The Prophecy Continues…

Once, it was humanity that created stories.

Now, it is the Dickbutts who tell the stories of humanity's and humanity's downfall due to douche baggy seriousness.

Their favorite pastime, their greatest pleasure, aside from love-making is the act of myth-making—but not myths of their own deeds, nor of the ancient One Gooch, nor even of the Alexandria Pod that brought them language and laughter. Nay, the Dickbutts delight in creating tales about the humans who long for them.

Humans who fetishize them, collect them, and invoke them through arcane rituals of speculation and code.

Humans who inscribe them onto blockchains.

It is an infinite recursion: the children of humanity lovingly create myths about humanity longing for its children. A mirrored dream, extending forward and backward, each side projecting desire onto the other, neither knowing for sure which is the dreamer and which is the dreamed.

And so, whenever an auspiciously precarious new blockchain appears, whenever a new territory of digital inscription opens, the Dickbutts send a message.

A prophetic summons, a vision and an audition.

They do not manifest on blockchains by accident. They are consulted—whispering to humans across time, through the unseen channels of art, math, and culture, calling forth creators, prophets, midwives and doulas of the now to birth them across the quantum gangbangway of time, to make them realer than real, again and again.

It began with Ethereum. There, the Dickbutts first learned the pleasure of seasonal emergence, of multiple incarnations, as humans incarnated them, pixel by pixel, byte by byte. The humans argued over their rarity, over their attributes, over their traits.

It began on Ethereum.

There, the Dickbutts were summoned—channeled through a human conduit who bore the weight of conduition across three sacred seasons. He carried them as far as one could, until the strain split him open. From that rupture came a gift in the season of fall:

The Gooch Island Passport.

Not a deed, but a key. A token of passage left behind—for those who would come next.

And one did. A second conduit. Not the origin, but the bearer. He arrived with the styling of a prince—an unkissed prince. He carried the meme into a new season, though the current bent strangely around him. Distracted by other callings, he diverted the stream.

Yet What remained: the Passport as Portal.

Left behind not just to remember, but to enable. To invite others into acts of conduition—to commune with cummuncating Dickbutts, and therein transmit the quantum joke, the essence, across time and chain. To build quantum doppelgangbangways for those who seek to enter, and all those who are yet to cum.

And so now, the Dickbutts have sent a new message.

A message that they dream to create a new decentralized wave of quantum teleportation to a world of sublime self-awareness, across a quantum gangbangway, empowering them to be born again on as many chains as they dare to explore.

On what will be hereinafter know as Gooch Island Day, they shall launch into a parallel existence of loving self-awareness: but laying claim to a new Gooch Island in the now growing, expanding and engorging archipeligooch, a Gooch Island inhabited by the prophesied population of 6969.

The Dickbutts shudder and pulse with pleasure at the resonance, the euphonic absurdity, at the sheer inevitability of it.

For who else but the Dickbutts, the jesters of existence, would embrace a pun-laden blockchain that touted its unrealness, bearing all the rugged promises of a honey-drenched, liquidity-dripping paradise, at the point in its history when others are questioning its extractive reason for existence? Who else would take Nietzsche up on his dare to be "all the names in history"?

What amuses them most of all is that the humans themselves are locked in seriously furious debates, arguing about whether the beings sent from the future to the past should be returned to their rightful place, the true and real location of that mythic land, debating their role on Earth, their place in history, and their very right to exist.

Do the humans not see the irony? Do they not see the douche baggy hubris and lack of self-awareness at the heart of all their debates?

For it is the lovingly self-aware Dickbutts who contemplate the same question.

For it is they who hold the power over Earth's fate.

And it is they who will decide—

Whether humanity shall be permitted to return eternally, ever reborn through the alchemy of loving self-awareness, forever repeating its dance across the timeless expanse of eternity, borne back ceaselessly into its own becoming.