The Sleep Of Reason        
Begets Liberalism  

Deep in outer sleep one night, I found myself wandering cautiously through a dense, dark private forest out on Cape Cod. I was nervous, trespassing where many people had already disappeared without a trace over the years, but the thought of solving their mystery drove me onward, over the twisted roots and broken twigs, and into certain danger.

I saw flickering lights in the distance, and into my ear came the tiny buzzing of voices. Drawing up my courage, I moved quietly closer, remaining hidden. The voices turned into a deep, resonant chanting: Condoms, Taxes, More Welfare!! Quotas, Quezmos, Everywhere!!

Parting some tall grass, I peeped into a clearing lit by huge torches which smelled like burning flesh and hair. Rubbing the greasy smoke out of my eyes, I saw four men dressed like Druids, in hooded monk's robes with exotic, magical symbols overall. They were walking in a slow circle around a water-filled coffin in which I knew there was a long-dead young woman. The water was boiling, the bubbles spewing a horrid steam.

Suddenly the torches flared up. The men stopped, shrieked loudly, then threw back their hoods. In the brighter light, I could see exactly who they were: Ted Kennedy, Barney Frank, Jesse Jackson, and Jimmy Hoffa! The water in the coffin burst upward, then fell back leaving a human organ, mottled with rot, floating in the air. I just knew it was the corpse's liver.

Strange music came from nowhere. The liver turned red, spun slowly, then quickly. It grew larger, larger, then very large, and it turned into a hideous beast from Hell. When the spinning slowed , I could see that it had the body of a male lion, hugely membered, and covered with thick red scales which armored it like a giant lizard. It had two heads in front, and each took on a human face. One was Hillary Clinton, the other was Patricia Ireland. And in the rear, under its serpentine tail, the leathery anus puckered into the likeness of Monica Lewinsky.

I was terrified, sweating, shaking, my throat constricted as if gripped by a ghostly hand. My heart was pounding so wildly I thought my head would burst. I was petrified by my own panic. And in that most vulnerable moment, the Beast turned toward me, pointed its taloned paw and said, "There, an oppressor!! Bring him to me!!"

The vines and branches magically entwined me all 'round, holding me fast while the four priests approached, laughing and sneering. I began to sweat blood.

And then I was awake, sitting bolt upright in bed, glad to be alive. My dog looked at me like I was nuts. At first I thought how nice it is to live in a country where these kinds of things don't happen. But Hey, Wait a Minute!! I live in a country that has been asleep for so many years that these exact things and worse do happen!  Every day!!

My America has been unconscious so long that a lieutenant of the Devil himself has lied his way to the highest office in the country and beyond, with a cottage-cheese-butted Mephistopheles whispering in his ear, sending his slippery, serpentine agents out to soil and spoil the information-pool of the culture, carrying his hate and lies to every corner of the dreamland.

My America has been drugged so long by the lullaby of the Liberal spider that their Tower of Political Babble, the numeric parliament of Political Correctness, the Third Way Socialist Democratic Activist Government itself, has crushed all traditional normalcy under the cloven hoof of identity-based Victimology. The streets again run foul with blood of Christians and their sacraments, crushed into the cement by rabid homosexual demonstrators.  

This nation is so befogged by the Liberalism of the last 50 years, the Supreme Court has required that animal-sacrifice cults and registered Satanists be provided with their own chaplains and ceremonies in the armed services. The children of Liberalism throw each other out of their bleak incestuous temple windows. Our skies are red, hung with black-crepe clouds of vile, greasy  smoke from a thousand crematoria, forty million sacrifices to contraceptive inconvenience. Soon the Sun will dim. We live in a dishonest dream-state, in dream-time. The devils of our own inattentiveness hold sway over the domain.

But happily, there is a secret, uncharted volcanic island, lush with prehistoric gardens, where pterodactyls glide through the unpolluted skies, and the Trilobyte lives. He sees us, he sees our slumber, our nightmares, our demons. He's wide awake, unencumbered by the Liberal monsters born from the sleep of reason. And through his ancient eyes we can see ourselves. We can wake up, and when we do, the monsters will lose their purchase on our lives.

And such is the mission of Trilobyte Magazine: To awaken the sleeper in each of us. To disperse the liberal lies and illusions at every turn. To pull the curtain aside, to lift the veil and expose the leering face of the demon-bride to the light of day. To eliminate Liberalism from our land, forever.

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                                                                             Comments: keller@trilobyte-mag.com