The coolest thing about Romania...

I'm a known blogger.

This doesn't mean I'm known as the super-extra-top-number-one bloggers are known in the US, an Arlingtoni, a Scobleii, a Rowse (who's not actually from the US, for all the difference that makes), who are known by everyone if they go to their own professional conventions but otherwise absolutely nobody has any inkling who they are. In fact, we have a few of those in Romania as well, and I continue thinking they don't matter.

Sursa : Hackerul cel rau.I am rather a known blogger in the least comfortable of ways. These above enjoy the best celebrity possible, which is to say they're known in their narrow field of interest and entirely anonymous otherwise. I promise you that Nicole Kidman or Scarlett Johansson would much prefer to be known only by the directors (ideally, the good ones) and otherwise be perfectly anonymous, so as to be able to go to the beach without six hundred paparazzi there to immortalize every pulling of the bikini strap out of the buttcleft. And so they could get drunk without reading all the details the next morning.

Seriously, this is a thing. You go on a bender, you wake up eventually, you've no memory of what transpired. You hurt here or there, you've a cord coming out your mouth (dja know the joke ?), there's a pig in your bed, whatever. If you're curious to know what transpired, you ask. If you're not curious, you don't ask. The worst cocksuckers are those that proceed to recount whether you ask or you don't, therein included the dumb hos asking for their walking papers without even knowing it and the dumbass "bros" picked up through schooling.

I don't enjoy this benefit. Should I say anything in front of a public ? There's guaranteed some objection from some corner along the lines of "but on your blog you said so and so". Motherfucker, who are you ? I've no idea. He knows me, and well at that, knows what I've said on my blog. I've no idea what's going on. He's got the advantage. And then proceed to explain difference and context, yes mister, tis true I said you're to stick your ring finger up a duck's ass whereas I'm about to stick my finger in the hen's eye, but that's a palmipede and this one's galnaceae, that one was dead and this one's alive and I was then drunk and now am just angry. So there's differences, okay ? And fight and battleiii, the discussion ends up a discussion about the blog, people start pulling out those smartshits to see, make sure, confront the textual content of blog and discourse, is it all true or are we being lied to ? Then someone inevitably ends up on a large close-up of the origin of life and all is lost for reason, we shall be discussing Trilema now and it's time to say goodnight.

And the Romanians aren't even the worst at it, because at least these don't make me translate. After which to also explain the translation, because except for cultivated Romanians nobody's capable to natively decode my arborescent structures, there's work to do and drawings to draw before an English speaker may comprehend what's sought from life and world by one of these constructions amassing eighty to five hundred words together and often without a dot -- this in the happy cases when it's not thoroughly composed of tension and torsion inhuman (as I sometimes will deploy driven by pure sadistic pleasure, except I've no expectation for the linguistic rack to be applied upon me in the end), nor uses three layers of paranthetic indirection nor includes intraductible idiomatic constructions. Or anything about niggers.

But do not misunderstand, there's aught besides disadvantage in being a known blogger, and I've not even written this article to complain. I've all sorts of advantages, which are rather significant. For instance, I ask some chick her phone number (no, not the one in the breadshop, a different one, in some loud bar). Can barely hear anything, we've no pencils, there's no waitstaff in sight, there's no hope to push your way through to the bar and besides they might not have pens either, I've no phone, what's she say ?

Nevermind, I'll leave a comment on your blog.

I had introduced myself by name, like it's done, ok ? And started modestly as if she had no clue who the fuck I am and thereby I'm held to answer some implicit, common sense questions in the line of "is he a nutjob ?" etcetera, the substance at the base of any new relationship among the saneiv. Whereas she knew well enough I'm a nutjob, and how much and how exactly, having read here the incontestable proofs. For shame. What can you comeback with from such a pit ? I guess what I used myself,

Don't forget to include a link so it ends up in the mod queue.

Seems reasonable.

Outside of this, I enjoy doubtful advantages (the fuck, the doorman at some institution we won't name had Internet in his little housy and HE WAS READING TRILEMA, the doorman, okay ? I could've stolen everything there, they'd have found me out in six hours, it's a dream). The bodyguardv of whatever discobar doesn't want to let me in "because I'm suspicious", I have to call up my friend who happens to own the thing to have his mind changed for him, after which I find from another employee that I had mocked the guy's cousin or something in this vein, truth is my memory's not the best either, were I capable to remember all the idiots of either gender I wouldn't need a blog in the first place. Logic, neh ?

And some other time I left my money clip and assorted shits at some chick's house and then I took her out to eat, whereby upon finishing I discovered I've no means to pay. But the waitress told me very undisturbed that "she's not worried about me". Say what ? Miss, do I know you from someplace ? "No, but I read your blog." Alright darling. She reads my blog, thereby I eat for free and bring the money later on. "I don't have the stamp anyway cuz the boss took it. I'll have the receipt ready when she's back." Okay ? Okay, why not, what's wrong with it.

I wrote this lengthy introduction with one single goal : so you may understand the context in which I bathe. And now that you've no doubt understood it, let me explain what's the coolest thing about Romania.

I've published all sorts of horrors on this here blog, I burned a Bible and a Koran, I added cum on Saint Mary's face, I assaulted, verbally and then logically a large contigent of citizens, principally chosen among the least intelligent and therefore least capable of defense with the same arms but greatly, burningly lusting to defend somehow, in such a manner as they may come up with.

What injury have I suffered, after years and years in this manner ? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not as much as a move over, you understand me ? Were I to seat myself in Pennsylvania to write about how niggers are aborted vomit they'd have shot me in a matter of months. Were I to joke about the Koran in Sudan they'd have burned my house hut no doubt. Looky that in Romania I can say whatever the hell I please, and the whole world respects my right of free expression. Like saints.

Romanians are very, very civilised, and this you notice by living there.

I'm not the exception here, do not jump to mistaken conclusions. Take Dumbravita, a small village by Timisoara. It has a lengthy history, it was founded by Hungarians as Ujsentes (New Sentes), and is to this day populated by a closely knit community of 800 or so people, ethnically Hungarian Romanian citizens. And they elected themselves a mayor, also ethnically Hungarian Romanian citizen, Geza something.

The village is right next to Timisoara, rich people have been migrating this way for many years, the Hungarians are an enclave surrounded by maybe 3`000 Romanians. Who are more numerous, and richer, and who can't be arsed to vote. In any other country with pretensions as to civilisation, those 3`000 had voted, wiped the old arrangements and manifested their superiority. It's a problem all communities all over the United States fear like death, huge troubles now with the retards from California spilling out of that wrecked state, moving on to Utah and Texas where they whine in an evident attempt of modifying the local arrangements to better suit what they left behind, as they're dumb enough to miss the causal link between bad arrangements and wrecking states.

Why don't they vote ? Because they're elegant, and civilised, nor aggressive nor other wonders. If this people here managed for years, very good, let's let them be! Obviously if things go badly the situation will revolve, but what matters in our discussion is that at least on the first pass, the Romanian will leave you fucking be, to live your own life.

This speaks more of his civilised nature than anything else. And it's by very far the coolest thing about Romania, notwithstanding the Romanians themselves perceive it exactly the other way around, as in fact everyone else does. Romanians think they're suckers, and that's why things don't work as well as they'd like, because they're calm and tolerant. It's false, of course, shit dun go because many people don't know many things, not because the vast majority is easy on its environment. This latter consideration is the cause for which things work at all.

Mitteleuropa, that old and pleasant item of the past century yet still survives exactly in the same place Latin survives. Some excellent reasons to like Romania, especially if you've a modicum of discernment.

This article was originally published in 2011, in Romanian, as Cea mai faina chestie la Romania...

———Meanwhile ran off. [↩]Meanwhile went bankrupt. [↩]The original "si da-i si lupta" is a learned reference, to the monologue style of one Agamita Dandanache, a buffoon constructed by Caragiale approximately on the wiring of a very exaggerate Capitano. The name itself -- a diminutive form of Agamemnon and a derived form of Turkish tantana (in Romanian used to denote minor trouble). [↩]In case you're wondering, the notion of sanity here employed is European. English as a single language speakers do not generally qualify. [↩]There's this readily available phonetic transcription of bodyguard in romanian as fence-beater because fence is gard and to beat a bate, so therefore bategardu'.

This is particularily funny because of a reasonably well known folkloring drunk's march, which goes something along the lines of "De la beat circiuma vin, merg pe gard de drum ma tin, dau cu ciinii-n bolovani sa ma apar de dusmani", ie "I'm coming pubed from the drunk, walking on the fence and holding on to the road, throwing dogs at all the rocks to protect myself from mine enemies." Such is the readily obvious (in Europe! old, civilised Europe) the utility of bodyguards. [↩]

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Blow-up »

Category: Zsilnic

Saturday, 21 October, Year 9 d.Tr.

The Comfort of Strangers

The Comfort of Strangersi is a rehash of that retarded story, except this time from a "oh noes, Donald Trump" perspective. In the fucking 90s! or to put it in other words, the libertard pussy's been itching for a grabbing for thirty years now.

Yet somehow the notion that "couple problems" actually denotes something other than a case of the woman being being fucking obnoxious and in desperate need of daily whippings to monotonously increase in intensity until she comes to her fucking senses and epiphanically realises that holy shit she was incredibly happy and "please god let just things be the way they were, oh please!" just can't go away, now can it. Which is how we know you aren't beating them, now are you. You should be ashamed of yourself.

Natasha Richardson is this particularly, distressingly ugly broad with nice hair. We're talking Barbara Streisand level of gorgon, there's better looking tree trunks out there. Rupert Everett is this stick figure that ran off from Cartoon Farm to find his fortune, and apparently nobody at Reteitalia noticed. Fuck knows what they were doing. At least he gets punched.

The whole pile is a colossal waste of Walken's time and not much more. Yes, it's true the libertard male gets killed and the libertard female freeranged, but then again you don't need a film to state the obvious banality of the world. Or at least, I don't.

———1990, by Paul Schrader, with Christopher Walken. [↩]

« No Such lAbs (S.NSA), March 2017 Statement

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Category: Trilematograf

Monday, 03 April, Year 9 d.Tr.

The boundless burden

Twas said in the logs,

lobbes http://btcbase.org/log/2017-06-14#1670306 sustenance in form of 'anti-depression' drugz

a111: Logged on 2017-06-14 15:27 mircea_popescu and the whole story of "oh, 1800 style squalor and poverty and five points erradicated!!! great ourdemocracy progress!!!" is really just very caked on masking upon the base fact that "we redirected all resources away from fun, so that now there's nothing to do but wait to die a la http://btcbase.org/log/2017-06-14#1670156

lobbes starting to grok how bone-fide slavery is actually the 'more humane' model

mircea_popescu lobbes o ya.

asciilifeform dr. mengele was a saint and humanitarian compared to the folx presently in the saddle, aha

mircea_popescu the whole thing revolves around the valuation of lying. for the people that judge lying as a primum malum, proper slavery is the more humane model. for the people who judge lying as the primum bonum, the us/sui nonsense is the more humane model.

mircea_popescu in the end the question comes down to, do you feel like a man, or do you feel like a woman ? just don't lie to me or lie to me prettily ?

lobbes makes sense

trinque all the insanity around "identifying as" points directly to it. most folks *cannot* form an identity outside being told what they are. having been told incoherent nonsense, little wonder the starving creatures flail for control of the mechanism. the drugs are in that sense the same as the "I am a pony", both towards a feeling.

mircea_popescu yet this is not ideology, but biology. if you have a sexuate species, then THEREFORE you will have a female (defined as, carrying the burden to term). as you've made this a biological necessity by your "sexuate" ideaii, it then follows that about half the population will enjoy the passive benefit of the other half being fucked over. as in, bars would be a lot fuller and service a lot crappier if women also crowded them. and therefore, the female will want to be lied to prettily. because lied to she will be, and she knows this. there's no way to window dress the cost of sexuate reproduction into anything else. though they try. and so...

trinque puts the female behaviors in context. "I'm going to be parasitized as a matter of course, better fatten up, hide, etc"

mircea_popescu yes. things make perfect sense once one stops trying to lie about what they are.

