The story of the bulb that was

You might remember I said back in 2009 that I'm not going to drop the incandescents ? I even translated it in 2015, when I bought the batch that's here depicted, on an entirely different continent.

On the left, a standardi lightbulb. On the right, a lightbulb of the same make and type, from the same batch, improved through aging in a light fixture. There it sat, undisturbed, until it popped two years later. Two years during which it lit up as many times as people turn on lightbulbs in a bathroom during two years -- ten thousand times or whatever.

Now show me your exploded light sources ; to qualify they must have been at work for two years ; they must have cycled ten thousand times ; and they must be as harmful to you and your immediate environment as this guy above.

Enjoy your mercury, halogens & assorted shit sandwiches. I hear it's part of what makes progressives & libertards quite this fucking stupid.

———150 Watts, baby. My bathroom uses up more than your entire house, if we for a moment indulge the pretense of calling the barn you inhabit by that improper name. And let's not get into how much electricity my money burns up.

Because fuck you, that's why. [↩]

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Category: Zsilnic

Sunday, 26 February, Year 9 d.Tr.

The story of shopping ; candlelight gratis.

(The gratis part is on the left).

So today, other than taking whore out to dinner at the brotheli restaurantii I also took self-same whore out shopping. We didn't end up buying much for her, it was mostly stuff por el hogar -- coffee grinder, liquadora, ten pounds' worth of candles, incandescent lightbulbs, a pair of shoes for me, some shirts also for me, cufflinks for meiii and generally speaking me, me, me!

She did get to carry it all, of course, which does make quite the impression on the locals, especially the middle aged female fraction of said locals. As I'm fond of saying, let them get used to it. Or, if you prefer, as the whore in question put it : "that's what slavesiv are for".

She did get a bunch of station adequate and job-relevant stockings, of course, I'm not that much of an ogrev, and besides she also got a see-through loose-knitted top. Which she went to try on in the dressing cabin as is customary, but then emerged to model it for me, as per standing orders.

The catch being not that you could make out her nips through the holes, which of course you could, but that she wasn't wearing anything under her dress. Also as per standing orders. So once she took it off to try on the top she was approximately covered from neck to navel but no more, and as a matter of consequence there she stood in short order, stark naked in the middle of the tienda, freshly shaven lips and well toned butt on full display. Isn't that what whores are for ?

I personaly think she cut quite a lovely figure. The other customers did their very best to happenstantially not notice. The girls working there idem, except for one middle aged woman who got all indignant, hands over mouth, eyes popped etcetera -- but had the common decency to be shocked in silence which I very much count in her favour. And besides -- let them get used to it!

But the catch is (lots of catches in the lace, wouldn't you say ?) that while she was getting dressed for being naked, I was sniffing from behind this incredible blondy in a yoga suit. Chick was as tall as my whore -- which is tall enough -- and sported an absolutely splendid figure, nice juciy ass, big tits, slim waist, a pleasure. She knew it, too, took her time paying eight dollars, then took her time filling in whatever frequent textile miles form for promotional purposes (while "surreptitiously" checking me out of the corner of her eye) and so forth. Eventually she moved a little downstream and stood there, killing time with her phone. So I tell my gal "Ima pay, you go talk to her".

Which the moll did, blondy's name is Jennifer (I know, right!), her number I'm not at liberty to share and... well that's that, they're going to have coffee sometime this week.

Isn't that what stores are for ?

———She doesn't work there. Actually, she doesn't work anywhere, she's just my personal private whore. You know, just like a private jet -- except with more suction. [↩]Yes, they have this here, a casino-brothel-restaurant complex. I recall the restaurant was quite good a decade ago ; I can confirm it stayed that way. [↩]I'm the guy who can take whore to jewelry store and walk out with a pair of cufflinks for himself y nada mas. The clerk couldn't fucking believe his eyes, at any rate. [↩]I suppose this opens a rather scholastic dispute over categories, to establish whether a slave can be a whore, and vice-versa. The solution is rather simple however : she can be whatever the fuck I say she is. Because, you've guessed it... that's what whores are for! [↩]I even bought her icecream! Which she couldn't eat, her hands being full, but it's the intent that cunts, amirite ? [↩]

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Category: Zsilnic

Tuesday, 11 April, Year 9 d.Tr.

The story of Monday

Motto: I don't care if Trump is through,

Clinton's dumb, Obama too.

Statists, I dun care 'bout you.

