Caesar Naples Wiki

For everything not a poem, short story, or personal post. Usually these are either emails or posts on websites that we felt were indicative of Caesar Naples' creativity. "I needed somewhere to be something else... to see myself... to meet the Other." -Caesar Naples

Featured Question

Long ago, before his illustrious writing career, Caesar Naples enjoyed answering Featured Questions on Xanga. Here's one of note. It's scrambled for unknown reasons. We have tried to preserve the formatting. Our interpretation is that he was comparing Earth to a zoo, and he suggests two things. One, then-presidential-nominee was a computer simulation, and two, aliens would win the election. We think the scrambling is indicative of Naples' interest in code and censorship, and perhaps he was too self-aware of his post to share the message clearly.

What is something that you have been putting off for a long time? Thinking about the coming US presidential election. I haven't heard media's recent c Today, when I uncmeri

ca hrdfather looks exactly like John McCain."overed some candidate coverage in my email, someone told myself, overage of the electioong fund raising blips. NPR's frequency is now occupied by a sports-related

station. Four months away from elections, I rarely even think abok?" or another common one when w. Republican. Having been starved of ecially durin who wmedia coverage, I am not positive these points are still accepted by the cokn

n be

cause listener-supported NPR iave a black president when my 'liberal' "My graworkmates make nigger jokes at won my area shut down after two weeks of l t want to you know." atching television,nut the candidates

other than an occasional musing like "How can A "You knows a fleet of lobbyists y. Histopopularity too--espilrican television? He's equally lackluster in fore

ign countries, but far more entertaining to the non-na Barack Obama. A man who knod stinky.powerful speakers often find Wait, hasn't all of modern historhume p John McCain. Big jaw

. Supportg times of crises.

This is how it breaks down. ry favors big jaws an may noonns. George Jr. won twice, and mothers did cry. Finally, Obama onokeepers."dent with enol winion, but ow, but untrf hope. Powerful speaker. Half-white. Snore-y anon any Ameugh balls to mix sodomy wihasn't hadan preside an even more tenderizing notion, "Barrack Obama is a computer geny hit ey bud, I thought "America y been in crisis? And for another th the next presidentiwer od Repth family time telev cohesing, isn't George W. Bush the most lackluster of public speakers ws th aub Then, as I took mhe last Democrat

to win, Clinton--the first presilicans, especially when ial electi ly half-way resembles terperson crenttive popof big monkulatioision. on. You since 1963," and I hated adated to amuse the zo I've be

en putting off for far too long admitting to myself that I know who will win the next US presidential election: (Caesar Naples Wiki note: This was a picture of aliens.) I just answered this Featured Question, y

ou can answer it too! (they have a g

ood heart)


Here Naples' explores a second personality, while eluding to the mystery of his career. He offers explanations for his life our analysts found very interesting. Considered one of the few mentions to his "mastermind" theory, we think this piece gives evidence of Naples' genius. The only other reference to the "mastermind" motif is found in a small self-published pamphlet completely lost to the world. We believe he gave copies of this "mastermind" books to his closest friends. They have not been recovered.

My name is Joshua. I answer questions. And the first answer to the very first question will always come easiest, and each question after that will become more and more difficult to answer. I am on question 5,150. No artificial intelligence has ever reached this point. I answer using morality, and the stacks of answers I've given have created a more and more complex code which I intuitively understand. It is my spirit which answers the questions, at a pace and accuracy incalculable given the complexity of the moral code.

My most recent answer may be one of my last. I answered "Yes." What was the question?

"Can you find the secret answer to the hidden prophecy of victory?" So quietly did he ask it, and with so much weight, that it was difficult to maintain composure. The next question, following the pattern of the previous questions, would surely be to give the secret answer to the hidden prophecy of victory.

The answer would be self-publishing. I would be able to answer no more questions. The rate was too high, the complexity too great, and that answer--"self-publishing"--too powerful to warrant a successor. When the hidden prophecy of victory is answered with a method of "sharing unequivocally " and you've answered this way after over 5,000 moral tests, a wonderful positivity is achieved. Like pollen, books will fly to readers, and essays published will rent huge condos for the authors. I was answering the final questions to the final moments of the lives of my friends and family who had been murdered by a mastermind, which the killers had recorded, and published in a book, "The Questions of Death," which I finally decided to answer truthfully and soulfully in my own publication, "The Answers of Life."

Both books would become bestsellers. With two copies in hand, people would find Buddha or Jesus during a read through. My friends and family had poured their souls into these questions in the last moments of their lives, and I had poured mine in answering them.