While all that is true, and a lot more besidesiii, it's still not the whole picture.

Consider this : if you've made your species sexuate, and thereby it followed you'll have a female, and thereby it followed the female will store fat and be slow and physically ineffectual as her bones will be optimized for parasite supportiv rather than locomotion and so on and so forth : it doesn't just follow that culturally she'll live her life fettered in a pen somewhere while the males go roaming about in the garden. Culture at least you could revise (so you flatter yourself in thinking), but it doesn't stop there.

Because if indeed you've got a sexuate species, it then therefore follows that it is more productive to do the searching in the male genetic space than in the female genetic space. What do I mean by searching ? Oh, you know, "wut does this purine base do", random recombination as is at the basis of all evolution. And of all cancer.

It then so happens that if we normalize female fenotypical variation at 110% (in any field, note that we're making no assumptions as to whether this is height or ability to thread needles -- whatever the defined skill, whatever the considered ability, the model stands for all time) we'll measure male fenotypical variation at something around 125%.

What does this mean ?

It means that in a sexuate population and for any arbitrarily defined ability, should you measure five females and find three at 10, one at 9 and one at 11, when measuring five males you will likeliest find one at 12, one at 11, one at 10, one at 9 and one at 8.

Then what happens irl is that the 8 male dies, because the minimum level of the ability required for maintenance is 8.4, and your population of 9 (55.(5)% female) will exhibit an average male ability of (12+11+10+9)/4 = 10.5, and an average female ability of (11+3*10+9)/5 = 10. That's 5% better males on average. At anything.

At anything.

Numbers don't lie.

Numbers don't lie.

Not mine, at any rate.

There you go, that's the shit gift that just keeps on giving. What now ?

———There is absolutely no aspect of anti-human sovietism that has not been imported and is not being applied by the "ourdemocracy" failed empire of evil, from New Hampshire to Arizona and from Norway to Portugal. Review the period discussions as to "why the Soviet Union is evil", and check point by point : no property rights (implemented as "anti money laundering"), no legal rights (implemented by the soviets directly through "administrative procedures" and by the soviets 2.0 through a whole array of direct and indirect approaches), no personal rights ("Freeze!", yes ?). There. Is. No. Difference. You are living in the Soviet Union little girl. [↩]Which is a tremendous idea, as far as the technology of life is concerned, which is why sexuate species took over. [↩]Have you ever stopped to notice that the biological cost of copulation (considered strictly in terms of venereal disease -- and yes, there is a great reason to limit the consideration such) is a degree of magnitude greater for females than it is for males ? Yeah, that's right, there's a reason "guys don't like wearing condoms" : it is an item they wear principally for the girls' benefit, and while this would not be a serious problem in a sane culture -- healthier girls just means healthier fucks for all so what's the problem (which is why they don't bother me) -- the esltards also don't live in a sane culture, but instead they live in a mendacious piece of shit where folic acid is added to the flour they eat so women can have non-deformed babies notwithstanding it increases their gastrointestinal disease and perhaps slightly cancer incidence. Which, again, wouldn't be a problem by itself, but they are also lied to about it -- about what it is, what it is for, etcetera. The pile of "lied, yes, but for own good" is so tall even the more reasonable portions chafe something fierce.

That is what you get for lying to people -- agents so irritated they will engage in -ev behaviours simply to be rid of your dumb ass masquerading as a face-with-mouth arrangement. [↩]Not just by having a hole in the pelvic floor as large as possible without the organs outright falling out (and still in plenty of older women they do fall out, which is why prolapse is a word), but also through having the bones constructed more like a reservoir of lactation calcium than as the steel reinforcement of muscular concrete. Which is why osteoporosis is a word. [↩]

« Jduuuu!

The Pulation and other biodiversities. »

Category: Trilenciclopedia

Saturday, 17 June, Year 9 d.Tr.

The bitter lot

"Just a moment, I'm shaving."

"Could you just not grow hair ?"

"I suppose I could, yeah. Or maybe just turn it back to preteen fuzz. Hey, speaking of which, anything you'd like changed ?"

"Like what ?"

"Well... I don't know, should I get more tits ? I could get another pair, so you can all suckle me together, Nadji, Rach, Cyn, you... Should I have four tits ?"

"Maybe we try it some time."

"Should my milk flow ?"

"Oh, definitely. That's a good idea."

"Or would you rather I have an udder ? Like an actual, honest to god, cow's udder ? On my chest or on my belly ?"

"Nah."

"Maybe I give Rachel one, next we meet. I suspect she always wanted one."

"Hahaha."

"You know, just give her hooves and horns on her head and an udder on her belly, take away her tits entirely, nips and all. See what she says."

"Hahahaha. Tail, too ?"

"Sure, if you want. Then we cut it off and have oxtail soup."

"Isn't that dangerous ? What with the prions ?"

"Well how much ground up cow did she get to eat, she's not even changed yet. Or are you saying with her it's natural ?"

"Maybe I'll tell her it's permanent. And she'll have to live in a stable."

"Poor Rach."

"You know, this really expands the range of available punishments."

"Would you really have her turned into a cow, living in a stable ?"

"Conceivably."

"Fucked by the bulls, too ?"

"Well. Let's not get carried away."

"Which takes us to the real bomb here. Would you like me to have a penis ?"

"Uh."

"So you could suck my dick ? Would you like that ?"

"Strangely enough, sucking your dick actually sounds appealing."

"Am I putting it on then ?"

"Nah. Let's not get crazy here, cowsing out an innocent, loving girl is one thing, but foreign cocks ?!"

"How foreign could it be."

"Very."

"You know it's just like an enlarged clit."

"But I like your diminutively tiny clit."

"You do, huh. Alright, I'm coming out."

"What do you think ?"

"Why do you look like that ?"

"Like what ?"

"Like Elizabeth Taylor."

"I don't look like her. This is genuinely the same exact body. DNA-identical and everything."

"Her tits were nothing like that."

"Oh, yeah, well, I had them plumped out a little bit. And lifted, of course."

"A little bit."

"32 double D. She was a C."

"Very nice."

"Her ass, too. See ?"

"Whoa! What an ass!"

"Are my thighs too thick ?"

"Nah."

"It's hard to get right, they have to go with the ass or else you look more like a skewered cocktail olive."

"Haha. I've seen that look."

"Soo... what do you wanna do ?"

"Bring that borrowed ass of yours and sit it on my face."

"Yes master."

"Master ?"

"Yeeeees ?"

"I wish to taste death from your hands."

"You wish to die."

"I want you to kill me."

"Oh come on."

"Please, master. You could strangle me while you fuck me. Put your hand on my throat, clasp thumb over jugular, just like before. Only this time, let nothing through. Just squeeze it shut. Let me turn purple, let me turn limp. And then, don't stop, don't soften the grip, not at all. Let nothing through, and let me die."

"But why ?!"

"You know how I may not do it for myself ? I may only come by you ? Ha! That's funny, come by you. Guess what, I came by you!"

"Eh, it was your idea to begin with. Remember ?"

"By you. By you!"

"Fine. What of it ?"

"I want to die by your hand, too. I don't want to do it to myself."

"Why do you want to die at all ?"

"It's there..."

"But I don't want to kill you. I never wanted to kill you, and I don't want to kill you now."

"Please ?"

"What if you don't come back, you dizzy cow. What then ? I'll sit there with a corpse in my bed, a deicide now on top of everything ? The man who terminated what was possibly the only god ?"

"You have no vanity, do you."

"That has nothing to do with anything, what the fuck already. Why should I kill you ? You've done no wrong."

"Should I do wrong ?"

"Oh come on!"

"You remember earlier how you told me you won't forbid me taking other forms, but recommended temperance ?"

"Yes, I remember. It was an hour ago for chrissakes."

"I am a goddess. How could I not die ? I must, it's inconceivable. I have to go through it. If we met when I was sixteen and a virgin, would you have recommended old maidenhood ?"

"Certainly not."

"Certainly not what ?"

"Certainly not to you."

"So what is it then, I was a competent female at sixteen, worthy of defloration, but I'm an incompetent enough goddess I'd better never die ?"

"You're not sixteen! You're not even six! You're two days old, two fucking days old and already more hassle than a platoon of cats captive in rhinoceri bodies! Besideswhich, I certainly would have recommended defloration, but not my own services to do it! I'd have said, 'go ye and find some putz to bleed the girlhood out and then come back'."

"That's what you would have said ?"

"Not literally, to recollection, but you get the gist."

"Always ?"

"No, not always. Most of the time."

"Please ?"

"You've got all the time in the world. Literally. What the hell's the hurry ?"

"Just as long as you promise you'll do it one day. It's even better this way, I won't even know. One day, whenever you feel like it, I'll die."

"That was always the situation anyway."

"Oh, no. No, no. Nothing like that, not now. You understand, it's not permanent for me now. This is but a small death."

"And how do you know that ?"

"I know."

"Maybe there's some exception you don't see. You were wrong before, you know."

"Not now. Not anymore. I am infallible, now."

"You're infallible."

"Yes."

"If you're infallible how the hell will I punish you ?"

"Because you love me. Like you did it before. You caned me yesterday for 'ruining the divinity' didn't you ?"

"That was pretty cool huh."

"I loved it."

"An infallible slavegirl. Sounds like a contradiction in terms."

"It's a lot worse than that, really."

"It is ?"

"You know, I don't only see everything that is, as an immediate and complete truth. I see a little into the future, too, a slight, short lived haze. But I see all of the past. Not like you do, fragmentary, retold, through recollection. I see it immediately, the complete tree of the full past, truth and its derivatives neatly ordered. I see it all, throughout, everywhere. Each time you were unsure and took a gamble with me, you know ? Each time you were flat out wrong, and your immense presence carried you through regardless. Every time you didn't recall some word and made it out as if it were a challenge for me, each time you forgot something, each time you didn't know it in the first place, the guesses, the failures, all of it. Things I couldn't ever have noticed in a million years, not with you there, not with your eyes looking at me, not as a scared, temporary girl of flesh, and blood, and struggling spirit. I see it all now, instantaneously, and you look a lot smaller than I ever knew you were."

"Ha! Do you see everything, really ? Say my first time, how I panicked at the last moment, she didn't know, she couldn't guess it was my first time through all the airs, but insisted, softly, so very womanly, peeled off my underwear and then we did it ?"