It's Monday, I'm alive...

Pai nu ?

So I woke up this morning needing to pee. A little part of me that's reasonable proposed we take a trip to the bathroom, but then of course a much larger part of me that's actually sensible took over and we went instead to the little girl's room (she's really not that little, especially around the chest) where we stood above the girl's bed, penis towering impressivelyi over her lithe figureii. Then I curled her tiny earsiii and she slowly, visiblyiv woke up over the space of ten seconds or so. Then she opened her eyes, and the object of her affections to date and ministrations to come focused into meaningful view. She curled a sly little smilev and kitty-lickedvi my ballsack. And then she blew me offvii. And then I went and peed.

Except I still didn't go pee in the toilet, like normal human beings.viii I went and peed in the bushes. Because I fucking can. Guess who absolutely loves my piss (besides, of course, the naked whores captive in my otherworldly lures, who gargle that shit like it was ambrosia, which I suppose for them it exactly is) ? Or should I perhaps say "guess what", would that help resolve any ambiguities ?

No, it wasn't a bitch. No, I get it, it's a pun built out of ambiguity and sexuate innuendo. Nevertheless. Care to guess again ?

Fine, be that way then. Here you go :

I hope you do admire my very steady hand.

But you can only take a piss for so long, so eventually I checked on Trilema and found out I've discovered a way to burn a few extra Terabytes overnight. Apparently the world very much wishes to be shown what happens when poo-bear comes out of coloring book for mongoloid kids and attempts to do her hurr-durr of a walk straight into a fist. That gif is so worth it...

Anyway, whatever, that concludes the story of a very early Monday morning. Perhaps there's more to come. Geddit ? Come ? It's another pun built out of ambiguity and sexuate innuendo!

Would you live naked in a house of mirrors perched way up on a hill somewhere in the unchartable wilds ?

———I expect you expect morning automatically means morning wood. I suppose in some contexts this is true, but I will tell you that in this particular context 'tis not, I can't recall waking up with a hard-on in the past decade.

The phenomenon may be an indicator of how many fucks you got left in your useful life. It may also be an indicator of how few fuckholes you got orbiting all around you. The happenstance that young men wake up with clubs in between their legs pretty much every morning is certainly not dispositive in this dilemma, and not really all that indicative either. [↩]This magical enchanted place of the candles is ensorcelled with strong magicks that require any and all females be naked inside at all times. This includes sleeping, cooking, cleaning the floors, anything. It also includes visitors, all of them. Quite the magical shack I tell you. [↩]Curling is when you trace the outline all lightly. [↩]She's great to wake up because she physically appears to be swimming up towards the light from the depths of a dark pool. Coincidentally I don't think she gets nearly enough sleep these days. [↩]You never know with her. Yesterday she woke in a terror because she had dreamt I had ordered her to... you'd better be seated for this... document all the water. And she got really despondent as she realised there's really a lot of water on Earth what the fuck. [↩]It's a small stolen lick, what can I tell you. Get some kittens. [↩]No, not like they blow you off. Like they blow me off. [↩]Do you ever consider the matter of optionality and other such lofty items of political science and existential philosophy in the narrow confines of this simple act ? It's not quite such a tiny thing, or to quote a certain pope-to-be, "Come e bello pisciare. Si fosse ricco piscerei sempre." [↩]

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Category: Zsilnic

Monday, 17 April, Year 9 d.Tr.

The Storied Cupcake and other stories

The Cupcake Necromancers lived forever (obviously!) in the enchanted town they had built for themselves out of tin shapes and thin batter. It contained exactly twelve buildings : a squarish Doom Tower with a skull atop, a Dark Cellar which inexplicably came in the shape of a pink square with a red domed roof and small towers on two of the four corners, a Haunted Woods which consisted of one single but very contorted tree vaguely reminescent of a charred juniper bush embodied through licorice, a Quartz Crypt in the approximate shape of a werewolf statue that had rolled down a (small) flight of stairs, a Monolith which was very much like an Aztec temple with a lemon slice atop, a Bloodboil Forge with a hard candy hand coming out of a pool of strawberry sorbet, an Iron Pit consisting of a tribal hut with tiny skulls hanging off the fence, a two-slab Graveyard, an anthill like Cavern, a Necroden which was little more than a scary sorceress head mounted on a little cupcake stand with doors and a strange dais coming up to the roof and serving no discernable purpose on the side, the Hell's Gate which inexplicably was a building of its own and then of course the Adumbral Altar which'd best not be mentioned. A Golden Tree also grew nearby, but having been added later it didn't count among the twelve buildings making up the Cupcake Necromancer Town.

