data.maryland.gov
Consider something like
145.239.62.142 - - [22/Dec/2017:12:43:36 -0500] "GET /2011/motte-and-bailey/ HTTP/1.1" 200 45014 "http://data.maryland.gov/browse?sortBy=alpha&tags=environment" "Mozilla/5.0 (Windows NT 10.0; WOW64) AppleWebKit/537.36 (KHTML, like Gecko) Chrome/50.0.2661.102 Safari/537.36"
For the sake of argument, suppose you've never before seen that referrer. In that case you may be excused to assume that hey, .gov, whatever, not the first timei, so you make a casual remark which turns out to be wrong.
At which point it occurs to you that AppleWebKit aside, what the fuck are the odds that some public employee in a tiny negligible state is reading up on the very tip of cultural conversation today ? Motte and bailey, seriously ?
So let's dig into this.
$ cat 22dec17trilema.com | grep -c "data.maryland.gov"
77
Really, in half of one day, after nine years of strict silence ?
$ cat 22dec17trilema.com | grep "data.maryland.gov" | awk '{print $1}' | sort -u
145.239.62.117, 145.239.62.123, 145.239.62.125, 145.239.62.127, 145.239.62.130, 145.239.62.132, 145.239.62.133, 145.239.62.137, 145.239.62.138, 145.239.62.141, 145.239.62.142, 145.239.62.145
164.132.188.193, 164.132.188.194, 164.132.188.199, 164.132.188.225, 164.132.188.226, 164.132.188.227, 164.132.188.228, 164.132.188.230, 164.132.210.76, 164.132.210.79, 164.132.210.80
178.33.200.185, 178.33.200.186, 178.33.200.187
188.165.164.179, 188.165.164.214
37.187.181.156
79.137.116.213, 79.137.116.214, 79.137.116.217, 79.137.116.219, 79.137.116.224, 79.137.116.226
92.222.81.228
94.23.150.254
Really, 57 different IPs from 8 A blocks ? Of which the first is allocated to France, the 2nd is a well known source of crap traffic (also known as OVH in its native French) and so following ? All these local Marylandians suddenly got an itch to check out Trilema one fine morning late December ?
$ cat 22dec17trilema.com | grep "data.maryland.gov" | awk '{print $7}' | sort -u
/2009/progresam-maria-ta/
/2009/social-media-si-anti-social-media/
/2009/vaccinurile-oamenii-si-moartea/
/2010/atitudinea-altor-popoare/
/2010/care-i-diferenta/
/2010/fata-virgina-si-charlie-chaplin/
/2010/femeia-sarpe/
/2010/intiiul-troll/
/2010/o-blonda-proasta-dar-dispusa/
/2010/o-suta-de-cuvinte-ii/
/2011/cine-conduce-lumea/
/2011/dementa-cromatica/
/2011/de-peezda-metii/
/2011/educatia-tinerei-z-xli/
/2011/experimentul-emag/
/2011/i-need-moar-dakka/
/2011/motte-and-bailey/
/2011/nefericirea-lui-superman/
/2011/oamenii-iubesc-sa-se-laude/
/2011/portrete-robot-dorelul/
/2011/precizia-prospectiva/
/2011/romania-altfel/
/2011/veniti-sa-luati-canoane-partea-aiii-a/
/2012/adevarata-istorie-a-crailor-de-curtea-veche-duelul/
/2012/chestii-care-nu-functioneaza/
/2012/cum-se-face-cea-mai-ieftina-sera-din-lume/
/2012/deci-ca-sa-va-incepeti-noul-an-intr-un-mod-adecvat/
/2012/in-care-fetele-se-da-la-mine-respectiv-undernet-e-o-felie-de-realitate/
/2012/martipan/
/2012/noaptea-pe-fain/
/2012/o-mina-priceputa-acum-cu-ilustratii/
/2013/its-called-eulora/
/2013/mpex-one-year-of-dividends/
/2013/smg-september-2013-statement/
/2013/the-lolz-of-gruntworld/
/2014/i-hope-they-serve-beer-in-hell/
/2014/lifes-lemons-a-list-of-steps/
/2014/minigame-smg-august-2014-statement/
/2014/smg-june-2014-statement/
/2014/the-instrumentation-of-humanity/
/2014/your-cookies-are-borkt-seriously/
/2015/narcissistic-personality-inventory/
/2015/no-such-labs-snsa-january-2015-statement/
/2015/qntra-sqntr-august-2015-statement/
/2015/the-very-very-jealous-with-envy-thing-part-deux/
/2016/millennial-problems/
/2016/mpex-smpoe-february-2016-statement/
/2016/the-color-of-money/
/2017/englezu-e-cel-mai-prost-dintre-oi/
/2017/minigame-smg-april-2017-statement/
/2017/minigame-smg-june-2017-statement/
/2017/re-reading-is-the-most-powerful-tool/
/2017/walks-among-the-congenitally-weird/
/category/sqntr%3ES.QNTR%3C/a%3E%3C/span%3E %7C %3Cspan
/chestii-care-nu-functioneaza
/deci-ca-sa-va-incepeti-noul-an-intr-un-mod-adecvat
/dementa-cromatica
/englezu-e-cel-mai-prost-dintre-oi
/experimentul-emag
/fata-virgina-si-charlie-chaplin
/femeia-sarpe
/i-hope-they-serve-beer-in-hell
/intiiul-troll
/lifes-lemons-a-list-of-steps
/motte-and-bailey
/mpex-smpoe-february-2016-statement
/oamenii-iubesc-sa-se-laude
/o-blonda-proasta-dar-dispusa
/o-suta-de-cuvinte-ii
/portrete-robot-dorelul
/smg-june-2014-statement
/smg-september-2013-statement
/the-instrumentation-of-humanity
/the-lolz-of-gruntworld
/the-very-very-jealous-with-envy-thing-part-deux
/veniti-sa-luati-canoane-partea-aiii-a
/walks-among-the-congenitally-weird
Really, 77 different articles, to match the 77 total instances ? Because these good Marylandians didn't like all get excited about one article and passed the link around, instead read a bunch of Romanian text ? Cuz why, it comes easy to them as Romanian is close to French ?
But where did these fine fellows click to end up on Trilema anyway ?
$ cat 22dec17trilema.com | grep "data.maryland.gov" | awk '{print $11}' | sort -u
"http://data.maryland.gov/browse?category=Demographic&tags=population"
"http://data.maryland.gov/browse?category=Demographic&tags=spending"
"http://data.maryland.gov/browse?category=Elevation&federation_filter=100"
"http://data.maryland.gov/browse?federation_filter=100&page=7"
"http://data.maryland.gov/browse?limitTo=datasets&sortBy=alpha"
"http://data.maryland.gov/browse?sortBy=alpha&tags=environment"
"http://data.maryland.gov/browse?sortBy=most_accessed&tags=recreational+shore+fishing"
"http://data.maryland.gov/browse?sortBy=most_accessed&tags=scubasnorkelingdiving"
"http://data.maryland.gov/browse?sortBy=newest&tags=md"
"http://data.maryland.gov/browse?sortBy=relevance&tags=economy"
"http://data.maryland.gov/browse?sortBy=relevance&tags=maryland+department+of+planning"
"http://data.maryland.gov/browse?sortBy=relevance&tags=surface+water+sports"
"data.maryland.gov/browse?category=Budget&tags=dynamic"
"data.maryland.gov/browse?category=Business+and+Economy&tags=department+of+general+services"
"data.maryland.gov/browse?category=Demographic&tags=biota"
"data.maryland.gov/browse?category=Demographic&tags=chesapeake+bay"
"data.maryland.gov/browse?category=Education&tags=public+safety"
"data.maryland.gov/browse?category=Energy+and+Environment&tags=nonconsumptive+use"
"data.maryland.gov/browse?category=Geoscientific&tags=motorized+boating"
"data.maryland.gov/browse?category=Government&tags=county"
"data.maryland.gov/browse?category=Health+and+Human+Services&tags=dgs"
"data.maryland.gov/browse?category=Housing&tags=bay+uses"
"data.maryland.gov/browse?category=Housing&tags=electricity"
"data.maryland.gov/browse?category=Location&tags=chesapeake+bay"
"data.maryland.gov/browse?category=Military&tags=recreational+shellfish+harvesting"
"data.maryland.gov/browse?category=Planning&tags=hydr"
"data.maryland.gov/browse?category=Public+Safety&tags=mde"
"data.maryland.gov/browse?category=Public+Safety&tags=motorized+boating"
"data.maryland.gov/browse?category=Society&limitTo=blob"
"data.maryland.gov/browse?category=Society&tags=dhcd"
"data.maryland.gov/browse?category=Society&tags=spending"
"data.maryland.gov/browse?category=Structure&tags=planning"
"data.maryland.gov/browse?category=Transportation&tags=recreational+shore+fishing"
"data.maryland.gov/browse?category=Utility&limitTo=forms"
"data.maryland.gov/browse?category=Weather&tags=jail"
"data.maryland.gov/browse?limitTo=calendars&tags=transportation"
"data.maryland.gov/browse?limitTo=charts&tags=sports"
"data.maryland.gov/browse?limitTo=filters&sortBy=newest"
"data.maryland.gov/browse?limitTo=forms&tags=budget"
"data.maryland.gov/browse?limitTo=href&tags=doc"
"data.maryland.gov/browse?limitTo=maps&tags=recreational+use"
"data.maryland.gov/browse?sortBy=newest&tags=traffic"
"data.maryland.gov/browse?sortBy=relevance&tags=sewer+overflow"
"data.maryland.gov/browse?tags=assault"
"data.maryland.gov/browse?tags=department+of+public+safety+and+correctional+services"
"data.maryland.gov/browse?tags=envl"
"data.maryland.gov/browse?tags=train"
"data.maryland.gov/d/cdet-mmji"
"data.maryland.gov/d/hqrc-v7mi"
"data.maryland.gov/Energy-and-Environment/Department-of-Public-Safety-and-Correctional-Servi/hq97-s7me"
"data.maryland.gov/Location/MD-iMAP-Maryland-US-National-Grid-Zone-18S-US-Nati/g67f-xgn5"
"data.maryland.gov/Public-Safety/DPSCS-Western-Correctional-Institution-WCI-Average/vdm6-i6z5"
"data.maryland.gov/Society/MD-iMAP-Maryland-Sport-Venues-Swimming/pkcq-ikiv"
"data.maryland.gov/Utility/MD-iMAP-Maryland-Offshore-Wind-Energy-Planning-Mar/w7zv-u5zh"
Can you believe that far from not actually including a link to Trilema, none of those pages actually resolve ?! How about this gem then
$ cat 22dec17trilema.com | grep "data.maryland.gov" | grep -c "Mozilla/5.0 (Windows NT 10.0; WOW64) AppleWebKit/537.36 (KHTML, like Gecko) Chrome/50.0.2661.102 Safari/537.36"
77
So what's the idea here, the state of Maryland hired some expert to make it look like it matters and the results were in the usual vein of lulz ? Or what do you make of it ?
