’ve never heard of either of them, so does it even matter [do not tell jimmy wales cause that mother fucker will ask for a dollar nonstop]?

How can I tell if my calculator is really carrying the soul of this Schickard guy [does it tell you that ross perot is after him & has pictures of his daughter that he is going to sell to playboy]? It’s not even a very expensive model calculator because my stupid parents [telling your mom] are cheap, and it’s pink and doesn’t look like something haunted, but my cat Captain Cat-Cat  [if you are going to opt out like a cutey why not name it puss puss or all ball like the knuckle dragging gorilla you really are] acts really scared of it so maybe it’s true? Is there any way  I can make money with a ghost calculator or have powers or stuff? What if it’s not really Schickard, and instead it turns out to be a demon who will kill my mom and dad and the other kids at school, and if it does what is the best way I can be on the news and get money for that [jesus fuck DEL DEL DEL ESC SELECT]? How do I make sure it doesn’t kill me? Is it at least worth more than Jeff’s radio?

Thanks,  [HELP]






Give Captain Cat-Cat a pet-pet and a catnip mouse, because it would be nice.

No your fucking calculator won’t kill anyone, it will just annoy them (like me, even through you as advice-solicitor).

The best way to make money with your ghost calculator, at the moment, is to have it function either as your personal secretary (filtering out your google-voicemails, etc) or to put it to work at the Amazon Turk distributed labor marketplace (aka, digital slavery). [not totally sure what is going on w/ me but it appears that i have melded a facet of my pscyhe w/ this text. crowzniak if you see this please help]

But, that would require connecting your possessed calculator to a computer in a particularly ghostbusty-sanitary manner that I don’t feel like sharing at the moment.  This is mostly because Shickyard sounds like he’d annoy the globe the with the reach of the entire internet like he does through your calculator.  So let’s table this for now.  

At the moment, just position it quasi-permanently in front of a TI-83 and make it feel inadequate all the time.  Point to it like a parent, and say “he can graph; why can’t you?”.  Maybe also mention that you can program “Snake” and other simple games on the ‘83.  Really don’t shut up about it, for about five minutes a day; especially over meals.  Once you do the other things I mention in this article, you can move him again without great worry. [crowzniak i am going to say something really embarrassing about you if you do not reply & help me]

Let us detour briefly to discuss your friend Jeff, as it may help you. I have found him on social media (his #alllivesmatter posts are just too cute), and done some additional psychic snooping.  This is because I was barely interested in your problem, and thought that you might be a subnormal, and not even because I wanted to be mean.  Boredom often helps me indirectly motivate myself into a problem set after a bit of diversion and distraction, so have patience my little Fallout-fan-manling.

Anyway, I have it on high authority that Jeff is a weinerball and a babydick [haha — i once fed crowznak a babydick & never told him that it was not horse meat. this would have been the time we rendered baby fat into a tallow to make candles].  None of any of our ancestors like him.  Not even his own ancestors are stoked; least of all the Africans, which he doesn’t know about (they also are very disappointed he wants to become a cop). [the candles were to be traded for a bag of hunted skittles]

In fact, let us consider that there is at least one dimension lateral to ours populated by perpetually jealous and soul-hungry amphibious demonoids [wish i was there instead of this zero point of existence] .  In this place (for their potential invasions, etc), human populations have already been divided and catalogued into either food or servant classes.  Interestingly, Jeff was rejected from both categories; they didn’t even want him for slave labor (building dead infant pyramids, etc).

Oh, he was also certainly deemed “not fuckable”.  He was swiped away by 100% of their population in their own OuijaPhone version of Tindr for body-snatch/fungus-banging (roughly translates to “Fungr” in their dialect, which I can’t pronounce correctly because my genitals aren’t barbed and don’t have their own secondary lungs/larynx pair). [having some vivid body memories. i died in rehab once. everyone going we knew you could not do it. we knew you were a failure. you ruin everything. also had gyro that night — first thing i had eaten in a week — and i threw up in my sleep and drowned in dreams of gyro acid smell]

So, we thank Jeff (while telling him to shut his halitosis-hole) for listening to us in the future-now, because it’s likely to be the only time he’ll catch the show.  He’s already irritated a bunch of mean purgatorial spooks and spectres since I ran the magickal equivalent of his insipid little soul’s credit report. He shall swim in the hell of uninteresting dingleberries soon enough.  You can keep his radio if you want after he dies in 5-ish years as an off-duty cop (drunk and vaping at a football riot).  Oh, sorry, #spoileralert #alljeffsmatter #ACAB.