"I do. I see it all, and I love you still. I love you more for it than ever before, how much you've achieved out of how little, how precious little! I say to you, like any other victim ever said, 'Look what you've made of me!'. Look you, indeed. You can make gods, out of a little straw."

"You made yourself, you silly girl."

"By you. By you!"

"What a day."

"Can you still read my mind ?"

"Not really. It's just noise now."

"Where I used to stand, little cartoon bubbles over my head, just bubbles of white noise now ?"

"Kinda, yeah."

"That sucks."

"Well whadda ya want. You can't have everything forever. You can't be both the scared little girl and yourself, can you. Not anymore."

"Should I cook ? Are you hungry ?"

"Oh, you cook, too ?"

"Well... I could manifest some food, how about that ? What would you like ?"

"Can you shit ganache ?"

"What, like on a plate ?"

"Nah, I'll just lick it out."

"You never ate my ass before."

"So there's a first time for everything. Make it the Salo recipe, what did they use, orange jam and chocolate, can you see it ?"

"Hang on."

« Equus

Damele, dameleee »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Wednesday, 27 September, Year 9 d.Tr.

The Bitcoin learning tournament.

Inspired by discussion on the previous article, it's my great pleasure to give you the world-famous Bitcoin Learning Tournament. Here's the details :

I. The Deux-Pez Machina is a device defined as follows :

To initialize, it generates a randomi 256-byte ISRii. This ISR describes a total of 256 linear functions, indexed in a one-byte list. Each function is of the format ai X + bi, with i taking values from 0 to 255. For each byte in the ISR : the first bit will set ai to negative if 1, and to positive otherewise ; the second bit will set ai to either 1 or 2 ; the third bid will set bi to negative if 1 and to positive otherwise ; the remainder five bits will set the value of bi (from 1 to 32). For each player it further generates a UMMiii on the basis of randomly selecting one byte from the UIS, one byte from the ISR, concatenating them, MPFHF-ing the two byte product to obtain a one byte mask. The UMM will never be divulged to the players.

Every tick it prepares the function list, by multiplying each a and each b with the respective byteiv in its ISR and dividing the result by 16.

Every tick it receives as inputs a 64-byte UISv, a one-byte UIMvi and a positive double UBAvii from each user participating that tick. To be accepted the UBA must be no lower than half the average UBA of the previous round -- all UBAs are accepted first round.

Every tick for each accepted UBA it XORs the UIM with the respective player's UMM. If a randomly-selected byte from its ISR is divisible by 8, it also XORs the UMM with that byte. It then selects the function in its list indicated by the XOR'ed UIM and applies it to the UBA. The result, capped at 2x the UBA, is returned to the respective UIS.

Every tick it XORs its ISR with four concatenated UIS randomly selected from the UIS received that turn and with one random 256 byte value thus becoming ready for the next tick. Once four UIS can not be selected, the Deux-Pez Dispenser ends the world.

II. All players start with capital in sum of 20999999.9769 to bid however they please.

III. Each tick each player may either

Play, by specifying his own UIS, and providing correct values for UIMviii and UBAix. Up to double his UBA will be returned and added to his capital ;

Observe, by specifiying any other player's UISx, which will result in the Observing player receiving the UIM, UBA and payoff that other player realised) at no cost ;

or Research, by specifying the magical UIS "Research", and a UBA the player will receive the Deux-Pez Machine UIM that would have provided him with the largest payoff for that UBA as wel as the numeric value of that payoff (nothing is added to his capital).

IV. To celebrate nine years since the original publication of the original paper at the foundation of The Most Serene Republic (the world's only sovereign), the first tournament will be run on November 2nd, 2017. You may submit your entry in the comment section below.

V. Prizes will be announced in this section up until the end of October 2017. The prize pool will be no less than 1 BTC in any case. Currently the proposal is in draft form and still accepts discussion, also to be contributed below.

———TRNG random. [↩]Internal state register [↩]User Mode Mask [↩]Byte values run from 1 to 256 for the needs of this multiplication. [↩]User identification string, think of it as a sha512 output. [↩]User intended mode. [↩]User bid amount. [↩]Single byte. [↩]Positive value lower than his total sum. [↩]All player UIS are published every tick, along with their current capital. [↩]

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Category: Evenimente

Wednesday, 07 June, Year 9 d.Tr.

Teenagers are a pain in the ass

"You have to go to school."

"Why do I have to go to school ? I suck your cock well, don't I ? All the way ? You said so yourself. And I take it in the ass. It doesn't even hurt anymore. I love it in my ass now. And..."

"This is like saying you're the color red. Good for you, but you also need an engine, baby. Can't go about simply being the color red."

"And school's going to put an engine in this otherwise empty chassis ? Have you been to school ?"

"Yes, I've been to school."

"I have no idea what school you've been to. It must've happened on some other continent."

"Yes, yes, a galaxy far far away at a time far far removed."

"It's such a terrible waste of time."

"What the hell do you care about wastes of time ? At your age time can't be anything but wasted. What, you're going to come up with better ways to use your time than wasting it ?!"

"Is it because you like it when I get other girls to come and do things with us ? At least that I could understand. Is that it ?"

"I certainly like it, but that's not why you have to go to school. You could do that in the park, or at a strip joint just as well. Hell, probably better."

"Is that a compliment ? Are you saying by implication that I'm the best girl in school ?"

"You're certainly the best fucktoy in your class. Heck, probably in your generation, at that. There's what, fifty thousand or so seventeen year olds in this country ? Seems a safe bet."

"Would you like to cane me ?"

"No."

"I'll do anything you say, Master. I will. But... why ?"

"Oh for crying out loud."

"Should I not ask ? Am I doing it wrongly ?"

"You're doing fine, don't worry about it. You're just a pain in the ass is all."

"But I don't want to be a pain in the ass."

"Why not ? You like it when I'm a pain in your ass."

"It doesn't hurt anymore!"

"And why doesn't it hurt anymore ?"

"I've trained it!"

"See, that's why you have to go to school."

"Oh... oh... Oh for crying it loud!"

« Prince of the City

Resplenduminous »

Category: Lifespiel

Tuesday, 26 September, Year 9 d.Tr.

Teatro "La Comedia" de San Jose (Calle 13, entre Av. 6 y 8)

We did the whole dinner-and-a-show thing today, like middle-aged middle class couples. Because why the hell not.

The dinner was the Indian place, because girl on escort duty really likes the food there ("It's my favourite restaurant in the whole world!", spoken in Marilyn) and then the show was...

Well, first we went to Teatro Angel "in the bad part of town". You might expect various things when going to a theatre in say the Bronx, or Lafond's side of Baltimore. Perhaps a thin front for a cheap prostitution venue ; perhaps an old ruined warehouse rented on the cheap and filled with rats awaiting their turn to burn as such ; perhaps who knows what else.

What we encountered was a cramped hallway, just about fit to lead into a bachelor pad, stuffed to the gills with insufferable hipster doofuses. The truly miserable kind, call center employees with delusions of ardour and a quora account. I waited in line for maybe five minutes, admiring the wiring job (on wooden wall, exposed wire connected to capacitor and transformer, both elements sustained in midair by the wire itself), but eventually, on the second pass of approximatedly-bearded idiot with his imbecile girlfriend trying to pay a (5 dollar) portion of the entrance fee with his credit card I just turned around and left while reciting obscenities. Motherfucker.

The backup, because yes girl on escort duty knows better than to not have backups (she had five) was the item named in the title : Teatro "La Comedia". To be perfectly honest, it's not a theatre in any sense. There's a lot of loud talking, there's after a fashion dancing (as Texas Guinan explained -- the girls have to dance on the customers because there's no room to dance anywhere else -- exactly) and short comedy. You certainly recognized the (low rent) cabaret venue.

There is no stage. You may think stage fright is a legitimate concern. If you do, try entertaining an audience without the benefit of the stage. Straight on, defenceless, captive in a small carpeted square. The enemy -- and make no fucking mistake : no entertainer has any other enemy, nor is any audience anything but the whale looking for Jonah -- is right there. Close enough to break a bottle and the back of your skull in one swift interaction. Heck, close enough to punch your jaw in before you'll know what hit you.

You may think even that's doable, if you're a young girl and naked. Your this and that'll distract them, and besides, they're unlikely to actually want to kill you. Sure. Try doing it as a squat, old woman or a couple of unremarkable boys -- the two categories everyone ever wants to kill ; and does.

Yet in this dismal position, for an audience hardly three dozen strong, they never sat put (nor almost ever shut up). Sweat was pouring over the fat and the slim alike, constant, a shine more merituous than any diamond dusting, a slick more worthy than any laurel wreath. They licked every square inch of that filthy carpeting, with an enthusiams which, while entirely unproductive, I dare not say was wasted.

They have not the slightest clue about Theater, or theatre, or acting in any conceivable sense. It doesn't seem like anyone ever mentioned blocking to them, at any point, ever, at all. The woman was unconcerned to the point of not merely never giving any thought whatever to what she's doing with her hands, but rather employing them to wipe sweat off her creases and onto her costume. Yes, just like that. They simply talk, together, over each other, a formless deluge that in itself stands simply opposite to the venerable institution of the stage. Addison deWitt'd have had an aneurism -- fortunate am I to not be he.

They did the whole male in drag thing, which I suppose was a riot in the 1800s, or in the more brackish backwaters of our colonies as late as Divine's time. By now it's trite, tired, like rhyming about spring and melting snow and the beloved's undun breasts or something in that heinous vein.

They did Cornudo, apaleado y contento, which is a very classical (read : tiresome) farce, vaguely stolen from Bocaccio. You know the fare, husband wife and servant, except the servant's a gentleman who used the disguise to get close to the woman, whom he propositions, and who fucks him in between being propositioned and propositioning her husband to dress in her clothes to encounter the servant so as to have proof of his treasonable betrayal, except obviously the instructed servant beats up his master for his imaginary sin of being a total slut because hey, he only was testing her, and so on and so forth, they end up all friends in a freely fuckfest as these stories always go.

They did the "innovative" anachronism, whereby all references were simply bowdlerized into items the audience would readily understand and be familiar with. The strangeness of 2017 kids in costume speaking (in a vague Portuguese accent) of social structure and interaction that only makes sense from a 1400s perspective as if it happened in Heredia, across from the Mas para Menos is apparently acceptable here. Historically, it is the price a culture-less place has to play to get its stage going -- it was exactly the case in 1800s Romania as eg. Caragiale acutely records. What can you do ?

What we did was we hit the blackjack and brothels, and then we came home -- ceea ce va doresc si voua.

« Balul de Simbata Seara

Things That Happened To Sam. Chapter 3 - Once outside the terminal »

Category: La pas prin lume

Monday, 08 May, Year 9 d.Tr.

Suddenly, Last Summer

Suddenly, Last Summeri is a trainwreck of a film.

First, to get Taylor out of the way -- she's smoking hot, and very, very competent. She looks about nineteen notwithstanding she's about 26 at the time of the shooting, her tits carry the camera throughout the painful tedium of this nonsense, and her presentation shotii is credible. Certainly credible for '59. The fact that she can actually act stands in brilliant contrast to Hepburn's utter mummified inability.