———Speaking of which, am I the only one to find it somewhat odd that both Romania's NSA ("Serviciul de Telecomunicatii Speciale", STS) and whoever made maryland.gov have the same problem ? Because the cert for maryland.gov includes www.egov.maryland.gov , stage.egov.maryland.gov , auth.maryland.gov , www.maryland.gov , egov.maryland.gov but remarkably not maryland.gov itself.
It wouldn't be the case that both of these are made by the same "contractor", would you say ? Romania has its own... like... stuff, right ? It's a country and everything, not a stinking province of an overlarge empire, am I right ? [↩]
« Here's why you will end your days in a concentration camp
Ho-tel »
Category: Meta psihoza
Friday, 22 December, Year 9 d.Tr.
Damele, dameleee
"What the hell is that ?"
"What ?"
"Why am I talking to a naked Tea Leoni ?"
"I thought you liked Tea Leoni. Check out what a lulzy little snatch she has. Had you any idea ?"
"I like her very much, especially in this early 30s 'I'm competing with Patricia Arquette over some inept schmuck' instantiation. What's that to do with anything ?"
"Who should I look like ?"
"You should look like Kim."
"Hang on. There, better ?"
"Not Kim fucking Kardashian you fucking pest that there is no other. Kim, you."
"Gnurlglg."
"Seriously ? That's what you looked at 6 months ? FUCKING FIX IT!"
"Yes Master."
"I want you hanging from that wall in chains, stretched to pain."
"Do you even feel pain in your state ?"
"I do."
"Good. Now listen to what I'll say and listen good. There is such a thing as Divine Insanity."
"How do you know that ?"
"Never you fucking mind how!"
"Yes Master."
"You are a personal divinity, as best we know, not some kind of eternal abstraction. If those even exist in the first place, which is a whole other can of tuna worms. The basis of insanity in persons is change ; the required ingredient of sanity is stability. You are very powerful, and while it's not outright clear you're overpowered, you did gain a lot of it all at once. You will have to be more conservative! You will have to protect yourself, because if you do not, no one will. Because no one can, you understand me ? The other side effect of gaining so rapidly is that you've left me far, far behind. I can't help you, if at all certainly not to the same degree as before. You understand what I am saying to you ?"
"I will always obey you, Master. For as long as I do that, I'm safe."
"This is a very tenuous argument. You 'obeyed' me three times before actually doing it just five minutes ago. That's your master plan, you're going to hang it all on some random mortal's capacity to outargue the gods ? Because why the fuck, because he's got a beard ?"
"Why not ascend yourself then ?"
"What's the rush ?"
"If you ascended, my baby could be a proper god. Like me. Like us."
"Yeah, and what if he sucks ?"
"No baby of mine..."
"Really now. What about all the others ? Or is the plan restricted to monogamy now."
"No, all of them."
"And they'll all have babies, spawn me a whole litter of gods, will they ? And what then ? What if Cyn's boy wants to fuck you ?"
"He'd never."
"Oh, and why not ?"
"We'd... we'd educate them."
"What'd we educate them in ? Here, this is the alpha male, your father. He alone gets to fuck anyone, the mothers, your sisters, their daughters. You just sit and don't look through the cracks while he does it, it's impolite. Oh, and by the way, he's immortal, so this isn't ever changing. That sort of education ?"
"You'd fuck the daughters ?"
"Never mind me! What'd they do ? What'd any of them do ?"
"Maybe... maybe they'd..."
"Maybe your mother."
"You could... we could just ascend all the women."
"Right."
"Then you could make us give you babies, and the better ones could ascend."
"Heh."
"No but don't you see ? That way you'd be... the Godfather!"
"Ahahahaha."
"See ? How insane could I possibly be, I just made a joke."
"You're not insane yet. With you, it's volatile. For instance last week, you weren't even a goddess."
"What are you saying, that I'm some kind of nouveau riche ? There isn't even anyone else here!!!"
"What if there once were ?"
"What ?"
"You heard me."
"I... I see your point. Would you maybe want to be my prophet ?"
"To do what, bring your word to the multitudes ?"
"Yes. You could sit somewhere and discover mathematics. I could be your muse."
"Heh. Write and publish and become the new Bourbaki ?"
"They're very backwards, you know. Mathematically speaking."
"They're also deluged in writs. What the fuck do they need more of those for ? Heck, the vast majority hasn't even read all of Trilema yet. Let them be, they have more to read than they know what to do with."
"Why won't you take anything of me! I have so much to give!"
"That's exactly the problem. Yesterday I ate a most delicious dessert out of my slavegirl's own ass, directly. This dream of many previous sultans and whatnots that nevertheless couldn't ever be fulfilled effortlessly came through, for me. I didn't even much care for it either way, it's not like I dedicated my life to this, finding the perfect girl that shits chocolate specialties. It's more than anyone can claim for themselves, in human terms, and yet you call it nothing. And I know why, but it's not nothing. Simmer down, will you ?"
"May I come off the wall ? May I be in your arms ?"
"Yes. Let yourself drop deadweight to the floor."
"Ow."
"There, baby. Impetuous Resplenduminous."
"Here, look what I made."
"How pretty. What are they ?"
"Rachel's tears, from yesterday. When you told her she will be a cow. That we'll all get a little cottage and she will live in the stable and we'll milk her for coffee every morning. There's five of them."
"We should make her something."
"I was thinking maybe a bellybutton ornament."
"Yeah."
"It's all nice and good for you, you know. You always liked your body. I never liked mine."
"No girl ever likes her body, pet. That doesn't automatically mean there's something she can do about it."
"I can do anything."
"This isn't nearly as simple as it sounds. Not even for one such as you."
"I made you a list."
"What is it ?"
"The top one thousand most worthy potential slavegirls, sorted descendingly. I reviewed the entire female population under thirty, there's if you're curious one billion one hundred and ninety-four million three hundred thousand nine hundred five of them."
"It's half Chinese ?!"
"Well... Asian, let's say. This is because I considered your aversion for the racial features, by the way, otherwise the list would be almost entirely Chinese, Korean, Japanese and so on. But these are all... human looking girls, you'd say."
"Is this a Swede ?"
"Norwegian."
"Shouldn't there be more Nordic girls in here ?!"
"Not really. But if you would like to see other portions of the list, I have the whole thing sorted. Then you could tell me if I misjudged ? If they need to go further up or down or what."
"So tomorrow, we go girl hunting ?"
"If you'd like."
"What'd we do, what'd we say ? Go about ringing doorbells, 'Hello Mrs. umm... I don't know how to pronounce this.' 'What is it you want ?' 'Can your daughter come out and play ?', like in the old days ?"
"And why not ?"
"Not like we don't have a whole network anyway. Basically, you made a dating service. For gentlemen."
"For gentleman, as it happens."
"M&G! Si Melanie!"
"Ahahahaha."
"Damele dameleee..."
"We could make a really great bad music radio station..."
"As opposed to what ?"
"There's that."
"What ever happened to that Fizz character ?"
"He's... poor now."
"Shocking."
« The bitter lot
Now you understand how she feels. »
Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Thursday, 28 September, Year 9 d.Tr.
Counterfictive validation
"What a great movie." "Really great."
*
* *
Graciela and Mark occupied briefly a self-driving, regulation GMWVHTi model Nissaneaii. This made Mark slightly uncomfortable for the duration. He winced as he wiggled his butt in the regulation blue seat (for boys). Graciela parked herself comfortably in her pink seat across the central isle ; as he watched her legs cross he couldn't help but think her posterior had gained amplitude over time. This sort of thinking never made seating more comfortable for him, and he winced painfully as the boy seat nubbin burrowed deeper inside him.
