In 2010 a man by the name of Brutus Williams published a book called Fuck the Little

Things. The combined strength of its risqué title and remarkably ingenious thesis helped
it to cut, slash, maim and gore its way to New York Times Bestseller for twelve years.
During those twelve years the book itself, or I should say the ideal behind the book—
which could be completely summed up its brilliant title: Fuck the Little Things—became
larger than all the little things people had been fucking combined and then doubled, and
then squared.

The new quest for science and religion and art, all aspects of modern intellectual inquest
were soon done with only one goal in mind: to lower the amount of “little things” people
had to deal with, to zero.

As the years by years went by, people gave less and less of a fuck about little things, and
more and more of a fuck about how to get rid of all the other little things they hadn’t
quite fucked yet.

In this quest to rid the world of little things, three different sects of littlest theorists arose.

One group appropriately named Minimal Muscular Movement advocated the theory that
by limiting how much physical activity we do, we can by the law of causation,
dramatically reduce the amount of other little things i.e. walking, talking, breathing,
bicycling, smiling, frowning, toe jiggling, toe stumping, toe breaking, arthritis, tendonitis,
tetanus, tight muscles, tibia fractures, and so forth.

Another group, also appropriately titled: Limited Lethargic Leopold’s, advocated that
being lethargic, or lazy for the layman, likely consisted of lots more little things than
simply just living. They also all happened to be named Leopold.

A third group, not so appropriately titled: Fuck Fucking Little Things, Fuck Big! other-
wise known as FFLTFB! were in fact the only group of theorists to actually be made up
of scientists.

All the scientists, actually.

They had chosen the name FFLTFB! because they thought it would better appeal to the
senses, or lack there of, of the mass populace. People loved acronyms, they thought. And
people love the word fuck, they thought.

And there you have it.

FFLTFB! had come to agree that all the little things in the world, which people were so
ready to fuck, existed in the mind. With this in mind, and nothing else mind you,
certainly not ethics, they began working on a way to limit the amount of things the brain
had to do and to hold.
First things first, One rather brilliant scientists said to the others one day, we should
export our memories. They must be taking up huge amounts of brain space, and therefore
having the brain do all sorts of unnecessary little things.

Within twenty years, as the social and governmental structures of the world collapsed
under mankind’s enormous weight of fuck its, the team of scientist made great leaps in
memory storage, as well as memory extraction—using a highly controversial and highly
expensive; and usually, though not always, deadly process that transferred the
electromagnetic pulses of specific memory stringsi as they were called, into small data
cubes. Each of which could hold up to one-hundred thousand stings.

Each person, on average (average being fifty five year old white, balding males with
general depression) had two-hundred sixteen million strings. This meant that each
person, if fully extracted at the time, would need twenty-two thousand data cubes.

And this, thought the scientists, would not do.

In the mean time, while the world’s scientists were busy researching themselves into a
brick wall—and, quite possibly, Hell—the world was itself becoming such.

The Fuck It craze, as the media so lovingly called it, grew and spread faster than herpes
at the White House. It began at home, in the family; mothers had begun to look at the
kitchens around them, at the utensils and the uncooked food and thinking:

You know what? Fuck it.

They would order out. Fast food chains multiplied like crack-house roaches and when
mothers would look down on their chubby, wheezing, drooling children would, where
they normally would have thought:

Oh dear, I should really get him a shower and put him on a diet, he’ll most certainly get
diabetes by age fourteen and develop terrible psychological disorders due to low self-
esteem.

Would instead think, quite satisfactorily:

Fuck it.

It turned out memory was not stored in a central location as once hypothesized, but rather was found to
exist on certain frequencies created by long, spread out chains, or strings of neurons and dendrites. The
strings connected at nodes which existed in every section of the brain, some sections with up to ten nodes,
and the strings always formed complete loops. Memories, it seemed, were each given their own string
throughout the brain, and the brain it was hypothesized, could hold up to sixteen trillion trillion billion
million memories, each memory lasting approximately eight seconds. The strings also contained an
electrical imprint of all five senses and a layer of electrical imprint still undecipherable, which is thought to
be the actual thought patterns of the people at the time of the memory.
Teachers in unruly classrooms, instead of fighting for order, simply said: Fuck it.