Do you know what a hurdy-gurdy is ? One of those broken down boxes the homeless used to hand crank on street corners a century or so ago ? That's Katharine Hepburn through and through, she just won't stop yakking in that unbearable tinny monotone god fucking help us.iii

Not that Clift's any better, he just does Cary Grant in Arsenic and Old Lace throughout. What the fuck is with the 50s and the chicken-headed male lead, anyway ?iv

The original Tennessee Williams play is marginal to begin with, but the butchering Gore Vidal applied to it should perhaps be studied as a pinnacle of hackdom. Really, the white silk suit clad scapegoat, bla bla ? It's terrible!

Very, very bad film. The only reason is still exists is Elizabeth Taylor, gaze upon this sad trainwreck of a shitshow and weep for wasted youth. It is wasted on the young, yes, but in Taylor's case through no fault of her own. In her case, through the fault of everyone else.

I have a lengthy list of people from the 50s who should feel very, very ashamed in their graves for wasting the time of a jewel of a girl back when she was twenty. You understand nobody gives them their twenties back, do you ?

Don't be that waster.

———1959, by J. L. Mankiewics, with Elizabeth Taylor, Katharine Hepburn, Montgomery Clift. [↩]That's when they have her naked. There's usually one per movie. [↩]She does the exact, but I mean the exact same schtick as everywhere else. At least in say Lion in Winter in was plot-adequate, you immediately understood why Eleanor had to be locked up in the tower all year long by watching Hepburn droning half a minute. [↩]If you never understood the "chicken acting human" Animaniacs segment before, now you do. [↩]

« Totally not flooding, sir

Remember the security hole Automattic refused to fix back in 2014 ? »

Category: Trilematograf

Thursday, 12 October, Year 9 d.Tr.

Stop being so fucking poor!

You're perhaps aware the ~single article in the USG playbook relating to "inconvenient persons" (as distinct and distinguishable from the playbook relating to inconvenient events) is putting forth numerous false claims of sexual misconduct.

Along these lines, Hussein Bahamasi is still chiefly remembered today for asking the district attorney to find a prostitute who would a) convincingly masquerade as a hotel employee and b) falsely claim Strauss-Kahn "raped"ii her ; and once Assange turned from friendly to unfriendly all sorts of tired hobags started coming out of the woodwork to claim bizarro sexual malpractices by then decades old, entirely undocumentable and so following.

We shan't be bothering with beating this old horse to death, but in context it should come as no surprise that random kid involved with the strange case of the German public no longer being able to so quietly ignore Angela Merkel's apparently bottomless appetite for raw, unlubed USG.State penis up her physiological orifices an' canals immediately became a "rapist" and whatnot. This of course only serves to make him respectableiii, but we also don't happen to give much of a shit about all that -- it's tor after all, for the love of lolcows.

Instead, let's consider some unrelated if rather telling quotes, selectediv from the monumental pile of garbage the "documentation" of said "sexual misconduct" produced. Here goes :

While travelling, the first time he came to the city I lived in, I invited him to stay at my house. As politely as I could, I explained, "You can have the floor, and I'll take my bed, or the other way around. If you're comfortable with it, we can share my bed, as friends. Meaning no physical contact." We both slept in my bed.

~ Anonymous Ho-Bagv, also known as "Forest" as well as "Isis Agora Lovecruft".

This item can not through any stretch of the imagination be called "my house". It is arguably not even much of a studio.

Once Jake had moved to Germany, I came to visit friends there for a while, and one night I stayed at Jake's place. Again, we shared a bed, as friends. There weren't even any discussion or attempts beforehand to convince me to do anything sexual with him. It was freezing cold, and I went to bed with several layers of street clothes on.

~ Same Ho-Bag as above.

Who does this ? And if your answer basically sums up to her, you're just about right. Germany had heating before it was made part of the Roman empire, what the fuck is this even supposed to be ?!

There's a thingee on the wall and a furnace in a dedicated space in any place I've ever lived. You twist the knob. That's it.

Apparently that's not it for whoever this is, but then again... why are we even considering the life stories of africans ? They've no voice among civilised people for a reason, and yes, if your solution to "it being cold" is "going to bed in five layers of street clothes" then whatever you might think you have to say is thereby automatically invalidated! You've not yet mastered the very basics of this thing you aim to speak to, and your voice can therefore not be heard. At all!

Jake and I had some minor romantic interest in each other when he invited me to his apartment one evening. He told me he wanted to take a bath, and invited me into his bathroom to hang out with him. I said, okay, but I don't want to take a bath with you. I sat down on the toilet and started chatting with him, and he immediately began coercing me to get into his bathtub. I was hungover, possibly still a little drunk from the night before, and although I wasn't interested in getting in, I wasn't so firm in my resolve because of my somewhat compromised state. I kept saying no, and he kept asking (while chatting about other things), and eventually I said, okay, I'll keep my underwear and tshirt on and put my legs in the water. I did that, and he kept asking me to get in all the way, even as I told him I wasn't interested.

~ Alison Macrina.vi

Who the fuck bothers ? An escort, meaning pretty and young and eager, goes for half a Bitcoin these days, if that. She ain't gonna be even wearing fucking panties. A hooker, if you're poor, costs a few Bitcents, if that.

So, again, who the fuck bothers ?

Other than people so fucking poor they don't get to contribute to the conversation, of course.

Only a few months later, I'd be dragging 40 Americans from DEFCON to CCC Camp in 2007. Jake was on that trip (at a huge discount, paid for by someone else) and pretty much every person on that trip can tell you what an epic asshole he was.

~Nobody

Mostly included to remind everyone that actual conferences cost money ; USG conferences a) do not and b) are paid by slips from Hitler in all cases anyway.

> In February, while the group was planning travel to Japan for the

> PQCrypto conference, Tanja asked me to share an AirBNB with Jacob. Though

> I was not comfortable having to spend time with Jacob, I did not feel

> comfortable declining, since the rest of the group's accommodations

> were already booked.

Once again: if I believe what Mr. de Valence now writes, then Mr. de Valence knew starting in December 2015 that he was deeply angry with Mr. Appelbaum. But in February 2016 he was still concealing this information from me, and I'm told also from Prof. Lange, and I'm told also from Mr. Appelbaum. Mr. de Valence did _not_ reveal that he was uncomfortable sharing a room with Mr. Appelbaum.

~ Daniel J. Bernstein, of smooth-parts-of-integers fame, recounting the words of some random fucktoy with which he has had -- much to his indelible shame -- utterly improper dealings over the years.

Do you know what the word is for one who can't afford his own accomodations ?

Leaving aside the label : of fucking course you can fuck it! Can't afford a place to stay means it's there for the fucking. What the fuck else could it possibly mean ?

No, you can't be a person if you can't afford your own place. Out of the fucking question. Entirely, utterly and completely out of the question.

The list could go on, ad infinitum, and be expanded to include all sorts of entirely indistinguishable bums. I won't be bothered. Instead, let me make it as clear as it conceivably be made :

STOP BEING FUCKING POOR

Contrary to what ill-indented idiots / your parents might have erroneously misrepresented in your general direction, poor people have no rights and present no interest. Poor people may not speak, on any public matter ; poor people may not decide how to dispose of anything, including their own time and their own physical body, etcetera. There is no such thing as citizenship for the poor. Get the fuck out of poverty first and foremost! Then, maybe you may have something to say. Not before!

Do we understand each other or do you have to be beaten first ?

———The allegedly-black nigger that oversaw the final stages of the decay of the once prosperous United States into yet another nation of Africa. [↩]No, the allegation does not actually amount to rape. It's "rape". [↩]Vague "sexual misconduct" allegations are more of a positive than a negative by now, as I'm sure you're well aware. [↩]Selected strictly in the sense of being dislodged from the mass of nonsense pertaining to other topics ; absolutely not selected in the sense of, "picked from among a larger set of quotes on the same topic". [↩]It is important to mention that other than there not existing any reason to believe there's any relation between the online identity in question and any particular person, said online identity has actually contributed nothing of any interest in any technical or scientific sense. You might as well be discussing your good friend pirate, or the very amusing Uppitty Tortilla. You understand this, yes ? [↩]They did this "genius" "PR!!!" move whereby they first published unsourced tittilating content under "pseudonym" and then "admitted" to it, transparently because they imagined this approach will deliver twice the media frenzy.

If you're familiar with the expired can of lard doing business as Michael Moore, you're familiar with the basic procedure. It's essentially being Suzanne. The innovation, if you can call it that (you can't, Kim gets dibs ; and besides it was discussed on Trilema) consists of trying to do it with sex rather than pity. ("Sex" rather than the traditional sex tapes for the obvious reasons.) [↩]

« Spurious graphs and such

The Pisspots »

Category: SUA care este

Wednesday, 29 March, Year 9 d.Tr.

Stomp a SJW face today.

Motto: "Your hallucinated rights are not our problem. We recognize that this is a restrictive political stance. That is the intent. If you want a world with different rules, go create one."

I tried to watch a film yesterday. It turned out to be yet another USG agitprop piecei, in the regulation beigeii, with the regulation repeating-note background muzak, relentlessly pushing the "Apple has a future" angle for no comprehensible reasoniii and so forth. I won't bore you, but for general practice let's fish out a random sample of dialog. The set-up is first date, she leads :

What kind of animal am I ?

Uh ?

A tiger.iv

Oh.

How about you ?

Uh

Wow. You're just a little puppy dog. You are. You're just like this puppy I rescued in Runyon Canyon last year.

Really ?

He was just so fucking cute. And he just wanted to be hugged all the time.

Mm. Wait. I don't want to be a puppy dog. That's like being a wet noodle or something.

No.

Yeah!

Fuck you. Puppies are good.

I wanna... I want to be like a dragon.

No, fuck you.

That can rip you apart and destroy you.

Oh

But I won't.

You can be my dragon.v

*kiss*

Total kink high, right ?

Now consider the normalvi alternative :

What kind of animal are you ?vii

A dragon.

Oh. How about me ?

You're a pig.

Do dragons eat pigs ?

Totally.

*kiss*

It has the definite advantage that it is shorter, wouldn't you say ?

And finally, consider what happens should female from first scene meet male from second.

So, in the white-knight-waiting-for-his-accolade-and-monthly-cage-unlocking version of that encounter, she either ("naturally", "all by herself", ie magically and immediately) submits and falls into the female role, or else demurs. And if she demurs, then therefore he doesn't belong in the second world because supposedly he isn't manly enough or somesuch and so therefore they'll naturally fall back on the thing they know best, which is the first.

This, in case you're wondering, is how cucky's encounters go in his head. This is how they all go : there's a negotiation at the onset in all cases (which you can't see being as it is hallucinated by him) that results in what you can actually see : a really pathetic shell of a man engaging in truly bizarre behaviour.

In the actual-man version, however, she's a pig that either knows it or doesn't. If she doesn't she'll go into a spiral reading something like

You're a really creepy dude.

That's not true.

Yeah, it is.

At which point he smacks her one upside the head and either fucks her or (more likely) leaves her for the dogs. At which point she either falls in line or demurs -- this is where that goes, in sanity, not way the fuck before!! -- and goes looking for help.