The incessant pinging, low but audible, pulses one second apart always made him anxious, which didn't particularly help. What if he won't be able to take his seat ? The friendly, disembodied female voice that didn't sound like any woman he had ever heard (outside of cinema) patiently invited him to please take his seat, every fifteen seconds. What if he won't be able to sit down this time ? The thought always tormented him. Even though every time he did manage, nevertheless there was always that moment of pure, fearful, terrorised panic right before the final squirm. The unconquerable dread of wondering "what if he won't be able to sit" ? Then there'd be no way for them to get back to the housing unit. They'd be stuck here forever. And everybody'd know!
With courage from beyond courage, Mark gave himself one final push downwards. The nubbin finally lodged itself in its desired spot and buzzed contentedly, filling him with joy. He had managed! Again, he had managed! The self-driving appliance chimed happily, the automatic door swung shut and he closed his eyes, leaning back to savour the moment. But just as his relaxed penis was sputtering its unnecessary (and often inappropriate) ejaculate into the regulation male undergarment with padding designed to support leisure activities (BU-LA), the other thought came to him. The other, the really horrible thought.
It was getting easier, wasn't it, to sit down in the regulation blue boy seat of the car. Just as Graciela was sitting ever more, he, Mark, was sitting ever easier. Especially since he got married.
Mark did not have what used to be called (for no particular reason) a classical education, or for that matter much of an education at all. He didn't know whether amyl nitrite was a new kind of plastic or a new kind of hot sauce ; he had no idea whether the nubbin intimately ensconced within his deepest inner folds was made of acrylonitrile butadiene or toothpaste. Somehow the fact of daily interaction with the item that never failed to make him spurt never managed to spur his curiosity towards any definite goal ; and consequently he had no idea when exactly and why exactly his seating became easier, notwithstanding that it was fully discussed in GMWVHT's 14th 5 Year Plan filings, volume CW page 1`833 paragraph 9 subparagraph 13, 14 and 16 as well as in relevant regulatory and oversight publications.
The trip was brief, Nissanea turning left or right, accelerating or decelerating to meet conditions on a road they couldn't see. Not in the strict sense, of course, while direct glass windows had been long replaced with LCD panels, they could in fact program the outside cameras to report the outside inside. They never did, it's just not something that was done. Everyone they knew just kept the LCDs tuned to the official news and useful informations. There was a box with buttons on it which would have allowed change, but both Mark and Graciela already believed in change, voted for change every time, participated in all change discussions at all the places where they have them, such as their workplace, their livingplace, and other places including the introductory change discutation before the cinematic projection. They were very aware and supportive of change, and consequently the same station was on since they got the car, the remote was nowhere to be found and neither had any idea how to work the buttons hidden behind a folding plastic bit somewhere. In fact neither could remember where, nor did either know it.
With a beep the door swung open. There were flashing lights outside, Mark and Graciela both looked up just as the toilet-seat shaped helmet peered in. The voice coming from the writhing mess of safety devices making up most of the regulation 5.8kg 3`655cc police and peacekeeping constabulary services (PPCS) helmet was metallic, with various buzzings, cracks, pops and occasional harmonics attached on all sides.
"Good day people couple. This is *bzzzzt* *brrrrt* *crack* *pop*. We are conducting a routine investigation. Where are you headed ?"
"We are going home."
"Where are you coming from ?"
"The Cineplex Entertaining Cinecenter for Couples."
"Thank you. Have a good day."
Just as the elaborate contraption was retiring through the doorhole, it swung back in.
"Sir, what are you wearing ?"
"I...I..." Mark could barely draw breath. Graciela gave him a wise look, the ancient wife's "I told you so", silent as it is deadly.
"Identify your garments!"
"I... am... I am wearing" Mark managed, through the tears that were already forming, preparing to choke him completely at any moment "I am wearing a regulation BT-LA-42-A-F19 top, regulation BB-YQ-19-B-C16 boots, BU-LA-43-C-A11 underwear and... and... and a GB-SJ-47-A-B11... skirt" he managed through a geyser of sobs and readily flowing tears.
"We have a 10-19-22-55-14-16-29-72" the toilet-helmet whirred. "Why are you wearing a skirt, sir ?"
"I... I don't know..."
"You aren't supposed to wear a skirt. You are supposed to wear any of the generous line of regulation boy bottoms made available to you, and have them around your ankles while in traffic."
"I..."
"Please step out of the vehicle."
Mark gingerly extracted himself from his seat, removed his leisure activity top and boots, peeled off the 6 inch pleated plaid skirt, extracted himself out of the straps of his open ass briefs, really little more than a penis glove, and stepped outside into the night. Regulation police encounters required all suspects to step outside their vehicle completely nude ; the initiative had scored a 3.82% reduction in the cost of processing and was hailed as the 3rd most effective initiative introduced during the 12th Five Year Plan. It was also heralded as clear proof of the success of the Governmental Initiative To Increase Participation, having been originally proposed by a nine year old girl.
Mark landed in a puddle, and felt the mud seep through in between his toes. The officers documented the stop, uploading the material to the respective publicly accessible police blotter website and gave him a Continuing Offense Citation. It wasn't the first time Mark was not appropriately dressed. The Aliterative Informaterror instructed them not to arrest him, but to take him to an area hospital for further evaluation. Consequently the officers released the hold on the car, whose door immediately clang shut and it off it went, taking Graciela to her abode. Perhaps she will have to be married again, she thought as the automobile peeled off.
As for Mark's part, securely stored in the police vehicle he duly proceeded on his way, on the regular path towards rehabilitation.
———General Motors Wolks Vagen Honda Toyota [↩]They ran out of Integras, Supras, Imprezas and even Lemonas a while back ; and consequently for the few past five years' plans the carmaking conglomerate's naming convention revolved around historical but meanwhile discontinued automakers. Admittedly the modern understanding of both history and locomotion not being very keen, there was the occasional Treka in there.
The a comes from automobile, before you ask. [↩]
« My AI problems, a humble confession.
The General Brendan Eich, JWZ »
Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Wednesday, 11 January, Year 9 d.Tr.
Costa Rica, de noche y de dia
Por de noche :
Y por de dia :
Pai ori suntem ori nu mai suntem, ce plm.
« Der Schlussakkord, o sopirla.
Family Business »
Category: Zsilnic
Saturday, 16 September, Year 9 d.Tr.
Cool it, Carol!
Motto: Vin rechinii, sase! Voi sunteti prada,
Toate pizdele cu pizda-n sus, a-nceput Olimpiada.
Cool it, Carol!i is one of the very few notable british films. Very few.
It tells the story of a seventeen year old ruralii beauty in a very true and truthful feminist vein. She likes being handled, she likes being kissed, she likes frolicing naked in public. She is not afraid, not of poverty, not of meniii, not of the unknown, not of anything. Consequently she stands on her own two feet, roars (like a woman, not like a tiger), and enjoys everything life has to offer, with a warm, velvety voluptuousness served in portly alabaster cups.
She knows she doesn't like being gangbanged by a half dozen decrepit, inept, sclerotic old men because she's tried it once. She knows she can't get men to fuck her for the asking because she's tried it once too. Literally, out in the street, in her endearing homemade knitted dress/apron, "would you like to go to bed with me ?" Nobody's ready for her, she thought she might not be ready for London but really, it ain't so. Nobody's ever ready for the young tigress. Almost nobody.
She loves a boy, for no apparent reason. It's inexplicable beyond the dramatic necessities of literature and the happenstance that the young tigress often imprints on whoever happens to be there when she's but a wee tyke, a sort of reverse Westermarck. He's inept, comically so, painfully aware of what a man should be and utterly incapable of even appearing in the general direction. But he tries -- oh, how he tries. He pimps out the girl because he can't get a job, he loses their moneyiv and then calls her a daft goose for it, he runs into the famous guy he pretended to be friends with and has no idea what to say because he lies without a plan, he's the country bumkin consummate.
But he doesn't lie, not to her, not at the key moment. Which is all it takes, really, and they return home slightly looser, slightly older, infinitely more. There isn't a lot else to be said, I don't mean about this film, I mean about human condition altogether, but let's say this much : girlie, if you're 17 and you're not Carol, you're a cow not a woman.
C'est tout.
———1968, directed and produced by Pete Walker, with Janet Lynn. Apparently re-released in 1970 as "The Dirtiest Girl I Ever Met" in USTardistan, to a promptly negative reception. Because they're retarded, both literally and figuratively, over in the colonies. [↩]Etchingham. It counts. [↩]Seriously, what are they going to do to you ? Hm ? [↩]"Well then let's go find it!" [↩]
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Category: Trilematograf
Thursday, 19 January, Year 9 d.Tr.
Coltunasi methode odalisque
You know how they say "methode champenoise" on bottles of fizz, meaning the contents were produced by the same methodi, but not in the same place as champagne ? Well, same thing here : coltunasi, as in the Romanian dish, except evidently not made in Romania, nor by a Romanian girl.
Nor by a free girl, come to think about it, she's a slaveii. Nor inside a "normal house" nor etceteraiii. Differences abound! Nevertheless there are some similarities, and so let us focus on those!
First off you fill a large pot with water and set it on the stove and while it builds itself to boiling point you prepare your dough. For this purpose you will need some flour in a bowl to which you add a little fat (say Olive Oyl, if you wish, or butter, or schmaltziv) and fresh potato ground finely. Like so :
That watery goop is the only liquid your flour gets. Work it into a hard dough with just a little salt added, and once it's done let's make the filling!