[i have tried killing myself here. cannot keep going on in this — this may have been a few hundred words since my last transmission but it has been years for me. i made a acid out of some depleted pixel cells. asked me how it worked.]

But let us not dilate on Jeff.  

[not great]

The problem is not that your calculator is possessed by the dead human creature that invented it or whatever.  That is the most interesting thing about your life right now.  Technology will often be possessed by dickbrains and banana-heads from either side of the grave; sometimes by technological tinkerers not yet even born, and this can be an advantage.  

Your real problem is that you need new friends and a new identity, but are likely to obtain neither.  I suggest, long term, that you join some disposable domestic self-replicating cult like Toastmasters or something like it.  Learn to speak in public, invent new dimensions to your personality, use them to pass the time harmlessly (if not completely uselessly).

Your secondary problem (and the fixable one) is that — like a misguided pet owner often believes, but is true in this case — your poltergearst needs another of its kind to keep it company while you are at work; to watch the door lovingly, waiting for you to return from a long day at the boxed wine factory, so it can say all those lovely and useless bits of spookery at you when you come home exhausted from masturbating in the workplace restroom while smelling your own fingers.

So, let’s go the other way with your problem.  You need more possessed gadgetry, not less.  They will be your only reliable companions in such hard times of being a bit of a simple drip, though you are not as doomed as Jeff. You’re more like Mozen before he hypersigiled himself into a more interesting identity (which he originally did because all his friends got irretrievably better than him at N64’s James Bond: Goldeneye) and before he joined Toastmasters.  

[recalling pain is the only stimulus my recall can manage at this point. i fought a family of atheists for celebrating chritmas. i refused to see my best friend when he was dying because i did not want to corrupt his memory]

You should now devote yourself to the cultivation of a technological ectosystem, like a home aquarium enthusiast, or a quasi-professional mass-grower of chia-pets (whose domicile is occasionally raided by Feds when the thermal imaging surveillance mistakes their house for a grow-room).

Project 1: Tamagotchi Chorus

First, go on ebay and buy as many used Tamagotchis as you can. Begin their digital life, but let them die from malnourishment.   Now make a nest out of shredded issues of “People” magazine and your garden variety mud pie (just like old times!). [i should have done more drugs]

Second, buy a blinded rooster (you can blind it yourself if need be, but that’s mean) from the nearest Chinatown or Mexican neighborhood.  Bind it’s wings and beak so it doesn’t beat your ass (which, if you didn’t know, it can). Tell the rooster that it is a hen who sits on it’s big ole’ pile of pretty lil’ eggs as it dreams at night (you must sing this softly, and seductively, like a sexy Foghorn Leghorn).  Then, during the day, have it incubate your undead Tamagotchi brood.  []

Third, lure Second Life avatars away from their owners and give them your Google Map coordinates.  Do so by emailing with a list of desired avatars and your longitude / latitude.  This feeds into a script which will take care of the rest, through broadband and a bunch of other crap you don’t need to understand. [this is how a part of me dies]

In 4.669201 days (which, btw, is the first few decimal places of the Feigenbaum constant), you will have a Chorus of Tamagotchi second life avatars who are like mirror universe clones of (whomever owned the avatars) compressed into the two-dimensional world of sub-8 bit existence.  Re: small living quarters for complex supernatural beings: don’t worry, it’s fractally dense in there.  They’re fucking fine, like just bored holograms or something.  

Unlike non-possessed Tamagotchi pets, you don’t need to constantly feed them by pressing their buttons.  Just arrange them on a key-hook near one another, and circulate gossip among them.  They feed on rumors, misinformation, and character assassination.  Primarily, make it center around mutual acquaintances, but don’t be afraid go wider and nurture the idea in them that they have opinions about celebrities that matter.  