Suppose she finds a cop (ie, my representative in her immediate surroundings) and tells him some sob story about being assaulted. So the cop comes back with her to find the dude, and... here the situation again bifurcates.

If I'm from the first scene, then the cop arrests the creep for being a creep because "believe the victim" and somebody actually cares what pigs have to squeal about and so on.

If however I'm from the second scene, the cop listens to the retelling of the story from an actual source, and they both set to cracking the dumbass upside the head and either fuck her or leave her for the dogs (if her mistake was due to the cluelessness of youth, they'll probably fuck her ; if her mistake was due to the shenanigans of invidious old age they'll probably leave her for the dogs).

But irrespective of which scene I'm from, the guy that's an actual guy will tell the same thing to the cop. Something along the lines of

Bwahahah listen to this! So the pigglet comes over and she's like "oh you're a puppy dog I'm a tiger hurr durr". So I cracked her one upside the head.

Now then. The world's the world, and you're either stomping a SJW face or I'll be stomping yours in short order.viii

PS. You should probably read The squares, and the holes if what you're thinking something along those lines.

———Made by some inept advertisements "director", one Spike Jonze. Joaquin Phoenix is sitting for the camera, Scarlett Johansson is doing voice-over. That's totally how you'd use these two too, right ? [↩]"Iar te-ai filmat cum clipesti in slow motion si-ai dat tot pe sepia ca data trecuta ? Ti-am mai spus, asa ceva nu-i nici artistic si nici nu intereseaza pe nimeni." [↩]Hey, when a film has two people fuck meaninglessly with the camera covering every inch of her bouncing tits and vulvar folds yielding under the pressure of the impalement, the dorks complain that "it was plot-irrelevant". The same dorks omit to point out that the idle pretense of a future with "gadgets" in it is ALSO plot-irrelevant, and in the same manner and to the same degree.

No, the future isn't going to be "mobile", not in any sense in which anything US made conserves any degree of relevancy. No, there isn't going to be a tindr of the future. There's barely any today. No, Steve Jobs wasn't important universally. He might have been important to you, which is fine, but guess what : P T Barnum was also important for some monkeys at some point. The fact that P T Barnum's monkeys were monkeys turned out to be more important than the fact that he was important for them. [↩]The nut actually says "You're not just gonna fuck me and not call me like the other guys, right?" later on, because this is apparently somehow acceptable behaviour nowadays. Don't ask me, I don't write bad literotica fanfic. I fix it on occasion, but I assume no responsibility for the swamp as a whole. [↩]You know, because that's how he gets his manhood, she keeps the key to it in her pocket and if and only if she gives his manhood back to him then he can be a dragon, by permission. By her permission. Some like it sticky, what can I tell you. [↩]This isn't merely normative, as in "how things should be". IT is more importantly common, as in "how things are" and also descriptive, as in "how things have always been". Review the motto if you encounter subjective problems at this juncture. [↩]Because the stupid bitch knows better than to inquire about herself. Because nobody cares about her, and that nobody consists first and foremost of herself. The woman enters relationships to lose herself, not to find herself, or as the great Martin Luther King once said "don't be the person that you came with". [↩]No, obviously women don't enter into the discussion of stomping. You stomp the fucking betas, because that's literally what they're for.

I get it, I get it, your girl's no pig. Good for you, but she's no pig because you say so, and for as long as you do. And you'd better be damned straight about it, because if you manage to misidentify one of my dragons for a pig there'll be tears.

Which, if you're wondering, is exactly how normalcy turned into situation 1 : what they call "prea multa smecherie", ie, nobody knows who's connected and with whom because of the connection explosion, so rather than risk misidentifying a dragon in practice it's "best" to "play it safe" which may make sense on the individual level but is catastrophic globally. [↩]

« My three days of AI

The male orgasm »

Category: Cocietate si Sultura

Saturday, 14 January, Year 9 d.Tr.

Spurious graphs and such

I wanted to write an article but have no idea what about. The well worn and dog-eared copy of the blogger's manual I have right here proposes that when you want to write an article but have no idea what about you should put up some statistics with graphs and shit. As it just so happens we're a coupla days away from closing the 100th month of continuous Trilema publication, let's have a go at some output outpour statisticking :

SELECT count( * ) , sum( length( post_content ) - length( replace( post_content, " ", "" ) ) ) FROM `tril_posts` WHERE post_status = "publish" GROUP BY year( `post_date` ) , month( `post_date` );

100 rows in set (11 mini 2.03 sec)

Monthly word outpour

Monthly average wordcount per article

September and July 2011 have been stricken from the graphs as they represent major dumps of data not originated here (July was the utter humiliationii of Romania's Education Ministry ; September was the early dump of USG cables which eventually forced wikileaks to drop part of its USG.Greenwald collaboration and publish less edited material than they'd have at the time liked).

Basically it'd seem I write about as much, except the pieces have more or less tripled in length over the interval. I suppose this is to be expected, either because as the lower hanging fruit are picked ever more complex machinery is needed, which results in lengthy pieces ; or else because through the experience of having made simpler machines one ends up making more complex items down the road.

Time to go admire the town below in any case. Good luck dear reader, wherever you are.

———Enough to process a block! [↩]Linked here, average end-of-highschool exam marks by gender. TL;DR Girls score better than boys in all fields and in almost all counties ; the effect is strongest in math and weakest in "humanities". [↩]

« Linda Vista Social Club

Stop being so fucking poor! »

Category: Oda Superbiei

Wednesday, 29 March, Year 9 d.Tr.

Spies in Berlin

The man who came out from the coldi is a terrible misery of a "spy" film. Atomic blondeii is an infinitely better remake thereof (the alcoholism gives it away, if nothing else), but even so it doesn't amount to much.

Charlize Theron is maturing nicely (she even gets lead production credit, fancy that wonder for a 42yo ex-blondy!), and the writing is no longer the cringy atrocity of yesteryear, but strictly because it is formalized atrocity, the post-Ritchie "British action"iii, which, as I'll perhaps grow tired of saying before we're done, isn't all that much better. Atomic blonde also isn't nearly as bad as Aeon Flux, chiefly because she has the common fucking sense to go naked when she's supposed to be naked, now that nobody gives a shit anymore. Youth is wasted on the young, and especially so on the young chicklets. Stop listening to old women, yo! Go out, today! Sixteen is very old enough!

Those considerations aside, the notion that her diminutive fistlets and birdy bones pack enough punch to even register against a male, let alone knock anyone out, is so cute it certainly crosses disbeliefiv into memetic territory. What, Jerry could never hold up a pan heavy enough for Tom to flatten his face against ?! Lies! We've seen it! That's exactly how it happened : a two ounce mouse held up a twenty pound cast iron skillet so that a two pound cat flattened its head against it. Tru fax! And besides, she wore the turtleneck up, that's tantamount to invoking superpowers as any borderline sleevev out there can privately confirm (if you ever manage to get her naked).

Anyway. I wouldn't go so far as to say this sort of crap is worth watching. If you're particularily interested in the workings of the broken minds of irrecoverably useless females, I suppose watching this beats field work in that it shuts up when you pause it. That'd be about all.

———1965, by Martin Ritt, with Richard Burton [↩]2017, by David Leitch, with Charlize Theron. [↩]The same slickstream that created a Segall-esque career for Jason Statham. That whole pile of formally-similar, entirely forgotten productions trying to follow up Snatch & all is very much a franchise, like Need For Speed, or Miss America. To quote a similarly-involved butthead,

500. That's the number of pointless films with the deep camera zooms and the 180 degree camera horizon rotations and log time warps you have to make before you're a real diesel.

They're trying, though one would pray to Isis they don't actually manage to make 500 of the damned things. [↩]The master had a much better representation of this, with the relatively bulkier Arquette on the set. [↩]There's a lot of scared-and-alone 20something chick service packed in, including a "car key fighting" scene. I have no idea why chickies imagine holding a key so it pokes out in between index and ring finger improves the combat posture of a 50 kg pile of nothing, but let's run through the facts just in case :

Any male can lift and throw 50 kgs. If you weigh 50kgs, this means you. We're not discussing "trained" "combat experts" bla bla here. I can fucking lift and throw 50 kgs, and I've never bothered with a gym in my life. If you weigh in as a welterweight or under, your entire hand to hand combat strategy consists of protecting your neck while looking for an escape route even as a male. Yes you might pick up a parry stick on your way out. Guess why it's called that.

If you were born female, you are entirely useless in hand to hand combat. I don't care what films you watched, that's not how it works. Your muscles are liquid shit, made by mother nature out of spite, so you get fucked. They serve no other purpose than that, and deliberately, and insistently so. And there is nothing you can do about this, it's not whether "you identify as female". Your cells, each and every one of them, has an XX stamped into their very essential core, and this means that your muscles will suck no matter what you do. No. Matter. What. You. Do. Yes, it's great to keep in shape, you'll make a much better fuck toy. That is all it will do for you.

The point of a brass knuckle is that it improves the weight of the punching fist. My fist, without the wrist assemblage or the solid steel ulna and radius driving it, weighs in over a pound (and male fists weigh 30% more than female fists just as a bonus fuck you nature threw in there). If I punch while holding a one pound brass knuckle, I not only deliver almost twice the impact, but, importantly, I deliver enough impact to go from well-under-knockout to well-over-knockout. That's the important point there, the body is built with some tolerances, and those tolerances are built on... the body itself, and so adding leverage improves the results disproportionately by crossing domain separators. Leaving aside that the anemic arms of a female couldn't even fucking lift a brass knuckle, let alone accelerate it at a reasonable speed (W = mass * speed2 ; whereas air friction = k speed4, and so there is an optimal speed you must reach), adding a pound to your negligible four ounces isn't gonna cross the domain, so it won't matter anyway. Did I mention your car keys don't weigh a pound ? If you absolutely must, use a roll of quarters not fucking quarter gram car keys for christ's sake.

Hand to hand combat is decided by choking, not by striking. Your enemy is going to walk up to you through the barage of little girl slaps, turn you around so fast you'll nearly pass out, prop your neck in the crook of his elbow and push you into the darkness. It'll all take less than fifteen seconds, and don't tell me bullcrap about how "you trained in self defense with a self-defense training trainer". I had one in my livingroom, she was naked, we engaged in an amicable bout and she was ready and willing to pass out within the regular quarter minute. Your "trainer" is no better -- she was naked in some dude's livingroom playing the part of wax in his arms too. It's what it is, whatever you might've been told.

Now back to your regularly scheduled Netflix combat heroine programming, I guess. As for us, back to the original topic -- the spy film is fundamentally interesting to the bordersleeve crowd because for some reason the "spy" canon has created this "keep quiet and look, don't get involved" sort of personality, which is exactly how the psychology she-student went through college.

Some of the best spies in the real world are very open, puppydog behaved sluts, who'll go with everyone for the asking. It works remarkably well, in practice, but of course not so well in theory which is why the soubrette tells mistress "I didn't think you'd show up". It has to be built up, see, blondy isn't one of those, she doesn't go with just anyone, she doesn't in fact go at all. She's a spy, see! This makes sense. And yes the terminology is correct, of fucking course this is an ancient "rom com" from back when it was called "mistaken identity comedy", with a mistress and a younger, eager, brunette slut and the absent / confused / senescent master and so on and so forth. Oh, you thought it was a spy film because it bloody well said so ?! Jesus. What other lulz is there in your head, "no means no" perhaps ? The santa bunny ? Grow up. [↩]

« No Such lAbs (S.NSA), July 2017 Statement

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Category: Trilematograf

Monday, 07 August, Year 9 d.Tr.