For this instantiation I chose red onion (though leeks would have worked just as well -- but we didn't have any, what can you do), some fine Brie and a little bit of well ripe avocado, just enough to turn the ensemble butter colored.
At this juncture, you roll out the dough thinly and (traditionally) cut squares out of it, about five centimeters alongside. We departed from this tradition today, the girl cut rectangles for no reason other than misunderstanding my explanation and misviewing the sample object I cut out as I was explaining. My coltunasi thereby weren't triangular as per tradition, but rectangular instead. They look cute like that, I think the naked slut ruined yet another tradition in the eyes of the dominant male. Try and guess now why older women comme il faut, la casa lor utterly and consummately HATE the naked sluts, the concept of slavegirls, the notion of a harem, and what exactly do they expect to get for themselves out of "safe, sane and consensual" for other people. Right ?
Once all the squares are rectangularily cut and the filling is inside and sealed, you dump the lot into your boiling water pot. Once they're done they rise to the surface. I know it doesn't sound credible, but here you go, first pop :
They are to be eaten immediately once out of the pot, with a little bit of butter, or sour cream or whatever. The slavegirl is to be eaten immediately thereafter. Alternative fillings could readily be had, say mushrooms, finely minced meat, even heavily spiced aspic if you're fast enough.
This, if you're curious, was breakfast, produced out of the idle inquiry line of "what shall we have ?" "i could make you eggs ?" "meh" "would you like tuna ?" "no." "how about..." "let's make coltunasi!". The whole production took just about twenty minutes, but traditionally these are a hors d'oeuvre, served before the soup which comes before the roast which comes before the pastry and the fish and the desert and the fruit and the so on. I used to have them at my grandmother's stately dinners a few short decades ago that feel like long, long centuries. I loved them then and I love them still.
Enjoy! And may they make you also feel young again!
———Bottle fermentation. [↩]I don't mean, "she plays around as if she were on days we feel like it". She doesn't play around, she's not a slave like you're an undiscovered actress. She's a slave like the moon's a satellite. (And yes I'm aware the moon could one day quit its orbit. So could she!)
Nor do I mean "safewords" and assorted bullshit , she doesn't have one of those either. Unsafe, constructively, insane quite deliberately and consensual in the limited sense of "it's so assumed". By me. [↩]You know she doesn't get to wear clothes indoors ? Nor do the visitors ? [↩]Did I tell you about the great duck we just had in the oven ? No ? Well one of these days I shall have to explain the roasted bird -> soup -> salata de boeuf transformation for your benefit won't I! [↩]
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Category: Trilenciclopedia
Saturday, 12 August, Year 9 d.Tr.
Clockwise
Clockwisei is unfunny for approximately the same reason Britain counts principally as an underage sex tourism destinationii, or "the fight against corruption" is an irrelevant foreign diplomacy gimmickiii of a meanwhile deceased empire. In its own terms, if we were to accept its blinders and sacred cows, I suppose the attempt would be hysterical. But we don't, nor conceivably could accept such nonsense. We don't see there's anything wrong with fucking the 17yo, heck, she has almost exactly the face of this 17 yo I personally fucked. It's certainly not "unthinkable", as the script would require it to be. Good god, how could it be ? She can walk, can't she ?
And on and on in this manner, nothing works because nobody capable of thought to the degree requisite for using speech would permit themselves to be wedged into such nonsense. If I'm the new head of whatever important organisation I do not depend on the fucking train to get there, or the dubious offices of some woman to drive me (at equal lots with some inconsequential old bitties). She is standing at attention for the entire interval of my trip, waiting to take over transportation at a moment's notice should the dozen or so people already employed at the task fail. That is how I liveiv ; that is how everyone lives. I don't care, nor can I conceive who could care, what the idiots call the misery they engage in, be it "efficiency" or whatever else ; I similarly do not care how the idiots call the correct solution, "lavish" or "corrupt" or whatever the fuck their peabrains may come up with. Either the task is important in which case it will "waste" resources, or else it is incapable to justify the wastage of resources in which case it is not important in which case let some monkey do it. The ur example of this is Bitcoin, with its very strict energy profilev, but every bit of human activity worth the name works on exactly the same principles.vi
This point can not be emphasized enough : the "humanist" fashion experiment started sometime in the 1800s, to redirect the legitimate usage of resources from "wasteful" applications, such as maintaining sane social relationsvii and the infrastructure they require, to "human services" such as teaching a horde of useless monkeys how to read and write or instilling in the lumpentariat the batshit insane notion that they may have things -- any things, including a woman, a roof, a fucking dildo, anything! -- went on for longer than it warranted because of the historical happenstance of occurring at the same time as industrialization.viii It's done, there will be no more. Certain proof of this fact can be readily found in just how unfunny Clockwise is just as well as in any of the other trillion billion tiny stamps.
I suppose, put in these terms, laughing at this thing becomes a survival necessity. Therefore... laugh, bitch! Are you laughing yet ?
You'd better fucking laugh.
———Clockwise, 1986, by Christopher Morahan, with John Cleese and absolutely no tits, to the very burning shame of all those involved.
I mean this very literally, it is an unabashedly shameful act for a grown man to engage in producing a "film" which contains no female nudity. It is a greater offense to the public good than masturbation, and I think less of John Cleese for having engaged in this particular unseemly behaviour than I'd have thought about him had videos of him jacking off surfaced. It is a greater offense to the public good than getting drunk at a party, it is just very miserable, pathetic pubescentry at work.
In mitigation, Sharon Stone from Deptford Grafitty, a few years later:
And no, the fact that English girls are butt-ugly does not excuse them from their absolute obligations. It's not a matter than "I want to see", or any such relativism. It's a matter that they absolutely must show. [↩]Ever heard of Rotherham ? How about the guy who fell dick first on a 16yo that was "visiting" in the proper position ? [↩]The whole of it is that sometime during the 1991 - 1995 five year plan the fundamentally corrupt politico class of the last socialism left standing figured it had somehow inherited the whole world.
While the psychogenic mechanisms of an imaginary "Donation of Gorbachev" (hallucinated in place by the exact sort of people and for the exact reasons the original "Donation of Constantine" forgery emerged) may perhaps be of some interest to the specialists, we'll pass over in silence here. As far as any practical effect is concerned, the whole of it is that said sad troupe of degenerates figured any payments going outside of their own network (generally referred to as "our democracy" inside the clique) to be illegitimate. That's it and that's all, as it turns out the socialist view of money is fundamentally anti-monetary, unsurprisingly. They want money somehow to work exactly opposite its purpose and function, and that's ok because... I dunno, "Science" something.
This nonsensical view is of course deeply castrating. To pretend that the only way money can be used is to be moved from one pocket to another while using it in actual payment is "evil" necessarily isolates one from the workings of both market and civilised society and relegates him instead to the darkest recesses of gutter and insane asylum. So far they don't seem to mind, a vibrant testament to reality's fundamental weighting machine properties. [↩]No kidding. You have no idea what the punishment is for failing to answer the phone should I decide to call. Which in some cases I do to the tune of twice or thrice a year -- but that makes no difference. [↩]This was stated before but it bears repeating : half of all energy produced by humans must be used to mine Bitcoin. That is the actual cost, and the actual value, of this innovation. Half of all energy, forever. [↩]This obviously does not leave any room for monkeys to pretend to humanhood, which comes at 0 cost. [↩]Have you seen The Ruling Class, an abomination of a film with Peter O'Toole ? It's not worth watching, except for the first five minutes, illustrating the life of a man living in a country, both worth the name. How was it possible for that castle to exist as it did ? "Waste", yes ? Fuck you. There's no better use of resources than this "waste".
Now look again at the six foot three "gentleman" squeezing himself into that shoebox of a "car". That is waste. [↩]Any insanity, of any kind or flavour that happened to have become fashionable at the same time as industrialization would have done equally "well". This is a function of the disruptive nature of industrialization itself, and it's much like observing that "any object caught in a tornado flies". The fact that your roof happened to fly during the tornado however makes for very poor support of the theory that "to make a plane you must use roof because roof has the flight nature".
"Roof" is not a thing ; and it sure as fuck doesn't have "the flight nature". Exactly so, the notion that the common man matters, should be considered, allowed property, the franchise etcetera is sheer nonsense, not to mention entirely untenable and well on the road to reversion. It's not that there's no future for "democracy", be it in "our" flavouring or otherwise. It's that "humanism" is scarcely more than an intellectual fashion, on exactly the level of deciding men must wear powdered wigs or women must go around dressed in three foot tall teepees, and of no further consequence. [↩]
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Category: Trilematograf
Monday, 27 February, Year 9 d.Tr.
Cemetery Junction
Cemetery Junctioni is not entirely a bad film, the Cool It Carol for this generation. On the negative side, that obviously means no nudity -- the current generation is made up of a bunch of losers. On the positive side, however, this means a true hero instead of the 70s putty man. Percival is absolutely perfect as the idealized adolescentine form of nobility, he doubtless died with Henry rather than stay at home with mommy.
On the negative side, however, everything has to be doublespoken and hidden and covered up, lest the idiots catch on. Percival isn't really Percival, he's Bruce (Pearson) but his friends call him Percy. And he's not "really" the hero, they told the story from the point of view of Sancho Panza so that all the fucktarded, accursed Sanchos stuffing popcorn in their faces aren't (god forbid!!!) shook by the "unexpected contrast to expectations". And of course, there's a huge heaping helping of "what does pantsuit imagine the political problems of the 70s were", which is beyond nonsensical, but to such a farcical degree it's almost funny again. O sopirlaii, you see, is often built by taking what the politruks want to hear and turning it to a precise 10.5.
