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THE INTELLIGENCE AGENTS |
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Reprinted from WE MAGAZINE, July 1987 The Lesson of the
Social Insects Nina licked her full, petulant lips and started to take her clothes off, revealing her "Today is Tuesday" panties and saucy poinsettia-embroidered garters which lifted deep-purple silk stockings. Her creamy thighs and her soft mound lay in shadow. "Termites," she signed. "We must learn from the social insects. They have been running successful urban civilizations for 100 million years." Saina leaned over to pluck the poinsettias and watch the ivory limbs emerge from the purple silk. Anna, watching, giggled and began to pull her dress over her tousled blond head. She bent forward to peel it off, revealing the round, firmness of her thighs, the two sweet dimples over her hips, the smooth, curving back. "Yes," she murmured in agreement. "Each termite colony is a gene-pool organized into castes which sends out explorer-migrants to found new mini-worlds." Finally Saina unbuttoned her dress and let it fall to the floor. She was wearing Frederick's of Hollywood panties, slit open, front and back, hinting at the plump curves of her sexual promise. Her voice was soft: "Those who wish to preserve urban civilization should study the insect hive. The word termite comes from the Latin word termes -- which means the end. The end-point of terrestrial society is the hive." The bedroom floor was covered with an enormous blue yak fur rug. The three women tumbled down upon the arctic splendor, their soft, milky bodies writhing and rubbing against each other. They were no longer separate bodies. They were one sweet, soft, curling octopoid body -- sucking tentacles, stroking hands, juicy tongues. One squirming marine body with three kissing mouths, six erect nipples, three moist vaginas. They pulsated together, limbs interwoven, slowly breathing love. Suddenly a column of ants emerged from Saina's vagina and began filing down her leg. Nina began to giggle softly and then spoke: "The growth of urban civilization during the last 5000 years is a steady move toward insectivization. The well-run anthill is 99,995,000 years ahead of humanity in efficient social organization. A hive is a joyful, clean Manhattan with 8 million secure citizens moving in tune with the humming unity." "Oh yes. Oh yes," gasped Saina. "It's so good, hmmmmmmmm," hummed Anna. Then mouths kissed and tongues nibbled and juices flowed. The three starved bodies fed on each other, the tension building. Probing fingers parted welcoming flesh and slid into gasping lips. The soft pelt upon which they squirmed emitted a mammalian scent which merged with the odors of their moist bodies. Saina's honey voice broke the slippery silence: "Humanity cannot grow beyond the Insectoid Stage until it understands precisely how the social insects are ahead of us in terrestrial culture." Saina fell on the swelling curves of Anna. Nina was rolling in passionate frenzy. One dimpled knee over Saina's back, she twisted to reach Anna's legs with her searching tongue. Anna writhes and pushed her mound closer to the penetrating kisses, the tender bits, the hot tongue that was as firm as a ram's horn. "OOOOH!" gasped Nina. "Yes, when over-population and pollution signals the success of the society, then each hive produces a new caste of Winged Giants who fly far away from the hive in male-female pairs to create new worlds, to carry the gene-pool DNA to better ecological niches." As she spoke she twisted her body so that her mound was pressed against Anna's mouth. Anna had been tenderly caressing the curve of her buttocks, and now she slid her finger into the tight little sphincter mouth, out from which flew clouds of silver-winged flying insects. "Isn't it amusing. We languorous, self-indulgent high-flying ones are carrying the eggs from which will come the New Hive Worlds."