Jehovah Witness’ began approaching doors with mezuzah’s and instead of knocking in
obstinate futility, would simply say: fuck it.

Cops began to say: fuck it, just taser’em.

Then: fuck it, just shoot’em.

Criminals were looking around wondering why it took everyone so long to get this fuck it
idea. They always thought it was so obviously beneficial.

Everyday a new senator or congressperson would get exposed in fraud, or with a hooker
or with crack or with a hooker smoking crack with money he stole from the local
orphans’ charity; and, people simply said: fuck it.

A black man was elected president in the United States of America and all the stub nosed
bigots usually armed with tiny forebrains and rifles, and who had been waiting years for a
black man to just try’n runin fer presdent so they could unleash years of pent up sexual
abuse and repression, said instead: fuck it.

A Mexican man who converted to Islam while serving time in California state
penitentiary for multiple counts of murder and drug trafficking (the media had learned all
this and would normally have smothered him with it like a goose feather pillow from a
pay-by-hour hotel, but instead said: fuck it.) was next to be elected president and all the
American Christian Crusade Jihad conservatives, who would normally have been
throwing flaming feces at every passing, light brown to slightly dark brown man, for
Jesus and Amer’ca, said instead: fuck it.

A woman tried to run for president the year after; but, had God blessed her soul she
could not have won that race. She was doing great at first, using the ever popular Fuck It
ballot and was slowly convincing more and more of her running incumbent, Osama
Hussein Hernandez’s people to instead of voting say: Fuck It!

However, when MMM—who wanted less muscular movement as a path to less little
things, but who still held firm to crazy religious tenements—found out that Jessica
Rebecca Mary-Beth Smith had had an abortion one night between campaign speeches,
they hired someone from LLL to find the aborted fetus. Which was then displayed on
personal Eye-V’s across the world.

Needless to say Jessica Rebecca Mary-Beth Smith killed herself the next morning.
The social cultural structure of the world was collapsing at an enormously fast rate and
instead of people crying out for change or praying for relief, they simply looked around
them; some of them at their shriveled legs, their hungry, gaunt stomachs; some at their
crying children, others at their burning sofas and singeing toast and said instead: Fuck It.

Twenty years went by; and by the twentieth a good two-thirds of the world had fuck it’d
themselves and/or--though mostly and--others to death.

Scientists on the other hand were doing just marvelous. As the world collapsed into a
swampy lethargy the scientists, (namely Albert Branovski Johnson, the co-founder and
later, through a series of improvable coups, coups de gras and Ménage à trios, the
President in Chief of FFLTFB!) realized that the growing Fuck It craze could be quite
beneficial for those with the know-how and lack of morality.

By 2025 FFLTFB! was receiving 95% of the world’s GDP in allocated funds for
scientific research. It soon became obvious that the next step for their memory extraction
plan would be an enormous, Texas sized data cube which could hold all of the world’s
memories in one spot--hypothetically.

It would, they found, cost around one-hundred forty-four trillion million dollars…and the
state of Texas.

The money aspect was easy. They were already receiving enough money from the
world’s top grossing countries to efficiently starve two-million people a day; and, the rest
of the money that was needed could be loaned from a small credit union in Southern
Texas.

The credit union, Skeeter Credit Union to be exact, had been saving up gold coins and
bricks since 1862 and had never actually opened their doors for business. The owner
Skeeter Hernandez was red as Arizona sand and spoke like he read: not often and not
well.

His great-great-great grandfather, Skeeter Smith had founded this bank in 1862 on top of
a gold mine that was now two miles deep. He figured if he opened up a bank, then soon
enough people would come around to borrow money; and in turn a town would develop.

And he was right, problem turned out to be that Skeeter Smith didn’t like handing people
money and not being handed anything back, it just didn’t feel right.