So here's what I did today :

Fortunately for the poor tailor involvedi, shinohai reminded me I actually had a fitting appointment today. Since traffic is bad after noon, I started towards town early. Here's that adventure, recounted... blow by blow, so to speak.

First, I took a pleasant walk towards this fine Italian restaurant, to have my breakfast in the shape of their splendid antipasta (they do grilled vegetables really well ; and otherwise comprehend both cheses and fiambres, which is rare in this country). As I was digging into my plate, I vaguely noticed this kinda retired-whore looking older blonde hanging out with this kinda office-faggot looking fatter dood. Weird, thought my little guy that follows the field for enemies without respite, let or hindrance, but it didn't percolate. Later, however, a young hussy parked her car (wow, think about it!) and... joined them. Nothing to write home about, usual jeans-and-a-top-means-dressed-up nonsense, not to mention a faint beginning of chemical acne (lots of lower class girls have it here, I suspect it must be some shit the Chinese put in their makeup dusts), but the very idea ? It was evident the dood didn't know her, or she him, and equally evident he was trying buying her shit. Soo...

What would Baby Jesus do ?

What MP did was that he asked the waiter for a lapisero y algo por escrivir along the bill, and upon the (back of the) blank order form he received proceeded to write "Do me a favour and give my slavegirl a call at ****-**** sometime next week. Thanks." and passed it along. So this also serves as notice to the girl in question (you know who you are) : if some older hooker calls you sometime next week, tell her that your Master wrote that because he saw her procuring a girl for this dood at Andiamo La on Friday, and let's see your book.

Then I hopped in the car, and originally aimed it to that nice cafe where they have the apple pies (same place with the auctioned notebook, you recall) ; except the traffic was so fucking horrid I just got off at the park and walked the missing five or so kilometers -- which was indeed very pleasant. The weather here is fabulous, did I mention this ?

Anyway, so I sat down with the local newspaper, my coffee, my pie, and I read about how... hmm, what did I read about ?

Ah yes, here it is : an 88 yo who finally took his Bacalaureat. Took him four years and a lot of prayer, he says. Apparently he didn't wonder La ce imi serveste mie radicalurile ?

Here he is :

He's now the fourth of his brothers with a highschool cert. Apparently the fellow was always very interested in the wonderful world of learning, but his wife was very jealous! And never permitted him!!!! to go to class. Fancy that wonder. As per that old samovar joke : beat them hard and early for that sort of misbehaviour, it's not to be tolerated.

While I was reading this, a young-ish Dutch couple with a small kid had the following problem : he was running back and forth asking questions of the waiter to try and serve the Mistress, while she fucked with the phone and their toddler sat on its ass and screamed its head off. Fucking "Northern system" eurotards through and through. She looked back, and tried a faint attempt of a smile at me, in response to which I glared a very plain "fix your fucking baby before I feed it to you". So she went over there, picked it up, and lo and behold, perfectly fine behaved family unit thenceforth, including outright pleasant kid.

All it takes is one single solitary man's glare to fix the entire world, you understand me ?

Anyway, other items of vague interest in the paper : as a result of their fabulous "investments" in retardation there's going to be an electricity price hike next year to pay for a coupla hundred gigawatts worth of bunker fuel genereation ; not to mention a bunch of market buying (from fossil-based producers). This notwithstanding, the usual wreckers are pretty close to pushing through parliament an exemption from taxation for electric cars -- and for the usual package of outright lies and subtle deceit. And the locals, the poor, lovable, naive locals are eating it up ; as a result of which they had an uncovered deficit resulting from a momentary collapse of the bond market, which meant a million-and-half people didn't get their salaries on time yesterday. But there's no relation between all these items, and especially the solution to that relation isn't burning down the US "Embassy" and hanging anyone found on the premises by their very own guts. Please believe this.

Moving on : I took my final fitting, and as a few more stitches had to be laid the merchant asked me if I'd be willing to give them a couple of hours ? Which I was -- I took my precious self over to the Del Rey (which I think I might've mentioned before) and while my tailor (or, I guess, apprentices) finished the finishing touches on the finished product, I played tute. So well I played, in fact, that by the time the pit boss came to tell me it's a quarter to I had actually amassed enough tokens to pay for the tailor's bill. The entire exercise is actually cash neutral for me, imagine this, I talked a local Casino into crimping me suits!

So then I hopped into a cab, at the wheel this boobalicious Colombian (that had been living here for a few years) whom I proceeded to... pick up. She doesn't read English, otherwise I'd say hi Yohanna, or something. Aaanyway, we had a great time, the hour or so ride passed entirely unnoticed... she has this great laughter, other than the boobs. The traffic going the other way was fucking terrible, so being the curteous gent that I am I asked her whether she wants to come upstairs have a cup of coffee, since either way she'll get back about the same time. She enthusiastically accepted, not really for the traffic consideration I don't think ; I offered her Danish cookies, she discovered there's such a thing as macadamia nuts that aren't almonds nor maranons but can be very well covered in bitter dark chocolate, and also that there's a thing called BDSM ("o wow!") and that various elements of the place's decor, such as the cane on that table, or the whip hanging from that rod or so following aren't, exactly, decor, but rather decor-makers and so following.

And then I sat down to write you this missive, which I hope finds you well.

PS :

Oh, and I nearly forgot! Post-PS :

The dood had exactly no money in his hat when I threw my quinientos ; and further down the road there was a young couple, a man holding up a girl while she sorta-spun a small circle around her right ankle (which she dropped within a minute). A hundred or so people had stopped, they applauded for no conceivable reason, but nobody was throwing any pennies there either. So I offered them twenty thousand if she does it again, but naked. They looked at me like I was a fucking videocard artefact, "something that can't exist", and I didn't insist.

That twenty would have been more than the collected take of all the busking hopefuls for the entire city for the entire day, for the record ; much in the same way my tailor's bill was more than the collected take of all the whoring hopefuls for the entire Del Ray -- certainly for the time it took me to twist the dealers' nipples into giving it to me, and possibly for the entire fucking day also. Maybe even day-and-night!

Inequality, you know ? It's a think.

———Apparently it takes a lot of skilled labour to ensure the continuance of this sad situation of "MP has no suits" that Internet randos have been decrying for a good decade now.

Speaking of which, do you know what the couchopotamus said to the other couchopotamus ? "Pity those strippers don't have hot beach bods". [↩]

« The ECu

The disambiguation of laughter »

Category: Zsilnic

Saturday, 16 December, Year 9 d.Tr.

Simple method to moisturize the female

This is a translation of an older article, Metoda simpla de umezit femeia, if you care.

If memory serves I did say I use condoms. Ah, yes, I did, I recall the indignation of the citizenry on the topic. And since I recalled, let's quote history :

I propose a Marcel Popescui contestii whereby folks are to say how (and perhaps where) they see the Trilemianiii in 10 years. The winner gains karmaiv, trolemav creditsvi or ciupacawanezian guldensvii.

So there you go, evaluations season is open. Anyone who produces one can vote on the others, in the end the one with most votes wins, you know the spiel as we've done this here before so the "blogosphere" has what to copy as its "own" initiatives.viii The winner receives at his own option either ten Bitcoinix, or else forty thousand and something karma (I'm too lazy to check exact conversion rates) or forty thousand and some Trilema credits, or one pair of used underwear from the harem (whichever they choose, and they'll probably be almost new for the predictable reason that not usually being worn they don't own any so I guess Ima buy them some and then take 'em walking for a day or something).

I await under maximal anxiety, and meanwhile let's come back to the topic. Doing it with a condom has many advantages but also the valuatively undetermined property of protecting from mechanical stress. This means that if the chick's dry and you fuck her bareback she'll grind you down like a razor (and in case you're wondering why your prepuce's not separated yet in spite of fucking for decades -- it's because you've not raped anyone yet, what), but if you've a condom on it makes no differencex, which is to say it's uncomfortable for her but you don't care. As a direct and unavoidable result of this circumstance many of the knowledges known back when provisions were scarcer and thereby people more inclined to manage and thereby necessarily more executivelyxi independent are lost today, and all the dicklet knows anymore is that if the gal's frowningxii stick some more lube in the little lube hole. Daddy-o, fucking lube's a little sad, you know, especially when the hole's not an asshole. My oppinion.xiii

And then... let's come back to the topic. The simplest, most direct and efficient method of moisturizing the female is to stick it in her. Seriously now, you hold her lovingly in your arms, you talk together of whatever it is you talk of but your dick's not outside as generally practiced, but inside her cunt. And you just sit put, there's no problem, it's warm and pleasant inside, what's the big deal. Is it written somewhere that if you go in automatically and immediately you must also go out ? It's not written, so keep it in.

She could maybe squeeze now and again, or if qualified she could even fuck you like dolphinesxiv (I've no idea if you know, but dolphines fuck like that, the dolphin sticks his baseball bat inside -- for he's got one, daddy-o, bout five kilograms' worth of dick on the average dolphin -- and they start with the musculature, making knots and symbolsxv there inside the vagina until he splooges) but it's neither necessary nor mandatory. So there you sit in your own intimacy and coo whatever you do, and in five minutes at the outer edge she's wet enough to drip and dribble. Apparentlyxvi the brainlet's built relatively simply following some categorical imperatives that are simple in turn, so that if she's filled up the neurovegetative circuit turns on the lymphatic leak lest something gets broken down there'n the apparatus.

Try it for your own curiosity, but don't bother with underage girls, they're wet under title of permanence by the very nature and structure of their age.