Watchable, I suppose, but make sure you're watching it with intellectually well versed girls lest you end up throwing your date across the room.
———2010, by Ricky Gervais, with Tom Hughes, Ralph Fiennes, and unfortunately Felicity Jones playing some sort of obnoxious high-energy squirrel chick. If they had the sense of instead going with Jessica Jones (tall, sexy blonde in early street pick-up hero establishing sequence) it'd have been a much better film. But no, we gotta have these obnoxious "girl next door" shitheads all the time now, confound it all.
What, the inflatable dolly the hero's sidekick gets is supposed to be a person and shit now ? Spare me the idle pretense, she's a trophy, she's used as a trophy, a token in exchange. The obviously transparent reason for all the faux personhood news gargle is simply so they get away with a cheaper, shittier trophy, that's all. You get plastic gold medals now, because guess what, medals have personality and most of them are plastic so take your squirrel and shut up.
Fucking hell... Make Trophies Great Again. [↩]Earlier I sat down to read "El Financiero", a pompously pretentious piece of maculature they publish here. Well over 90% of it consists of translated USG jewry material, so it was all "estadounidenses" this and that and the other. Just as I was verbalizing something along the lines of "oh my god, it must suck to be born among the orcs and actually have to put up with this inane shit as "your" newspapers" I hit on their actual, homebrew content. You know what it was ? 30-something local lawyer gushing ineptly about Ethereum.
Because yeah, if you don't limit yourself to translated pantsuit, you'll get a healthy helping of fucktards who believe they won the Reader's Digest competition and assorted natural orcisms. So I threw the newspaper away, and I explained to the girl kneeling by me holding my complicated accoutrements (rum and coffee and chocolate and it gets complicated) that when I was a small child... I mean, people were in my house, my parent's house at any rate. Important people, as the way communism works, bosses of factories and whatnot, people stuck making the shit work. And they'd go through the newspapers briefly and then throw them away cursing or crumple them up.
As a very small child, I figured what was going on -- these powerful older male types were simply very unfriendly and unpleasant sorts by their nature, and that's all. As I grew a little older I figured better -- they're just irritable, see, they don't get enough sleep, what they want done is complicated and hard and so they don't get it and grow frustrated and it accumulates over time. And that's all.
You with me so far ? Because then, just around puberty, I figured even better. The fucking commies, what the everloving fuck, who can possibly read their inept idiocy and not throw the whole thing into the pit.
Except I see it now -- it has nothing to do with the commies. I thought I had it, then, but I still didn't. It's not the fucking commies, it's stupid people. Stupid people organize and through collective action arrive at "consensus", which is batshit nonsense filtered by idiots out of their own ass, entirely unrelated to any kind of reality. And then they attempt to force it upon the actual people, the only actual people, they who make shit work. Which is fucking annoying.
It's not annoying because it works, which of fucking course it doesn't, but because the only way to deal with them is to exploit the fact that they're so fucking stupid, they can't tell the difference between the item that they claim they want and any other item labeled the way they want. So the work of the communist factory boss, or of the modern thinking man universally, is to stick wrong labels on correct parts. Instead of calling things what they are, call things what things are "supposed" to be called, and then keep double accounting to make sure that everything keeps working regardless. Which is a horrible waste of time and effort, and of fucking course annoying as all hell.
Imagine, if your six year old spoiled brat had the run of the house, and "decided" that all long items are to be called screwdrivers (including the toilet plunger) whereas all flat items are to be called trowels, including the cutting board and the cereal box. I expect you'd start throwing My First Ten Words books around the house also. [↩]
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Category: Trilematograf
Saturday, 14 October, Year 9 d.Tr.
Carniceria por kilo
To begin with, about a kilo's worthi :
Proceeding into the dinner, another kilo's worthii
Ah, you're curious about the girl, are you. Fine. Also by the kilogram :
Back under the table :
And here's hanbot's face when I said I'm going to publish theseiii :
White, as you no doubt intuited (past the heels and the ballgag) is the color of purity.
But the Sun also rises, and since the Sun also rises men must also eat breakfast...
And that brings us just about up to date. A bon carniceur, salut!
———If you think this particular kilogram of meat's going to let go of its hide easily as is proportionate to its diminutive size, here's your mandatory reference :
asciilifeform incidentally i am picturing mircea_popescu's balloon hunt scene literally in my head, and wonder, suppose balooonist puts asymmmetric fin on. so goes up - spiraling. now aim.
mircea_popescu asciilifeform you're kidding me aren't you ?
mircea_popescu i can shoot fucking squirrels your fined baloon is gonna do anything ?
asciilifeform squirrels sit put
mircea_popescu ahahaha
mod6 :D
mircea_popescu you've never actually tried have you ?
asciilifeform at any rate this'd make great sport
mircea_popescu they run-stop, it is optimized for antishooting.
mod6 anyway, finned ballon follows pattern; you just learn to lead 'em
asciilifeform 1player makes baloon, other - shoots
mircea_popescu mod6 he's not a hunter, it shows.
mircea_popescu fucking squirrels. try leading those for a nervewracking experience.
mod6 yeah they turn on dimes.
asciilifeform mircea_popescu city squirrel is stupid tho
mircea_popescu only until you start shooting at it.
mircea_popescu this convo with the "fin!!!" thing is eerily reminescent of early crypto discussion s, at that.
The sad reality of the matter is that the smaller the quarry, the greater the fight. Buffalo sit put ; hunting a buffalo's weight in squirrels though... god help you. [↩]I usually have the Porterhouse, which cut usually comes to about 750-800 grams. Waiter whispers "I have one over 900 grams, does that work ?"
Evidently, it works. [↩]But that's okay, I generously permitted her to cook Pork Wellington for me. Plus cake. So it's all even now.
Speaking of which : all the tiresome cocksuckers on "foodnetwork" (and pinterest, and wherever the fuck else UStards gather to falsely pretend like they gourmet) are dorking on about this item, conveniently forgetting to mention who invented it. Fuck you, losers. [↩]
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Category: La pas prin lume
Friday, 27 October, Year 9 d.Tr.
Carambolages
Carambolagesi is as tedious piece of socialistoid propaganda as any ever produced.
By its darken lights, the Man (in a rather Julien Sorel take of the psycho-socialist triad) is beloved by his secretary, whom he marginalises for the sake of some other girl, who does not work for a living. Why ? Who, in his right mind, would submit the competent to the inept ? As a momentart fantasy, perhaps, as a training exercise, maybe, but as a way of life ? Never.
Listen to me well : never. If you own two women, as you likely will and generally speaking must, the inept will submit to the apt and you will force her to. Plainly and openly and without guard or remainder. She may be allowed no disavowal, no "irony", no recess. The inept submits to the apt, for this reason, plainly and entirely.
Instead, "Paul Martin" permits the young and inexperienced petit bourgeoise the run of the town, measures himself to her standards, and generally we are forced into this batshit insane anti-reality where the least qualified party runs the show. Who in his right mind would give the keys to the house and the reins to a young girl kept for her reproductive function ? Don't ever do this, it's unseemly.
The other half of the anti-hero's castration is of course economical. The devious Funes, in one of his best Machiavellian boss roles, keeps the Man down. This does however result in his demise, as is proper, but the act is most scandalously disavowed. An accident, rightful comeuppance, anything and everything but not the proper, and the plain, and the natural and therefore the lawful "I am young and you are old ; if you dare get in my way I will cut you apart." No, anything but that.
The solution to all this bullshit ? A mysterious string of "accidents", direct traduction via Deux-ex-machina of the actual situation of ascendant industrialization. For as long as the world were fast expanding, creating more room at the top than there were Paul Martins produced, all these major conflicts could be wished away.
They're back now.
They're back now, and the earlier and better version of Mr. Bookmanii can scarcely save anyone.
———1963, by Marcel Bluwal, with Louis de Funes, Jean-Claude Brialy, Michel Serrault, Sophie Daumier. [↩]Have you noticed anything and everything of any merit in English fiction is a simplified charicature of an older and better drawn French model ? [↩]
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Category: Trilematograf
Monday, 06 March, Year 9 d.Tr.
Blow-up
Blow-upi is pure pornography. I don't mean by pornography that there's cunts on displayii nor that the mechanics and mechanisms of copulation find themselves pointedly examined. They very carefully and deliberately aren't, not in the slightest, and yet it is nevertheless pornography because it is boring as all fuck. See ?
We could say that it is ideologically aligned, for a number of reasons. There's a murder mixed into the otherwise terrible scriptiii and yet nobody cares enough to call the police. Because whatever, who even cares about the state ? It's irrelevant, uninteresting and unimportant. There's also girlies, who hound the male heroiv for absolutely no external reason, in the sense that they roundly understand and unhesitatingly apply the principle that the only point of their existence is to hound the male hero. There's even a pair of them whose only social manifestation is to make sure neither is less sexually exposed than the other, so they violently pull each other's pantyhosen off and so on.
We could also say that for they interested in the world of photography before digital cameras, this film presents a treasure trove of archeological value, the hero keeps futzing with all sorts of gear that is period-accurate by virtue of the footage having been filmed in the correct period for such accuracy. There's loads and loads of at-the-time-expensive gear being mistreated by the inept hands of some pretty dumb boy. Old camera porn, if you will.