So, Skeeter went on to keep mining gold and every once in a while someone would come
by wanting money, and if it was a female then Skeeter would impregnate her and put her
kids to work in the mine—she was always paid well of course—and if it was a male he
would sometimes shoot him, and other times would just flip his open sign to the closed
position.
By 2026 the Skeeter Credit Union had amassed approximately two-tons of gold and a
two-hundred little Skeeters and Skeeterettes. When Albert Branovski Johnson came to
ask for gold from the Skeeters he thought he would be coming against all chance, as
certainly Brutus Williams’ book couldn’t have made it this far out.

Needless to say, he was more than pleasantly surprised to see three heavily used copies
of Fuck the Little Things on the waiting room table where stacks of gold formed the
foundation for chair legs and bookshelf shelves.

“Y’awnt muney ehhh?” Asked Mr. Skeeter.

“Yessir Mr. Skeeter, sir.” Replied Albert Branovski Johnson, who was straining
desperately to decipher Skeeter’s words through his tobacco filled cheeks.

“Much?” Asked Mr. Skeeter, who felt that something in this situation seemed off, but had
decided that instead of trying to figure out why that was, he would just say: Fuck it.

“Well, Mr. Skeeter sir…all of it. We’ll pay back with three times interest of course, in
three months too.” Replied Albert Branovski Johnson, more or less enthused.

This time something seemed definitely to be off, but again it would take at least three or
four seconds to examine the situation and deduct a good way to decline and/or kill the
man across from him. And those were three or four seconds that could be well spent
doing nothing at all.

And so Mr. Skeeter Hernandez said to Albert:

“Fuck it.”

And Albert Branovski Johnson, for the first time in thirty-six years, said thank you to an
incredibly improbable, omnipresent and omnipotent being, of which mankind so
commonly called, “God.”

Texas was easily bought. Most of the people there had spread out to California in search
of the Great Fuck-It Freeway where it was rumored no one did anything at all, ever.

Texas had receded from the Union in 2013 when gay lab created baby abortions were
legalized in Colorado and had built a fence around the state in 2014 where they posted
snipers every three hundred feet; however, with all the main highways also being blocked
off by their fence, Texas found themselves completely cut off from out-of-state food and
supply shipments.

“Don’t fuck with Texas.” Said Texas

“Ok.” Said the world.

Now a thousand people remained alive in Texas, and it was rumored they fed off
Mexicans and drifters.

At first the scientists FFLTFB! thought they would just offer to buy Texas from, well,
Texas; but, when John Woo, the groups weapons design engineer, discovered a bunch of
left over bunker busters and white phosphorous bombs with working manuals and remote
controlled airplanes capable of dropping bombs…FFLTFB! decided just to bomb what
was left of Texas and then start construction.

And so construction began on Memory Cube 1 on March 17 of 2027.

A lot people noticed.

A lot of them could have said or done something; but, that required a whole lot of little
things; and, God-forbid, a few big things too.

Along with the Texas sized Memory Cube 1, the scientists also needed to construct an
enormous satellite which would broadcast a memory upload frequency; which, in turn
would penetrate and steal all the memories from people's minds for storage in Memory
Cube 1.

They built this in Nevada, as everyone there had left when Las Vegas went up in flames
in early 2023.

Martin Martinez had been the janitor on duty at the Majestic the night of the city wide
fire. He was supposed to be off that day; but, his co-work Ron Salvador had called in
early that morning complaining of stomach problems and vomiting.

Hangover, Martin had thought.

That day, some time between 8am and 9pm, said the fireman's report, a plug-in Jack
Rabbit vibrator entitled: Jack's Magic Rabbit, overheated and burst into flames in room
334. Subsequently spreading to all of Las Vegas.

What the fireman's report did not mention was that at some point between 8am and 9pm
Martin Martinez had been pulling up his worn trousers, turning back on his two-way
radio and had looked over at the bed stand beside Ms Buttersworth where a vibrator lay
humming happily.

Normally Martin would have unplugged the vibrator out of pure courtesy; but, he had just
finished reading a new self-help book which called for a very specific reaction to such
"little" events:

Fuck it, said Martin Martinez to himself, rather satisfactorily.

When word hit the news that the Majestic and its neighboring hotels, parking lots and
scrub bushes were on fire--Martin Martinez was the first one to say: fuck this, and
immediately left Nevada.