And otherwise I augur you a traditional "Be skinned!"xvii

———For incomprehensible (or in any case -- to this day uncomprehended) reasons, the readership of this blog a decade ago (back when it was written in Romanian and the readership itself limited to Romanian speakers) arbitrarily decided to call me Marcel. This has no basis in any fact, as far as I know, but such are the mysteries of the public sphere. [↩]At the time contests of all kinds with generally generous but sometimes ironic prizes were common on Trilema, and eagerly immitated by a whole host of deeply inept "commercial" let's call them wanna-be bloggers. So common, in fact, that there was rather a subjectively felt dearth of things-for-contests-to-be-about, which is rather the spirit that informs the quote. [↩]This is a difficult item to translate. In original it is intended as a common noun, as a descriptor of the named item's substance, which is why it's not capitalized (Romanian capitalization conventions differ from English, most visible in titles and this here usage for substantive nouns). It is produced from the evident root Trilema with the augmentative suffix -oi (like "coada" [tail] -> "codoi" [carbon dioxide] or "moara" [mill] -> "moroi" [revenant]), which is sometimes used plainly, to produce something in the vein of Trilemus Maximus, and just as often bathetically, to produce something in the vein of... I don't know, like calling the exceedingly diminutive Obama "Obama The Great" or somesuch. In any case the idea is to reference me. [↩]The "digital currency" afore Bitcoin of that ancient item. [↩]The implication is that Trilema would be trolling, which is scandalously just. [↩]At the time Trilema was a paid blog. This ended recently. [↩]Basically the proponent is signalling that he aims to avoid responsibility for his proposition. In this he evidently follows Karl Ziggler Marx and his Engels buttbudy, the circus consultancy pair who famously proposed that eg. the 1870s commune should have spent all the gold it could steal on the spot, rather than keeping some to bait the naive into accepting their fiatola paper for slightly longer. [↩]I'm too lazy to link the numerous examples of "initiatives" in this vein of this supposed "blogosphere" composed of me-wannabes -- they're overnumerous as they are uninteresting. [↩]Yep, you read that right, it's verbatim. One who had enough fucking sense to participate back in 2012 could look at well over 70`000 ~worthless USD worth of "digital currency" today. Nobody did, as is traditional among the retards, or if you prefer "among the people themselves with delusions of self-ownership" and the offer was cancelled once I moved away from Romanian. [↩]One of the (many) ways to say "it dun matter" in Romanian is "ti se rupe", literally "your thing breaks", which is an abbreviated version of "ti se rupe-n paispe" ie "your 14th breaks", which is a reference to an old textbook on human anatomy where the part in question was labeled 14. [↩]There is such a thing as "the executive function" of the human intellect, you know ? It's a major component of mental retardation evaluations, as it happens. [↩]Originally, "twists her nose", meanwhile lost because guess what -- human facial expression and its linguistic reflection has also narrowed since you've got the Unicode emoticons or what are they called. [↩]This is a vastly referential and therefore entirely untranslatable Romanian interjection. The intension here is midly ironic. [↩]Sorry, I'm not missing out on the delicious femaleness implication just because English is to cunt-dry for flexion. [↩]"Noduri si semne" in the original, a Nichita Stanescu book. 1982, not even terrible. "Raluca merge dupa Voichita. Va sa zica mai intii Voichita, dupa Voichita, Raluca, si dupa aceea inger." [↩]The Romanian "pasamite" is an antiquated, story-only construction. [↩]The original "sa fiti beliti" sounds a lot like the actual benison, "sa fiti iubiti" ie "let you / may you be loved" but it very evidently references the retraction of foreskin (which, incidentally, is a natural process requiring no digitation in copulation among well functioning parts). [↩]

« Paolo il caldo

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Category: Lifespiel

Monday, 06 November, Year 9 d.Tr.

Se Vende Joyeria Fina

You think I'm kidding, aren't you.

I'm not fucking kidding. Here you go :

Quatro banos de rodeo, biatch! But wait... there's more!

For your curiosity, the dollar is about 600 or so. Apretado would normally denote something with camel toe, yes, but here it's just another sort of dulce de leche.

But let's leave the people with their miseryi and focus on the flora instead :

Above depicted, a young papaya tree. In just a few short years the fruit will be growing absurdly to the side, looking rather like Kuzma's tits. I can't personally stand papaya, but I suspect I'm the only one.

Cactus with fruits and flowers. I've grown to appreciate this plant lately. Cacti are pretty cool, especially if you plant a line of them along a fence for privacy and then all sorts of clingy vines grow on them unplanted, producing a jumbled mess, and then song birdsii decide it's the best possible nesting spot in the world, so they colonize it and start engaging in birdy social behaviours such as standing guard, and taking colorful strips of god knows what back to their housy in great tremulous excitement. Maybe they're making a shower curtain and they've decided it must be yellow to go with the couch or something.

Gotta accessorize!

———Yesterday climbing up a hill, we notice a pretty girl coming the other way. Nice wide hips, credible tits on an otherwise tall and slender frame, she looks about 17 or so. Girl intercepts her and inquires whether she knows any bars around. She heartily recommends this place about a half mile off. We know it, a danky, pompous restaurant always full of the local aspirational 20yo (jeans and elegant blouse!). I inquire if it's a bar or a restaurant, she admits it's a restaurant, I ask her if she knows a bar, a club, something like that. Where's da party at, beotch ?! She doesn't know. So what does she do for fun ? She doesn't know that either, but nothing like that. Woulds she like to come with us, then ? She can't. Well, have a good day then, neh ?

Youth is generally wasted on the young. [↩]We've still not really agreed on what the hell they are, somewhere between a crow with a buzzcut and a tucan with a modest beak.

Did you know, by the way, tucans have this ridiculous hairdo like they're from the navy ? Gotta see one up close to notice, but it's the lol of all time. [↩]

« Bad biology

Did you ever claim to have butterflies in your stomach ? »

Category: La pas prin lume

Wednesday, 09 August, Year 9 d.Tr.

Schimb valutar

I saw Schimb valutari when it came out ; I re-viewed it recently. My overwhelming impression at the time was that the almightly, exquisite Romanian wave sweeping over cinema were coming to an end. Ten years later that barely registers : it had been running for a full decade by then. How long can a wave run ? Of fucking course it ended, everything ends, what of it ?

Today other items come to the fore. Valentin Uritescu's fine acting, for instance. The overwhelming documentary value of this film, for another.

Understand the story : a stubborn man, a bull of a man was spending his days powering through the world on sheer strength, dreaming his little, ruminant, repetitive dream as he crushed forward.ii As they do, this sort, who knows what the ox thinks himself while pulling the plow ?

The world meanwhile changed, leaving him deeply inadequate. The change, while utter and complete, did not do him the courtesy of killing him, as it evidently should haveiii. No, he's not worth the noose. He was simply, quietly left behind. Meaningless but still alive, a cow without a cowboy, a sheep without the shepherd, to fend for itself. What can it do ? Honestly it doesn't even want to do anything at first, until an older piece of chattel explains to him that chattel's the same everywhere. He wants to know why, if he's so smart, the elder doesn't take his own advice. The answer, comes, predictably, with transference : The old man answers that "foreigners are like women, they seek young blood". Evidently the correct statement would have been "we, the cattle are exactly like whores : age is everything".

So he tries to make a life for himself, out of the ruins of his old life. Let's examine those ruins. Firstly, he has a wife. She's fertile alright, but otherwise utterly and entirely useless. She apologizes for being dumb. She is readily replaced with the first whore he runs into, and that whore's ten times her better. Secondly, he has a "home". It sells on the open market for about 10 grand. Do not laugh -- I personally acquired the sort of home in exchange for a color TV. It's what they're worth. And thirdly, he has social relations. His political father, as they call them here, offers a deal : they shall work together his land, and he's even willing to split the product right down the middle, notwithstanding considerations of land ownership or preexisting improvements. How much is this generous offer worth, the hero wants to know ? Why, about seven million lei. Over six months. Six months of hard, backbreaking field labour.

The hero refuses, pointing out that his previous employmentiv paid him double and he still starved with wife and child in the "home". This is true : the "2.1 million" in monthly pay comes to... hold your breath... just about a hundred dollars. That's right, ladies and gents : there were people living on 1 k a year income. I have seen them, I sat at their table for a drink, I fucked their daughters and sometimes their wives. Millions of these, within my adult life, yes. And guess what ? Now it's your turn -- they sure as fuck ain't going back. You will.

Documentary value, see ? Absolutely capable of recovering a film once its aesthetic value runs out. Just like it recovers your wife each Sunday or whenever it is you two have sex "for good old time's sake". Yes ?

———2008, by Nicolae Margineanu, with Cosmin Selesi, Aliona Munteanu, Valentin Uritescu. [↩]The tiresome, idiotic communists had culled pretty much any other human type from the population, leaving the bovines nude, unprotected, which makes the character readily stand for his time. Yes, what he does is unmitigatably stupid. It's also normal, in the sense of being exactly what they all did. Documentary, see ? [↩]He tries, too, but the king's men only push and shove and beat these days. They no longer shoot, war munitions into the obsoleted crowds. Cheaper this way. [↩]He used to work in a "factory", those misdesigned, badly implemented communist atrocities. He no longer worked there because the "factory" in question had met its Larry the Liquidator and was sold for scrap at a profit over its market value. The intimation among the cattle is that this is somehow a bad deed. It pointedly isn't. [↩]

« What the fuck am I going to do ? Literally.

S-a furat mireasa »

Category: Trilematograf

Tuesday, 23 May, Year 9 d.Tr.

Salon Kitty and L'Empire des sens

Salon Kittyi and L'Empire des sensii are both based on real events, be it the faux prostitutes in the faux brothel run by the SS or the syphilitc preteen whore who cut off some dude's penis and wore it around for a few days. They're both coproductions, Italo-German and Franco-Japanese respectively. They're both batshit insane, meaningless drivel, disjointed footage incomprehensibly linked together. It's not a matter of "non-linear narrative", it's not a matter of "breaking with convention and exploring" bla bla. It's simply a matter of apes sitting around a box, playing Mahjongg with lengths of film.

Salon Kitty is the better movie in the pair because it displays a coupla dozen young Italian girls lined up and ordered to strip who therewith proceed to do as told without any femcrap. This is valuable, as such, but it does not last. The scene moves immediately into a 1970s version of "wild acuplation" the likes of which words can't ever do justice to. Suffice to say that ridiculous nonsense of the sort wasn't matched until the "technological" rom-coms of the early 2000s.iii The rest consists of "pimp acting" in the style of Willie Dynamiteiv ; the net result strictly vindicates any claims the very inept Brass may have in the exquisite jewel that is Caligula : Guccione madev that thing.

L'Empire des sens goes on and on and on tediously monotonously the same, it's like Solaris with tits. Nothing happens, at any point. In fact, the whole item is so mindnumbingly dumb, a better educational reel for the abstinence-only UStardian nonsense could scarcely be devised.

Neither script makes any sense whatsoever. No characters, or even shambling hairballs that could be somehow, however contortedly, misinterpreted as characters are includedvi. There are no events in the common sense of that term, nor in any strictly definable sense whatsoever. There's no causal link, logical or otherwise, permitting the mind some kind of navigation from outtake to outtake. There's just nothing fucking there, Jesus Christ almighty who the fuck gives these idiots food and where do they find the actresses!

Bleargh.

———1976, by Tinto Brass, with Ingrid Thulin, Theresa Ann Savoy [↩]1976, by Nagisa Oshima, with Tatsuya Fuji, Eiko Matsuda [↩]You know, when Hollywood decided to introduce email into their jelly. [↩]You know, where facial contortion intensity and amplitude is the measure of internal life and in any case the actor's work. It's like any other black-collar profession, really : the better basketball player is the one that jumps higher, the better rapper is the one that sounds closer to a monkey and the better 'sploitation actor is the one that manages to contort his face into the least recognizably human form. [↩]This is as fine an example of "executive meddling" rescuing a work from the swamp of idiocy into the tower of genius as anyone could ever ask for. [↩]For bonus points : the "nazi" sluts speak randomly Italian or Spanish. Or sometimes German. Like, the same 20something clueless ditz will suddenly be talking in another woman's voice in an entirely different language at native speaker's fluency. Because, obviously, they forgot to dub some portions. I'm talking this fucking bad, they literally forgot some bits here and there and wrapped regardless. [↩]

« Jud Suss

No Such lAbs (S.NSA), July 2017 Statement »

Category: Trilematograf

Sunday, 06 August, Year 9 d.Tr.