Date: February, 1972 (Conversation videotaped.) "Yes, exactly timeless and priceless. My brain tunes into my DNA code, synapses crackling with genetic messages. I see with the eyes of countless ancestors. What a rowdy band of velvet brigands I spring from! And the futique children to come. You understand my predicament? I am real entity from time suddenly trapped in this fake-believe Disneyland. Yes that's it. I remember seeing at Disneyland a plastic Indian village with fatigued redskins selling tickets and bakelite bows and arrows to cellulose tourists. Okay, now I'm the real Crazy Horse suddenly popped down there. Whew! Quel horreur. I see at a glance what has happened to my land and my people. I see in microscopic despair these robots who have never felt the wild Dakota wind in their face or the taste, touch, smell, thunder-sound of the living, eternal God. I scream at them. 'Are none of you alive?' I rave around looking for another living soul." "Yes, that does tend to happen," comments the Professor sympathetically. "Or I am your Thomas Jefferson appearing in a modern Congress. Awake you pink-faced rubber frogs! Is this what we fought for! I am Giordano Bruno running around alive in Madame Tussaud's waxworks! I am Peter the wild-eyed Fisherman screaming at the Jesus statues in the plaster Bibleland in Florida. Awake Brothers, let's trash this place and get back to the living soil. "Dig it, Wizard, for three hours I run naked around Holy-Man Ridge in Almora bursting with energy, shivering in cosmic loneliness searching for a living soul. I sit in the lotus position on a rock overlooking the valley to Tibet and watch the sunrise. Good. That's all in order. I stalk regally back to the cottages looking deeply into people's eyes. The American theosophists turn away in fear. Another acid flip-out! But dig it, the Hindu natives grin and salute me. Whew! Give me some more wine." Prince Alexis throws himself on his knees in front of the fire and holds up his glass. The wine splashes light yellow, reflecting the firelight. "Now, I'm getting to the hard part." The Listener nods in understanding. "Okay, I'm loping along the road approaching the house owned by the Methodist church. Two middle-aged matron-missionaries from Kansas are standing on the steps. I love these little ladies. They were the holiest Americans I'd found in India. So I trot up to them in joyful anticipation. But dig it, they both throw up their hands in some sort of defense against me. Why? Cause I'm naked, I suppose. "But I'm so pure. So as I run by I casually swing my arms and gently, the way you'd pat a push-me, pop-up doll in the toy store, knock each of them down." (End of tape.) WINTER 1977 Now let's fine-tune the time machine. I'd like to call your attention to the last thirty-two years in this country. Let's focus on what has happened since 1945. We're all so involved that we may not appreciate the incredible changes of the last three decades. We choose the year 1945 for obvious reasons; that was when our species fissioned nuclear structure thoughtfully at Alamogordo and blindly at Nagasaki and Hiroshima. The release of atomic energy is a mutational moment in the history of every nursery planet. It's useful to assume that in 1945 every living organism of every species, on this planet, picked up this fall-out and radiation message and transmitted it through their nervous system to RNA and back to DNA: "Hey, the domesticated primates are fissioning the atom! It's time to leave the planet because nuclear energies are not supposed to be used on a tiny, shrinking planet like ours." (Applause) At this moment an astounding acceleration of intelligence occurred! Review the evidence. Since 1945 we have fissioned and fusioned the atom. Decoding the DNA Code has allowed us, at this moment in history, to confront the possibility of genetic engineering, cloning, and biological immortality. In the short three decades since 1945, Medical science has eliminated, one by one, most of the scourges and plagues which have terrorized our species since the beginning of recorded history.
One of the most important things to happen to the new species born after 1945 is neuro-electronic consumerism. Television. Every American child born after 1945 crawled out of the crib, toddled across the room, and with tiny, chubby, baby hands reached the boob tube and began dialing and tuning realities. Wheaties, no! Post Toasties? Maybe. Coke? Maybe. 7-Up, Ford, Carter, Chevrolet, Ford, Carter, Disneyland, Disneyland, Disneyland, Disneyland. (Laughter) A young child born in the late 40's has learned how to be a Reality Consumer, a watcher of Reality Commercials, a selector of Reality Products, actively dialing a wide frequency spectrum of passive receptivity. The Sun Belt kid born after 1945 has experienced more realities in one week than the most affluent aristocrats of the past could experience in a lifetime.
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