Soon the whole state was saying fuck it and moving towards California and the Great
Fuck It Freeway.

In April of 2028 the Mega Man-Memory Stealing Satellite was completed and turned on.

At exactly that same moment, when the off switch had hit the on position, a psychic man
living right outside of Nevada on an old Hopi reservation had a vision. Fifteen minutes
later the same psychic man removed his father's old Remington revolver from his writing
drawer, loaded in a single hollow point bullet into the chamber and put the gun to his
temple.

Fuck it, he said.

Fuck it blared the revolver.

In May of 2029 Memory Cube 1 was completed and the Mega Man-Memory Stealing
Satellite was fully warmed up and ready for activation.

And now I feel like here would be a good time to explain where and how I fit into this
situation:

I was a member, a ranking member nonetheless, of FFLTFB! and was at the ceremony of
initiation on Christmas day of 2029, where the Memory Cube and memory-stealing
satellite pair were set to be activated. The ceremony was done in good spirits and in the
presence of large amounts of alcohol.

By this time a lot less than half of the initial members of FFLTFB! were present. The
other half had dropped out in favor of the fuck it craze--or had committed suicide before
they could have had the chance of being considered for possible hanging--after people
realized what we were all up to.

One member, Baron Deuche von Crumple was found with both wrists slit and the word
Nuremberg written in blood over his bed.

The remaining group of us consisted of two types of people: Those who thought that this
was the greatest thing man had ever achieved and who drank heavily and unrepentantly at
the ceremony; and, those who thought this was bat-shit insanity, but who also really
wanted to see what would happen.

I was in group two and I knew that this was bat-shit insanity--which is why I was wearing
an entire suit of tinfoil at the ceremony.

To be part of something that you know to be bat-shit insane, you really have to be bat-
shit insane, a good friend of mine once said before he blew his brains out with his father's
old Remington pistol--and he was right.

In the year 2008 a study was done that proved that wearing aluminum foil hats actually
increased the speed and intensity of microwaves into the brain. The study was done in
order to placate the crazy nerves of mental patients who thought the government was
trying to get into their heads and steal their thoughts. What the report didn't mention was
that the Government never used microwaves to get into people's heads--they used gamma
rays--and aluminum foil was a gamma ray's worst nightmare.

I know this because I did the study and I did the study because I knew the government
was not using microwaves and had been paid by the Government to say otherwise.

The frequency used by our device to steal memories was on the lower end of gamma ray
vibration and so needed at least two layers of aluminum foil to refract it.

The suit I wore to the ceremony was three layers thick and four on the head. When
people asked me what the hell my problem was or if I was mad I simply replied,
respectively: Yes, absolutely. Donning an awkward, pitying smile.

I’m not sure when it occurred to me that this plan might be insane.

Maybe it was when I first crossed into Texas, through a hole I had pulled a torso out of in
the fence or when I had caught site of two children chewing savagely on what looked to
be a full grown man leg.

Maybe it was while the archeologists were loading up all of Skeeter Hernandez’s gold
into our cargo plane. Maybe it happened when I was typing in my launch codes for the
Texas-Bomber, as we called. Maybe it was when I realized how terrible this machine’s
activation could possibly make the world or maybe it was when I realized that I didn’t
really care.

Either way, there I was. Wrapped head to toe in Aluminum foil and waiting for my brain
child to be switched to the on position and export, compress and transfer all of the
world’s memories into Memory Cube 1, theoretically.

We counted down, of course. Two more pistols went off in the process but otherwise the
ceremony went perfectly. The control switch had been turned from the off to the on
position. All the lights worked. The satellite hummed. The rabbits outside were fucking
and everyone was smiling, half-drunk and or laughing…and no one knew why.

Except me, of course. I was wearing aluminum.

My idea had worked. The machine had stolen everyone’s memories, compressed them,
and stored them in Memory Cube 1. And now there were at least two million people
standing around the world, looking about confused, lost and with the memory of new
born child. They had no language now, no narrative. They were an empiricist’s dream
come true—and they were ready to be molded.