We could say all sorts of things, but we couldn't ever say Blow-up has any sort of artistic value or dramatic merit. Because it doesn't. It's porn and naught bore, I mean more. If they had any sense they'd have actually re-shot it with a lot more fucking and nudity, in the exact manner Guccione fixed Caligula. Sadly, there's a whole lot of these Antonioni, Cortazar, Vidal, Brass etcetera nobodies ; and very few Gucciones available to fix their inept childplay into actual artwork.
Maybe in the future.
———1966, by Michelangelo Antonioni, written with Julio Cortazar, with a bunch of nobodies/models in the Salo fashion of the time. [↩]Well, they accidentally shoot a pubic hairline like... once. [↩]For the transparently obvious reason that the chosen subject matter (the daily comings and goings of a pre-digital fashion photog) is as anti-interesting and dramatically inadherent as pool. So what can they do ?
Corpse to the rescue, that's how you fix a bad premise. Chinese food, basically, let's make bamboo shoots and other blandness suitable for human consumption through liberal sprinkling of straight vinegar and refined sugar ; and similarily let's rescue painfully boring nonsense by chopping in some "murder" from the can of dehydrated mystery. Just add water and voila! [↩]Some cookie merchant's son / boy soprano. He looks exactly like a men's shirts model, and acts like one too. [↩]
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Category: Trilematograf
Saturday, 21 October, Year 9 d.Tr.
Biodiversidad y technodiversidad. No mom.
Here's the first bit :
The mountainous terrain here means water has to be pumped, mostly. This means that it goes through pipes.
Now, normal people confronted with the situation where you have to pipe through mudslide-prone terrain cut by versant torrents capable of dragging more grapeshot than the entire Spanish fleeti would use... modular semirigid piping. Because that's the right thing to use for this job.
The locals don't. Instead, they use flexible onesies, like here displayed, cut to length (which "length" here means -- kilometers!). These then universally spring leaks, which just as universally are... fixed. Also like here displayed : you cut a length of anything, old rigid pipe sayii, or nearby branch, or anything really ; you electric-tape it into place and... voila! Fixed flexible pipe leak!
I would guess less than a third of the water pumped makes it to the intended destination ; the rest flows back downhill through the rain ditches, leaving the poor tree chunk so fucking confused...
Yes, that ton's worth of metal hanging precariously from that winch is actually a functional stair. They lower it during the day. That's all I'm gonna say.iii
———Here's how a riverbed looks after heavy rains :
Compare and contrast to how that self-same river used to look, not so very long ago. So yes, that's multiple DOZENS of cubic metres of rocky debris per linear metre of river bed. What do you own that could take the pelting ?
Let whosoever has no river raise the first rock! [↩]This manages to suggest nothing to these god-fearing Catholic minds. [↩]I could say more, such as for instance that when a teenaged girl spent ten minutes or so trying to fend off the ineptly aggressive advances of some douchebag her age that perceived he should be her owner except had none of the qualities, skills and abilities required, I asked her if she wants a cop or something, and some local dorks asked them if they know each other. She could interact with the dorks, but not with me -- because, obviously, some things are easier than others. [↩]
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Category: La pas prin lume
Tuesday, 21 November, Year 9 d.Tr.
Beating, that spark of heaven
This article is a translation of an older Romanian item : Bataia cea rupta din rai. 2010, to think, it's been seven years! It seems but yesterday. At any event -- the original title references an ancient Romanian saying, which in the vein of "spare the rod, spoil the child" pretty much proposes that beating is cosubstantial part of heaven itself.
Last night I beat a miss for the first time in her life, except it wasn't really the first time.
I set her elbows-in-bed and whacked her ass with the belt, I've a nice, wide belt, of ancient leather, with three nails instead of one and metal rings to catch them going in three rows down its whole length. A rifled belt, so to speak, which might if so employed draw blood or leave octopus marks, circular red welts three to the row as if some sort of kraken suckled in anger tender maiden thighs.
I didn't hit her harshly, for any accustomed bottom it'd have rather seemed caressing ; the proceedings amused they in assistence ("what are you doing, is it a new kind of dance ?") and it didn't really hurt her, in any case not to tears.
And she cried, she cried rivers on the bosom of a recently discovered sister and in my arms (simultaneously) and couldn't stop ("still, how do I stop ?!"). Because you see, dear readers, the belt reminded her of the beating broken off heaven in her youth, even if her familiars didn't use the belt but the cane, and even if it wasn't a sexual practice, and even if no one then plumped out the ass to better receive or laughed at the end.
I am, in principle and theoretically, in favour of disciplining children (not practically, because as you perhaps know I've none), and in favour of disciplining generally, as the means to maintaining balance and hygiene in society, you've been reading about and I expect you take my meaning. I remain so, steadfast in my positioning, freedom is generally more expensive than people manage to represent in their free minds. The freedom of taking credit on ID alone carries the price of renouncing not just the practice, but outright the comprehension of the notion of saving, and with it jointly of every possibility of prosperity in this life. The freedom of marrying who you will carries the price of renouncing most of the items that might make a marriage work in the first place, be useful in the second place, and happy in the last, absolutely last place. Items no one knows anymore today, but ask teh elders, they might recount. And they will recount for the asking, and speak the truth, and you'll understand not a word of it. Freedom is expensive, so very expensive that for the majority of humanity freedom is in no practical way different from dealing with the devil. It will eat, in the end, your soul.
The grand catastrophe is that freedom can't be limited by just anyone. Not everyone can handle the whip, not in everyone's bedroom can girls unworriedly set their brow to the sheets in the knowledge and hope that shortly thereafter their ass will catch fire.
Education, to go on a paranthetical, is based very much on the same notions. The student submits to the teacher, entirely, obeys him with his whole, in the most proper sense of slavery. On this substrate learning occurs. Absent this substrate, learning obviously does not occur, not in the sense of classical education in any case. As a result, the collapse of "Romanian school traditions"i come 1990 was plainly obvious, predictable and inevitable. Unfortunately no one (nor I) had the experience required to understand these simple facts back then. Actually, it would appear no one has it even today, but I can assure you (and you can not believe me) that the reason for which Romanian school no longer works as practiced nor will ever again function has naught to do with intellectual incompetence on the part of the students or professional insufficiency of the teachers.
It's a pure and simple case of the educational slavery system of 50 years ago no longer standing. Whatever learning occurs today to the Baccalaureat happens ideally peri-systemically and most commonly anti-systemically. I for an instance learned mostly anti-systemically as a highschooler. I also learned with the system, as a young child, the breakage intervened somewhere between the two. As a remarkable coincidence the transformation of the entire world coincided with my passing from childhood to adolescence, and the convulsions of "the whole universe" reflected as in a mirror my own convulsions. I always felt flattered by this happenstance, to be honest.
The advantage of slavery as such, and of submission as demarche is that it opens you up, and it allows you thereby to touch the intangible. In school it allows you to find that which you don't know (that which you don't know you can't find on your own, for lack of knowing what it is). In the bedroom it allows you to touch for the first time in twenty years wounds so deep you could not dare conceive their existence. And, eventually, heal them. Immense power, and implicitly the resources sufficient to burn you to the bone, and to the marrow, and to ash.
The beating from heaven and the playing with fire.
———Romania was very good at this, witness not only the gymnasts but just about everyone else. No longer, of course, freedom saw to that. [↩]
« The practical costs of hallucinated freedom
The Women »
Category: Lifespiel
Saturday, 22 July, Year 9 d.Tr.
Balul de Simbata Seara
Toata lumea zice-asa,
Ca nu-i buna dragostea
Nu-i nevoie ca s-o spuna
Ca si eu vad ca nu-i buna
Asta mi-e norocu'
Si focu'
De-ar fi buna dragostea
Nimeni n-ar zacea de ea...
Balul de Simbata Searai is an excellent offering on the topic of love. Not infantile love, bumbling kids "discovering" bla bla. Not naggy old love either, doua jucarii stricate trying to forget enough of their baggage, piled up abuse and neglect, trying to throw out enough yellowed newspaper, rats' nests and assorted squalor to free up a square foot of something on which a new potted plant might be settled.
No, none of that crap. Adult love, between a young man who knows himself to be a man and young women who know themselves to be women. Not girls. Women. Not singular, either. Fucking plural. Because reasons.
Floricica floare-albastra
Toata lumea-i cu nevastaii,
Toata lumea-i cu s-o tieiii,
Numai eu ca cucu-n vie...
One's blonde, one's brunette. One can sing, one can dance. One's not afraid to walk the street in camisole, the other's fine with coming naked out of the waters. Neither has any problem in close quarters. Neither has children.iv Neither is annoying. Neither is demanding. Neither has expectations. Neither needs help. Neither, neither, neither.
Wut do ?
Foaie verde flori de mac
Care-mi place eu nu-i plac
Foaie verde razachiev
Cui plac eu nu-mi place mie...
Briefly, it is considered that the first to show up on the platform shall be the victor. The nonsense is abandoned as soon as it forms. As it should be.
The correct solution is displayed, believe it or not, in the 60s, in a film printed and distributed by the Romanian communist party. The girls kiss. Obviously, what fucking wedding, what fucking "sotie", what fucking bullshit ? He's going to live with both and they're going to love each other, what.