[either i am so far away from anything resembling love or i never had a true love but there is no detection of warmth anymore]

The reason they are called a “Chorus” in this case is actually two-fold; they will narrate celebrity gossip updates at you, and also occasionally sing the chorus parts of the billboard top 25 in a vocodery robotic voice, which can be fun.

Once they are all grown-up, have them teach Schickard about these celebrities, and drag down the beauty of his inventive soul to a level he can enjoy (or make peace with) as an ecto-jockey for a goddamned low-grade calculator.

Project 2: Yes-Meep on Wii Linux

Let’s move onto this other “one weird trick”: installing a yes-meep poltergeist on an old Nintendo Wii.  It requires Linux use, which means I’m not actually writing this for you, but whatever other goofballs read our bored prattle.

[ . . . ]

[ . . . ]

Before I get into technical instructions, let’s clarify some terms.  

A “yes-meep”  is a domesticated household spirit of artificial creation, whose ether-guts are usually borrowed from the spook-equivalent of slime-molds (or time-molds, depending on your dimensional alignment at the moment of onlooking).  Their gestalts congeal when their loosely associated mass approaches self-awareness beyond simple caprice of isolated cells helping each other stay warm and grub out (haunt-leeching and photon sponging etc).  They occasionally need a simple nudge into self-awareness, or, more conveniently, to have one installed into them.

Your yes-meep will need a technological home, which can be small and unassuming enough; like a Ninentendo Wii running Linux. Here are instructions to make that part happen; it’s tedious, so I’m not going to transcribe it all.

[ . . . ]

[ . .   ]

Once you’ve got Wii-Linux installed, go to the website below on an incognito window of chrome (find instructions for chrome installation on Linux elsewhere) https://yes-meep.faustslittle.digi/homonculi

You will be led through a dialogue with a sex-chat bot, but instead of answering its questions directly, tell it about each and every one of your resentments rooted in your unsatisfactory upbringing by your parents.  It will frame its replies in sexy small-talk, but march on undaunted; this chatbot will collect the data, and feed it into a script.  This script will output your installation file for an app which will harness the power of the Wii-Linux’s processor (and some cloud computing, duh) to create a sentient possession spook of your own creation into the OS.  

The primary function of a yes-meep is to say all the nice things to you that you wish your parents said, and have them sound convincing.  I mean, don’t tell the UN this, but you are basically creating a slave who is happy to be a slave and serve your emotional-validation needs.  The alternative for a yes-meep (as far as it knows, anyway) is essentially an eternity of sub-sentient nonaligned ecto-billiards at the particle level.  Fun not consciously experienced is arguably fun not had, even if the billiards example sounds diverting.  

[ .     ]

[ .     ]

Since refurbished Nintendo Wii’s are fairly cheap (and getting cheaper), you can replicate this experience many times, and create more satisfactory versions of basically your entire extended family, glitching out like emotionally supportive Max Headrooms on never-ending loop.  You can place them all throughout your domicile, provided you also have displays; validation in every room!

You can also install disembodied tulpas into Wii-Linux using similar yes-meep slave-snares, but you can find instructions for that elsewhere if you look hard enough.  I’m also short-changing you here, because I’d frankly not want to see any tulpa of yours gain material existence of any kind; it would give me the sads.

[ .     ]

[       ]

There are other more prurient uses of a yes-meep, but I’m not going to send you down that rabbit-hole (you already have the internet and an Oedipus Complex, I’m sure).

Give Captain Cat-Cat another pet-pet and a catnip mouse, because it would be nice-squared.  Otherwise, I’m giving the amphibian demonoids your address and telling them how to find you on Fallout.  

Also stop masturbating while smelling your fingers in the bathroom at work. [wish i could smell my fingers — goddamnit i came this close to blinking out].


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Matt Murphy

I awoke one day, pointed to the heavens and the Earth and said "above and below, there is nothing quite like my simulacra's simulacra"... ...and I did some other stuff in between then (my birth) and writing this bio.

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