S-a furat mireasa

S-a furat mireasai is probably the most you can ever get out of an advertising studio converted to cinematographic production under financial pressure. They've got synergies and stuff, you realise, and another revenue stream never hurt anyone. Especially not a "media trust" that hasn't made money in the past decade.

The... footage, let's call it, flows exactly like a succession of 200 or so half-minute ads. All the gags are throwaways, the story makes no particular sense but would fit quite comfortably in 140 characters, the lowest common denominator of the intended audience's culture (as best could be discovered through a limited application of the focus group methodology harmoniously braidedii with whatever bits and pieces the "director" still remembers of whichever brand of pseudosociology his college teacher passed for our democracy consensus back in the college days -- those were the days! remember when Maricica left her panties at the bar, collateral for a triple shot of tequilla ??? -- could discover) is brusquely catered to...

In short, it's not a film. More like a twilm. But at least it's bowdlerized, prettified, strained and powerwashed of all "bad" stuff. De unde-a fugit toata durerea si intristarea si suspinarea goes the respective part in the Romanian dyptich of the deadiii, there's some vague mention of "poverty" by some pretty blonde that lives in a house larger than Romania's average embassy and that's it. Should be safe, I guess.iv

Perhaps worth the mention, Jojov's very convincing Moldavian accentvi. She's talented enough, pretty enough, definitely has the right attitude. Pity she wasted herself among those retards.

———2012, by Jesus del Cerro. [↩]"Armonios impletita", Romanianism. [↩]Byzantine item, of which I know no English equivalent, so let's indulge :

Pomeneste, doamne, pe cei ce intru nadejdea invierii si a vietii celei ce va sa vie au adormit, parinti si frati ai nostri si pe toti cei care intru dreapta credinta s-au savirsit, si iarta-le lor toate gresalele pe care cu cuvintul, sau cu lucrul, sau cu gindul le-au savirsit si aseaza-i pe ei, doamne, in locuri luminoase, in locuri cu verdeata, in locuri de odihna, de unde a fugit toata durerea si intristarea si suspinarea si unde cercetarea fetei tale veseleste pe toti sfintii tai cei din veac. Daruieste-le lor si noua imparatia ta si impartasirea bunatatilor tale celor negraite si vesnice, si desfatarea vietii tale celei nesfirsite si fericite. Ca tu esti invierea si odihna adormitilor robilor tai, hristoase, dumnezeul nostru, si tie slava inaltam, impreuna si celui fara de inceput al tau parinte si preasfintului si bunului si de viata facatorului tau duh, acum si pururea si in vecii vecilor. Amin.

There's a shorter, more modern (and also cheekier) version, of course, but we'll gleefully ignore it.

Remember, lord, they who in the hope of rebirth and the life that is to come took to sleep, parents and brothers of ours and all those who in the right faith passed away, and forgive them their errors which by word or by thing or by thought they committed, and seat them, lord, in places of light, in places verdant, in places of repose from whence all pain, and sadness and sighs ran away, and where the search of your face makes joyous all the saints of the ages. Give them and us your kingdom and the sharing of your unspoken and eternal goodies, and the enjoyment of the endless and happy life of you. For you are the rebirth and the repose of those sleeping slaves of yours [names get inserted here], christ, our god, so to you praise we raise together with him of no beginning, your parent as well as to your tooholy and good and life maker spirit, now and forever and for all time. Amen.

Say what you will of the Jews, they're not particularly smart people -- and the Greeks even more so. [↩]It is not. it makes those who accept it as their horizon stupid.

This, if you're wondering , is how European women became stupid, and stayed stupid twelve or so centuries : Greek habit, of sticking them in a special room and playing nothing but "safe" crap for them there.

You can make cows out of people. It'd been done to death. [↩]Catalina Grama. [↩]She was born in Bucharest. [↩]

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And don't go around upgrading the Testaments, either. »

Category: Trilematograf

Tuesday, 23 May, Year 9 d.Tr.

Romanzo popolare

Romanzo popolarei is very much a didactic piece in the vein of "socialist realist" & revolutionary aesops of the time : here's how to be "civilised" such as the concept may be reduced to fit the needs and perspectives of the hruscheba dwellerii. It does a decent job of it, in any case much better a job than either Mosfilm or Hollywood ever managed. Italians, heh.

Romanzo popolare is also a filigreed surrealist gem, perhaps the most splendid of its kind. The core of the story is that tired old trope of Lolita, the child-woman, but done well by competent artists with their soul and their mind in their regular places, as opposed to the deeply insane shambling horrors inhabiting the frozen North.

Vincenzina recounts, with the innocent worldshattering of innocent worldshattering, her own experience of her own sexuality, as both a subjected animal and an aspiring spark. A very Platonic story altogether, and in the end the older man fails to keep up, but not for being old. They all fail to keep up, the accountant with pills and his love of self, the banker with his great teachings and great violence... no one quite manages to turn Vincenzina, no one quite fits the strange cut on her screw. But that's ok. She gets a job, and she gets a political position. Such as they are, such as they could be. She gets to know things about men, things wivesiii never get to know. Many things.

What can you do ? Cehehehertainly you can't go back to being almost 18 and hoping that who knows, maybe in spite of itself this world hides somewhere a man worth the name. Time only flows one way, and the seventies, that paragon of modernity from half a century ago is barely a byword for prehistory by now. The child-woman isn't running into any men today either, and all signs point to her also running out of patience. But what can you do ?

Romanzo popolare also establishes the duo as exceptional actors. It's not a matter of "best in their generation" or any similar competitive ersatzes. It's a matter of, "without Tognazzi, without Muti, the generation'd have been much less". He manages to be the definitive voice of the affable, somewhat nostalgic, optimistic in strange, incomprehensible, inexpressible extensions civilised man of the lower class, which is to say of the multitude. He pulls, immensely, he speaks, countlessly for and to countless nameless hordes.

I can let him speak for me. He's not as able, no, he can't see as sharply nor as far, no. But within that place, within that narrow domain of the banal, for that vanishingly inexistent in my daily life interval where there's no fundamental misunderstandings he can speak for me. I suppose it doesn't sound like much spelled out like that. It's something. An incredible achievement this, actually, to be an unirritating voice, however narrowly permitted to speak.

Ornella Muti, with her splendide tette gonfie, her waist da fare impazzire and so on and so forth, all the heavy, earthy attributes of womanly perfection that so readily provoke envy and the hatred of the inferior nevertheless emerges as an excellent actress. She's good, not just because you'd fuck her, but also, and especially, because you'd fuck her, very very much so.

Romanzo popolare is one of the extremely few films I wouldn't reshoot. This is not merely an exquisite accomplishment for all they involved, but a true service to humanity. Here is one thing done before our time that won't have to be redone by our own hands. What more can you ask of anyone ?

———1974, by Mario Monicelli, with Ugo Tognazzi, Ornella Muti [↩]Not the one captive there, the circumstantial, accidental denizen ; but the one whose "upwards social mobility" takes him there in preference of his old dungbrick and mudfloor previous cocioba. In preference of his mulacheba, if you prefer. From mula, just as hruscheba is named for Hruschev. [↩]"As a proper wife should be", says the aspiring youth that betrays her plainly, incomprehendingly, within the hour. [↩]

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Galati Yachting »

Category: Trilematograf

Friday, 10 November, Year 9 d.Tr.

Roma

Romai is very much exactly the same recipe as terrible failures like the Satyricon, Casanova etcii.

Unlike those howling horrors however, Roma is eminently watchable. The reason conceivably has to do with direct experience. Fellini wasn't there in 1700, nor was he there in 100 ; but he very much was right there in 1920, and it shows. The scene in the "cabaret" where little children readily pee their "angel dew" and unemployed, useless men pompously inquire each other as to what'd they do to random actress trying to "live her life" as she imagines it rather than as it isiii ; the scene were local knock-offs of the Andrews Sisters sing local sentiment to the accompaniament of local instruments ; the scene which is really a piazza which is really a scene upon which middle aged housewife strews out for public display her entirely unwarranted pretensions to hygiene, and to cuisine, and to not knowing who taught the little kid the rhyme about how they'll all get fucked... He was there, what. He knows.

Fellini's Rome is interesting in an archeological sort of sense. The notation, cinematic as it happens to be is nevertheless accurate, not in the sense of detail but in the sense of substance, like one of those not-particularily-great exemplars of Etruscan art which somehow, inexplicably -- perhaps more through their shortcomings from the thing they, in their youth, aspired to and failed to embody -- nevertheless manage to click in the student's head the evanescent moment of, finally, enlightment. He understands it now, all the five thousand excellent examples piled in had simply needed this half-broken urn or vase, awkwardly misshod, to finally click into place. THIS! This is what it was, the wholes now finally make sense for this one hollow that explains them all.

I dare say watching this Rome is not wasted time, even if it should make no sense whatsoever. You never know when you run into the broken off mug handle that makes a large swathe of obscure, abstract memories coallesce into the magnificent pulsar of understanding.

PS. The frank depiction of period bordellos, especially in regards to the scarcity of male interest as only limiting factor in human sexuality is certainly worth a mention. If you against reasons had any lingering doubts on the matter, Rome provides an illustration of the point as fine and well researched as it is exotic.

———1972, by Federico Fellini, with Federico Fellini. [↩]Also including the very much related Le mille e una notte by Pasolini [↩]This is a very important distinction.

Jerry Seinfeld belongs to a class of performers which, when heckled, feels injured like performers ever did ; but who furthermore dares presume that this injury of his is unwarranted, unmerited, and most importantly -- not part of the show!

"You boo me? You hiss? You couldn't stop blathering through the whole set?"

"Oh, c'mon, I thought you were a pro, that's part of the show."

"No. Not part of the show. Booing and hissing are not part of the show. You boo puppets. You hiss villains in silent movies."

Jerry Seinfeld thinks a fine reply to hecklers would be something in the line of "how about I come to where you work and heckle you!". This view happens to be represented in the film, also : an old, unfunny twerp says that "he has to make a living too", to which the merciless, unerring answer from the audience comes directly : "how about getting a job, then!"

Shakespeare, unlike Jerry Seinfeld, did not think the audience is not part of the show. Shakespeare also did not live in a time when Orpheus, long retired from his mythical vocation, earns his meagre keep & fastfood jars by putting in his hours as a keeper at the local zoo, with a cap and a uniform and a company policies. Contrariwise, Shakespeare, along with all the other performance greats, flatly understood that the art of the stage can only happen once the hecklers were silenced by its intrinsic, mindblowing beauty.

That is the fundamental reason Shakespeare doesn't go to hang around Seinfeld's Manhattan pad : not the intervening earth and centuries, as you might imagine, but the simple fact that Shakespeare crossed a pons asinorum the modern man can't ever encounter. Where exactly did Orpheus find the hole that leads to Hell, so he could walk down the spiraling staircase of old granite ? And how exactly did Shakespeare manage to make the illiterate, syphilitic retards of an obscure, remote island sit the fuck put and shut the fuck up long enough for Othello ?

I fear we'll never know ; yet for our sins our ignorance does not extent sufficiently to also not know it ever happened. Happen, it did. How did it happen ? [↩]

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Un borghese piccolo piccolo »

Category: Trilematograf

Saturday, 28 October, Year 9 d.Tr.