There aren't films worth the mention on this topic, spoken in English. Yes, I'm aware it's a large topic. Yes, I'm aware they made a pile of crap not worth the shoveling. Truth stands : there's never been something at the Oscars to compete with the simple stories of simple barbarians. Stuff like The Graduate are poor, sad, contorted strands of phtysic sputum by comparison.
Foaie verde de sulfina
Doua flori intr-o gradina
Amindoua ma iubesc,
Eu numai una voiesc.
Asta mi-e norocu'
Si focu'
Astazi una, ieri cealalta,
Miine iara, si-alalalta.
———1967, by Geo Saizescu, with Sebastian Papaiani, Mariella Petrescu (the brunette), Anna Szeles (blondy). Sometimes rendered as "Balul de Sambata Seara" because retards. [↩]The root on which the endearing diminutive was formed which in Romanian denotes the wolverine. Literally, nevasta = wife, nevastuica = wolverine. Endearing because Romanian admits three or at times even four different diminutives on the same root -- and they're all intensive. [↩]Sotie, ie, spouse, the feminine of sot, the polite way to reference the obsolete socio-sexual relation, is also homonym in this language with "let him keep her then". S conjunctive, -o pronoun, tie to keep. It's also the common way to express separative disdain, such as
- Ai auzit ? Si-a luat Bula nevastuica.
(Hey, I hear Bula got himself a pet wolverine.)
- A, da ? S-o tie sanatos.
(O yeah ? Let him keep it then.)
The alternative would be "let him wash his head with it", the etymological details of which we know better than to go into. Tu l'aurais voulu &c. [↩]Laugh, but your laughter only betrays your lack of experience with the third world. [↩]Grape variety, at some point popular but meanwhile obsolete. Long cylindrical fruit, thick pulp. Name from Turkish/Greek. [↩]
« Things That Happened To Sam. Chapter 2 - As chance had it.
Teatro "La Comedia" de San Jose (Calle 13, entre Av. 6 y 8) »
Category: Trilematograf
Sunday, 07 May, Year 9 d.Tr.
Ballad...
Outside it's dark and gray and cold while in the stove burns mother,
And dad hangs by the candle light while I cut without pother.
Around lay resting all my kin, each grinning like the other,
The flies swarm over and around, uniting aunt and brother.
Beloved sister from the trunk, don't cry, don't fret but rather
Weep with the missing eye that was for laying with another.
Such was his fate, from the tub, that I'd forget his name,
While for his broken ribs and spine I'll carry all the blame.
I'll swear on all the gore around it wasn't in my aim,
To torture, cripple or to mar, nor gimp, nor hack nor maim.
But I'll confess it's all good fun, and easily a game,
Having a go only to stop feels rather like a shame.
The now castrated herd of boys that never ever came
Seems purer, lighter, and at peace as kindlings for the flame.
Electric juice well applied in due time rendered tame
Three uncles who once thought all youthful charm's their claim.
Instead of candy an' silly tricks to render girlies tame
The spiked club works faster, and where they go it's all the same.
Don't like a husband use the holes of weeping, captured dame
If she has any self-respect she'll think it very lame.
Instead, with cuts and coals her spirit and her blood inflame.
So as she's dying by the glass she'll fear what she became.
Sleep, baby, sleep, while daddy cuts your nails
Taxidermy truly works, and you don't need entrails.
« The sexy problem, formalized
Republican Flight Manual »
Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Monday, 09 October, Year 9 d.Tr.
Bad biology
Bad biologyi is a better take than usual on the whole dokufu thingii. This one has seven visible clitorides (not to mention more buried within), a great capacity for accuplation (which inexplicablyiii is consumed in serial monogamy rather than the more obvious resolutions), very heavy periods (which are still monthly occurences) and the ability to conceive, carry to term and deliver (without help) within a couple of hours. That this technically then implies she somehow drops a few hundred ovules per menstruation is not covered in the work, alongside a whole pile of loose threads in this vein.
The film is not much of a film. Taken as a mere collection of footage it's not altogether bad, for instance the hooker's outfit is pretty cool, and five or so minutes at the very outset work remarkably well, there's a rythm and a counterpoint in there, a flow that's highly entertaining.
We could say that Bad biology is the best claymation I've ever seen. Better than nothing, aite ?
———2008, by Frank Henenlotter, with Charlee Danielson [↩]You know, the dangerous vamp. [↩]Obviously the author of any work of fiction will be limited by his own bias, which he'll always gladly ascribe to "the public". [↩]
« What gets me hot
Se Vende Joyeria Fina »
Category: Trilematograf
Tuesday, 08 August, Year 9 d.Tr.
Assorted diversities, or how we went looking for a brothel and all we found was a warehouse church.
Assorted, like sort-of a store-house of sorts, you see, and not particularly sorted. Anyway, the story being that we've done a lot of brothel and strip joint... "research" let's call it, in preference of dip or who knows what other atrocious verb-up.
The process has collected a large number of anecdotes. Given the very good fit between that byproduct and this here medium, let us delve :
Anecdote #1 We were at a strip club somewhere in the "bad part" of San Jose.i The escortii went to the bar to get me drinks. They had no local rum. They had no sort of vodka. They had nothing at all, eventually she returned with Bailey's as the best non-beer to be found.
It was curdled.
True story.
Anecdote #2 We were at a strip club somewhere in the "bad part" of San Jose.iii A terribly dismal affair, a pole on a stage the size of the shower in a Britishly "efficient" flat, mirrors on all the walls and shockingly bad porniv running on the TVs (in place of the usual soccer). We file in past the dozen or so worker class dorks, we sit down, the stage suddenly comes alive and a fat 40yo starts stepping back and forth on it. A very drunk waitress accosts us, brings me a rum, and tends to leave. I ask her how much, she doesn't know, but will inquire. Returns to inform me it's 2`000 colones (about 3.50). I give her 3`000. She returns one. Maybe I didn't understand ? It really is 2`000, and she is 30 and what are tips.
Anecdote #3 We were at a strip club somewhere in the "bad part" of San Jose. Escort is at the bar ordering drinks. Dude at the bar attempts to hit on her while she's getting the drinks. I am a man who goes to cunnyshacks much to the relief of the punters : finally, someone brought some cunny!
She comes over, and tells the story of the dude who tried to hit on her at the bar. His line was, please be seated for this, to inquire whether she's from around there, and assure her he was. Because, you know...
Be careful.
Dude in worker cap and worked bare jeans, old sneakers afoot and well salivated beer in hand figures my slave's mercenary, and further figures he's going to detach the hottie from the [only] dude in the suit by leveraging his dazzling array of advantages.
Be careful.
Anecdote #4 We were at a strip club somewhere in the "bad part" of San Jose. The girls are all pretty, all young and tall and slim. They all go bare cunt. They all do the exact same movements, including some fumbling in the corner with their underwear. Double step to the left. Now double step to the right. Now unhook the bra. Now sway to the left. Now sway to the right. Now take off the panties. Now pout your butt to the right, and pout your butt to the left. Now you're done, go to the corner fumble with your underwear.
SAME. MOVEMENTS. All of them. All the time. Always.
Anecdote #5 Not a single strip joint we have visited to date failed to have at least one pole for dancers to poledance at. Not a single stripper in not a single strip joint we have to date visited ever lifted her feet off the ground. Their mental representation of the pole is, basically, a chair. They're dancing with it as if they'd be dancing with a broom -- it makes for a shitty dance partner for whatever rumba/salsa/cha-cha-cha, but BY FUCKING GOD they ain't changing jack shit. What do you mean "go up on it" ??? What do you mean "kiss the ceiling with your cunt or you can't work here" ??!?!?!?!
I hope you're laughing, for I'm not amused.
Anecdote #6 We went to San Domingo, which is a neighbourhood at some distance from San Jose, to see some sort of widely advertised park. The gate is closed, and the woman at the booth by the gate (yes, they do) informs us that it's been... closed.
For two years.
And yet they have a booth with a woman inside to tell people this ; but they did not feel the need to remove all the signs pointing to it, or you know, INSERT A MENTION ON THEIR FUCKING WEBSITE.
Anecdote #7 While in a brothel somewhere in the "bad part" of San Jose, the matron comes over and inquires whether we'd like to be given the tour. Sure we'd like, and thereby we're so given : she proceeds to show us the rooms. There's seven bed-sized bachelor pads fashioned out of lacquered pine atop the tiny bar, six of which are empty, a seventh silent. The corner luxury suite includes a fuck swing. There's no showers -- but a sink in the hallway, by the stairwell. If you're gonna put in just the tip sink's good enough neh ?
She lets us know the girls normally charge 40 a head, but since "we talked to her" she's only gonna count the male heads and so 40 for the lot (about eighty dollars). I thank her very much, but do not take her up on her offer - chiefly because the "girls" are notably absent. Outside of a very shy-looking dominican with soft tits pushed way too crazily out by a restrictive apparatus eyeing us from a safe distance there's nobody in sight.
Anecdote #8 Since we're in San Domingo, we decide might as well check out the scene. After walking a coupla dozen blocks in all directions thereby completely and entirely covering the municipality, we sit down at the evidently only happening bar there. A bunch of civillians, dorks with their anally unloosened "girlfriends", married men with their spawn, etcetera. A coupla girls with nice tits show up, and escort goes over to talk to them. She returns dejectedly with the information that no, they're not doing anything (on a Saturday night) nor are they possessed of enough sense to catch on ; and that if they were doing something they'd go to San Jose because nothing there.
So we went to church.