It hadn’t taken me long to realize that the crowd of new born men and women around me
were staring intently at me and my aluminum suit. The control room area was almost all
windows and the mid-day Texas sun reflected off my suit and made me look like a
walking disco ball. I had to quickly shut down the satellite and lock down the control
system.

The crowd had soon begun to walk slowly towards me, as a child might on his first
attempts. Two fell down and began to crawl; one pissed himself and began to cry.

Beautiful, I thought.

They were children, so I treated them like children. In the janitor’s closet of the control I
had previously stored some animal crackers and candies, children’s books and an
alphabet I had created in my spare time—and I got to work.

Their minds were fully grown, the adults at least, and so they learned very quickly. Their
brains still retained all the learning strings they developed in their regular lives, and so
my language was easily learned, spoken and written.

I realized early on that English was everywhere and that some people were going to ask
what that was all about. So now, when they do, I tell them that we were trans-
dimensional beings who had wound up trapped, through a science experiment gone
wrong on our home world, in the bodies of third-dimensional creatures called Humans.

I tell them that I was one of the scientists on our home world and that I knew things were
going to go wrong with the experiment—but I was ignored by the other scientists, who
had become secretly aligned with their negatives-selves.

I tell them that I had worn a protective suit so that I might keep my memories if things
went wrong and we ended up bending time-space too much. Which we did, I tell them.
Which is why we are here.

I tell them that we arrived right after a great disaster on this world and inhabited the
survivors and that it was our job to remember our true selves. To find our way back to
the next level of consciousness.

I tell them that my book, EVOL has knowledge from our higher selves and that it contains
a guide to get back.

They had lots of questions at first, and still do really. I don’t know everything and at first
I didn’t teach them any English. I didn’t want them reading any books, not yet. Once the
first group had learned basic things—eating, where to urinate, where to defecate, where
not to masturbate, cooking and such—we set off in search of other people and for me to
see how far the satellite had reached.

When we made it Colorado we had amassed over a thousand people. They all spoke my
language by then and they all followed me.

I was their leader, their savior.

I was their Jesus Christ and they were my flock; and I even had my own bible.

I carried it everywhere with me and with each new person or group of people I met, fed
and talked with about my bible, EVOL, I made them make and carry their own copy.

Mine is bound in deer leather and has the letters EVOL in large gilded calligraphy under
which, in tiny red stitching and in parentheses, it says: EVOL: Explore, Value, Observe,
and Learn—A Guide to Loving the Little Things.

When people asked how it was pronounced, since those symbols didn’t exist in my new
language, I told them that it was pronounced Love and that in it were four principles by
which to live:

Explore the world around you and yourself, for they are good.

Value the world around you and yourself, for both are good.

Observe the world around you and yourself, for both are good.

Learn from and about the world around you and yourself, for all is good.

At the end of the book I have a signed personal message written in a gilded calligraphy of
my own language:

Don’t worry, It says, you’ve only just forgotten.

At the current moment it is 2056, or year Twenty-Seven if you’re not me. I have made it
as far as Eastern Russian with my book EVOL and my "religion,” if you wish to call it
that.

Society has begun to stabilize, so far there have been no wars…no murders that I’m
aware of. Play and exploration have become the basic tenements of our new society and
until recently I had yet to meet anyone else who was not affected by my machine.

Two weeks ago however, while out on an expedition into Central and Southern America,
I wandered into a small tribal village in the jungle of Guatemala and encountered a small
family of Mayans.
They were not the least bit affected by my machine—still withholding all their historical
and cultural knowledge and language--and they knew instantly who I was.
They told me that they had received a copy of my book Fuck the Little Things back in
2010 and had immediately known what I was up to. They said they had been waiting
quite some time for me to arrive.

I have been here now for two weeks (where I am writing down this story) and am being
taught the secrets of their spirituality, which, strangely enough, contains tenements very
close to those in my own new book—EVOL.

When I asked their elder upon arriving to explain to me how they had managed to keep
their memories after my machine was activated, he simply smiled widely, knowingly and
said soothingly to me in my own new language:

Don’t worry, Dr. Johnson--you’ve only just forgotten.

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