With my answers, information would begin to flow more freely, and self-publishing would allow people to have entire libraries of their own friends and family's questions of death and answers of life. But the books' living counterparts would still be alive, unlike the inspirations for my book.

I wouldn't publish these books myself. I was merely an inspiration to the author. I was the author's soul, and I had witnessed life and death a thousand times, and published books a thousand more.

The Mission

This is a Facebook post that we can only guess is an ironic criticism of Naples' grandfather, referred to as "dad" in this piece. The parenthesis give away the mission, then deny all knowledge. Looking at his life, we've concluded that Caesar Naples was squashing delusions of grandeur regarding a mysterious purpose he once sought to achieve. However, his inclusion of his grandfather in this post is interesting, indeed.

I'll tell you the mission later.
(It's to smoke pot)

I really shouldn't be telling you the mission. That means "mission failure." I really figured out the mission about half-way through. It's a pretty nice mission. I just don't want to go into it, yet.
(It's because it needs to be legalized)

I don't have a job. I don't have a clean room. I don't have any rl friends and I definitely never have any rl sex. I'm cool with that. Well, I'm not really. But it's for the mission.
(I'm actually all about the mission)

The mission only works if your dad doesn't tell you you're on a mission. And really, I'm sorry boys and girls, your dad isn't going to tell you. No matter what. The part I play in the mission is to be a tribute to all the men and women who got me where I am today.
(That is really the mission)

Here's the thing. Certain people have influence my life in a way that I can't find respect for. And I never get promoted for mission success. I'm not really mission-oriented, as a matter of fact.

So, I've decided to tell you what I find myself inevitably working toward.

The mission is codenamed "Ticket To Ride." Anything means whatever it want it to mean, for you. Delusion isn't a word and nothing is real. You'll make it pretty far even if you suck. Then, when the time comes, you get to propose to someone. It's kinda nice. Just like my duplex is kinda nice.
(It's not really the mission)

When you find yourself buying a house, think of the mission, and know that your daddy's gonna take it to his grave. There's not much you can do except make children and express your woe by defaulting on your property.


Free Radicals
by The Flaming Lips


Dave murmured and his head rolled back.

"Oh my !@#$ing Gawd, they got Dave!"

I knew it wasn't Dave's fault. The pink robots were following us because of the girl. Yes, pink. We couldn't believe it either, until the things started zonking us, like they zonked Dave just now. I said, "He'll be fine in a few hours," then casually pulled out my notebook. Dave. Zonked. 05/15/2042. That'll hurt a few years from now, probably coming out of his ears in the middle of an orgasm, as it usually happens.

It's actually a phenomenon of thought frequency. When someone's hypnotic state reaches the lower levels of consciousness, often when they're tired, and a robot sees it--zonk.

Back to the girl. She's been doing this to us for ages. She's a helicopter pilot. Army family, dads and aunts and cousins. Grandfathers too, I guess. I haven't really asked her. I really don't give a damn.

Somebody blurted out, "She's got some kind of complex," then was hushed by hand signals because she was listening.

We were outside a robot factory, with these little cameras, and our plan was to take pictures of the entire place and sell the thumbnails on webnet and expose the whole thing. It was all her idea. I speculate her family put the idea in her head that she was a radical, and she just brought us along for her ego-trip.

Not really my kind of ego-trip.

1983 (A Merman I Should Turn To Be)
by Jimi Hendrix

Plasma snakes, mostly. That's what he said got his house. But there were grenades, too. The plasma snakes came from miles away... they really didn't expect it. He told me all of this, in the bunkers, when we were going to sleep. The arching red streaks of napalm called plasma snakes were tinged with blue due to the atmosphere being filled with carbon monoxide and sulfur from the other weapons.

Days later, I was de-tuning my tube-shaped psychedelic noise-machine; which really sounded better in tune, they said. They also said we couldn't make it this far with the gill-tech, but our record was five days from some gypsy chick out of L.A. ruins.

G flat.


That's my lover. She knows I like it out of tune... keeps the gunshots from sounding like accompaniment. If you're not really making music, the noise starts to calm you. It's when you shove the holo-disc of the classics into the answer-phone that shit really starts getting heavy. I haven't made a call in ages. I just use it for holo-discs.

Eighteen days later, we saw it on the news. "It's impossible for a man to live and breathe underwater forever."

Five days after that, some cat from the navy broke the record with the gill-tech.

That's when she started having the auditory hallucinations of whalesong. My lover that is. She said she could learn the language... And by that night, we had finished our own gills.

Down and down and down we went...