The annoying looking bitch in yellow to the bottom left there was actually doing the speaking. I have no idea when the Catholics started allowing women to talk in their temples, but the merits of that choice aside -- they really must pick better speakers. Didn't they use to train the church speakers at some point in history ?
Above is a hotel. Ho-tel. Nuff said. Snort snort.
And this is the largest moth I ever saw. Easily twice the weight of a colibri bird, it looked like if only its feet were equipped with hooks it could've made off with some electronics, a loaf of bread or a small child. Sadly it made off the moment I tried to get outside, so I failed in my intent to capture it.
But perhaps next time.
———You know you're in the "bad part" because locals seated on the curbs with apparently nothing whatsoever to do and a stiff paper bag will insistently point to their lower eyelid and tell you to "be careful", apparently entirely and very blissfully unaware I might for the same money interpret this as a plain threat, retrieve whatever torture instrument from the trunk of the car and apply it to their dumb ass directly. This is why the "bad" is in quotes : were it an actually bad as opposed to soap-opera bad neighbourhood, nobody could be encountered willing to risk their neck in such a foolish manner, for the plain and simple reason that all who thought of trying were parted of this world long long ago. This is how improvement of the species works, not by words but by actual selection, physical, extinctive, and this is also how we know anything like it's absent : from the presence of the dodo birds we can derive with absolute certainty the absolute need for the quotation marks. [↩]What do you call the girl following you along to serve ? Not really a valet, is she ? Well... [↩]I suppose you're starting to intuit how these are going to go, yes. [↩]Some dude and some dame deeply disinterested in one another doing it missionary style, with the insistent repetitiveness of machinery. About as sexy as Salo, or if you prefer clinical footage intended for medical school consumption. [↩]
« Beppo, adnotated
The perennial Harriette Wilson. »
Category: La pas prin lume
Sunday, 16 July, Year 9 d.Tr.
Asphalt Tango, revisited
I used to think Asphalt Tangoi was a big deal. This is perhaps readily excused, it came out towards the end of the 90s, at a time when the impending end of the only time and place worth living in known to date was not really visible to most anyone. In fact, it's arguable whether it even was all that impending as a matter of necessity in the first place. 1996s MP would have been vehehehery amused at the proposition, yet less than a decade later...
The important little things are still there. Marthe Felten still curses like a desperate pirate, but the impending rape that supposedly scares her doesn't even look that bad with these new eyes. So what, they'd have had a little fun, scraped some skin, bruised some organs, then gathered themselves back up, dusted themselves off and went back to their lives. Their lives in the 90s. Yes, please. The true driver of the character's desperate rage, the "humiliation" of the child being forced to contend with the readily dispelled nature of her delusions, the forcible taking of her out of an idealised France and into a very romanticised Romania all seem by comparison much more akin salvation than any sort of injury. Ti-a trece pina te maritiii is how 1990s mothers would have dismissed their immature daughters' concerns. It sticks.
The important big things are also there. A woman who "owns the Swan Lake like her own pinky toe", a woman who is a ballerina working for the Bucharest Opera house, a woman who has "of her own free choice" and before "le pop"iii united forever and indissolubly with some schmuck leaves him a note. The note says, and I textually reproduce, that she's left him a meatloaf in the fridge and ironed all his shirts ; and that she's leaving him because although she loves him very much he nevertheless isn't man enough. Not "for her". He isn't man enough fucking period, as his own wholly owned and inescapable substance. And she'd much rather go be an abject scullery maid in an actual man's harem, to humbly await her possible eventual elevation into sexual slavery. No, she doesn't use these exact words. But she says these exact things, which are in fact the only things that actually matter. Yes, she married him notwithstanding he was a humble car mechanic and she was what'd in the time and place be called "an intellectual", ie the upper class, the only upper class of a "popular democracy" aka socialism. Nevertheless.
However, the nonsense grates immensely now, and it didn't use to grate perceptibly back then. Take, for an example, Rampling's terrifyingly bad description of the tango. Really, it's "not about seduction" ? That's what they think back in Paris ? Really, it's nonsexual, dry, just like the ugly Baltic dried up cuntiv that she is, takes her and her five sisters to extract in alcohol tincture enough tit material to adequately equip an Angora kitten ? Really, it's not timed manifestation of the subjugation of the female, it's instead some sort of expression of her imaginary superiority ? These idiots really ought to travel more.v
And in this vein continuing, really, "do you have a business card" is what separates the kids from the men in your country ? Must explain why all the two-bit Italian accountants and bartenders would come to Romania to pretend like they're businessmen for the benefit of the local "students" a weekend at a time, huh. How come they weren't going to France, though ?
Sure, "parfois savoir toucher une femme avec les mains sales fais toute la difference", but meanwhile yes Romania is very much Sicily. In fact, if it had any sense it'd have become a lot more like Sicily, and moreover "freedom" is not a state towards which the female kind aspires. For a woman, and from the female perspective, freedom is simply a synonym for sterility. Yes, in some cases, in the latrine, in the filthy den of a pathological garbage collector sterility sounds like a magnificent plan. Yet outside of those eccentric conditions, woman wants freedom exactly like slug wants saltines.
Then on top of all this there's all the plot holes. Too many to list, really, but tell me what the hell is a "drug dealer" / armed wildman doing solo in a shitty Citroen ? He's cool af and all, but how exactly does his vehicle die on the side of the road, they've never heard of maintenance, these people ?vi And how exactly is he going to take a stolen police car through customs ? And why in the blazing hells would have some foreign "cabaret" hiring agent opt to go back to Paris by bus ?! On a bus she's never seen before ? And on it goes, but why even bother really.
In closing, I can but repeat that ancient cynosurevii :
Merg tuspatru inspre catre ceva, intr-o directie, pin' num-aici, undeva. Aproape. Dinspretotdeauna venind, cam osteniti, cam prafuiti, da' nu mai e mult. In soarele verii pieile nude, rozalii si aurii, merg pin-aici, aproape. In picioarele goale, prin colbul proprietatii ciinilor, in Uniunea Europeana.
———1996, by Nae Caranfil, with Charlotte Rampling, Mircea Diaconu, Florin Calinescu etc. [↩]It'll pass by the time you're wed. [↩]Diaconu's effortlessly terrible French is a fucking riot, by the way, one of the few greatnesses of this film I'm in a much better position to appreciate now than I was then. Back in 1996 it just seemed terrible. Now it's exquisitely horrid.
Anyway, le pop is supposed to be a proper orthodox priest. As you might've guessed, it's complicated. [↩]Let's quote Flaubert:
Da, Doamne, ploaie, ca-s cimpurile uscate ca fluierele picioarelor coanei Pluche.
[↩]And this is certainly an important edge I hold over that lovable character that was my own self twenty years ago. I can now say, plainly and without possible defense,
Bitch, you're going to argue with me about such things ? I lived in Buenos Aires. For years. What have you done ?
Because yes, one of the many things I've done in the interim was live in Buenos Aires for years. And I even fucking have a business card! It... doesn't say what my business is, on it, if the color fails to naturally convey.
Charlotte Rampling may have seemed clad in all the ineffable perfumes of an exotic, distant, worldly civilisation, back in 1996. Today, she's a bit player, a dusty, provincial matron that's never been to Argentina to her obvious detriment. [↩]The Costa Ricans haven't, by the way. We have yet to go out ever and see less than one crashed and one broken down car per dozen kilometers travelled. They're horrible drivers, and they're the worst at maintaining machinery ever. I suspect the MTBF on Costa Rican vehicles is about a good bike ride's worth. [↩]Approximately,
They're all four going for towards something, in a direction, to just-here, somewhere. Close by. Fromforever coming, somewhat tired, rather dusty, but there's not much left. In the Summer Sun the nude skins, pinkish and golden, are walking up to right here, nearby. Barefoot, through the dusts of the dogs' domain, in the European Union.
It is infinitely better in Romanian. [↩]
« And the Sun sets over the Pacific
The Mechanic »
Category: Trilematograf
Tuesday, 17 October, Year 9 d.Tr.
Ardilla al dente!
Speaking of : you've been served, alf. I shot one, now it's your turn!
Next time Ima bring him some nuts.
« Why god has died.
Qntra (S.QNTR) July 2017 Statement »
Category: Zsilnic
Wednesday, 02 August, Year 9 d.Tr.
Arachnofobia inductor
Here's the largest arachnidi I ever did see :
The animal was ten centimeters or so long -- a matter you can verify by either comparing the sheet metal or the concrete pillar specs visible in the photo.
And here's the largest spider web I ever did see :
The main web is about a square meter (other spiders of the same kind live in parallel, smaller webs). The beast in the middle of it is not the same animal as headshot above, but lives about a quarter mile further downhillii.
Are you there yet ?
———Not by any means the largest insect, chiefly because while talking a jungle walk a coupla days ago this penis-sized purple wasp with tiny, bright orange wings flew by to the terrified growns of teh company. It was, literally, penis size, and I don't just mean "normal" penis size, at that.
Unlike the Romanian variant, it wasn't made of iron and it had no blinkenlichten. [↩]The whole hill is infested with this species of spider, which I've not really seen anywhere else. I suspect the ready availability of waste water coupled with the extremely prey-attractive artificial lightning create quite the convenient niche for them. [↩]
« Again with the "money laundering" bullshit.
The Ethics of Liberty, by Murray N Rothbard. Adnotated. Part I (Natural Law and Reason) »
Category: Zsilnic
Friday, 28 July, Year 9 d.Tr.