So equipped, the Cupcake Necromancers rode the Schmuckelodeon Express to many adventures, which provided them with endless supplies of rare, sought after items such as the Bloodgel Necklace, which surprisingly didn't contain any aspic, King Bardor's Gem, which was shaped like a plunger, the Ashen Shadow, emanating a bright, greenish-orange inner light with sludge overtones, the Bloodstroke Emblem, representing a bloodstroke, the Star Scarf, a solid red field with no other markings, the Ring of Devastation, known for fitting on no known finger, the Spiked Beetle Charm, which was great for sitting on chairs or the Oculus of the Evil Eye, entirely indistinguishable from a plain sugar cube but by the most versed arcanologists (which accounted for its great rarity). But best not go into much detail on this score, as the items involved are pretty dangerous not to even mention the spellcasting.

In their free time the Cupcake Necromancers enjoyed unicorn rides, which the unicorn Kehilan was moderately happy to provide in exchange of a considerable bale of candied cotton, and raised various pets, such as the Rusted Meshweaver, for all practical purposes a reanimated bundle of sheepsteel. It did tricks!

The Cupcake Necromancers also enjoyed spinning roulette wheels, which for no discernible reason came in a square shape, as well as feeding individual grains of rice to really tiny chickens, counting pebbles, matching various incomprehensible images together by hermetic criteria according to apocriphal recipes, watering various plants which didn't necessarily take water to grow (nor did any growing as far as anyone could tell), and digging around in the gold cave which somehow had found its way high up on a relatively tall (but very conical) tree.

While all this was going on, a war raged, pitting the Necromancers against a different confisserie faction which is not legal to name. The end.

« Is it still rape if I write "science" on my penis first ?

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Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Friday, 24 February, Year 9 d.Tr.

The socialists pretending to relevancy

La caduta degli deii is a failed attempt by Visconti to enshrine some of the alt-truths of socialism into art. Just like the other one. Or that other one. Or all others, extant or possible, because socialism is abhorent to nature itself by its very nature, and so it can't work in art anymore than it can work in reality.

The first big lie on the conveyor belt has to do with women. Specifically, a woman properly behaved, as educated by the proper world, before Germany succumbed to the socialist nonsense, pointedly chooses her mate over her spawn. This is not what the socialists wish to hearii, and so pliant Visconti purports to convince us white is black, up is down, right is wrong etcetera by spuriously spit-gluing incest to the display of sanity. Supposedly if you're a mother who stands by your man rather than by your child, that child'll turn out a useless pedophile who'll rape you. Hurr durr and a bottle of piss, as if it weren't plain as day, both from direct observation in any of the socialist gardens to date as well as through it being the most obvious evidence directly accessible to even a little bit of rational effort that no, that exactly on the contrary -- the path to obtaining a useless pedophile that'll rape you is by standing with your child, instead of standing with your man. But whatever, if you repeat a big lie often enough it becomes truff, amirite ?

The second, smaller big lie has to do with the state. It is a needed falsehood, readily proposed by the pliant Visconti, that it's not socialism generally, be it in the national-socialist version of Hitler, or in the soviet-socialist version of Stalin, or equally and exactly the same in its ourdemocracy-socialist version of Roosevelt that follows the ancient ditty,

Comunismu-ntii te-ajuta tac-tac-tac, si apoi te executa pac-pac-pac.

Supposedly it's only the national-socialists that deliberately cultivate the vices of the young to have at the ready unthinking automatons with which to replace their elders whenever those elders show signs of waking up. Certainly not soviet-socialism, amirite ? And ceeeehehehehertainly-erlier not our pantsuited democracy-socialism, definitely not. Right ?

As before observed, the principal advantage of well made socialist propaganda pieces is that they are about as ethically useful as an actual treatise of ethics reliably bitswapped. You know how the village of liars is not composed of people who always speak the exact opposite of truth, as that'd be rather the village of the maladroit truth tellers, but instead it's the village of people who unreliably tell the truth ? Here's the most amusing tragedy of all time : the socialist's attempts to lie artistically only ever work at all when they reduce to the work of maladroit truth tellers. When they flip all the bits, not just some of the bits, then they produce strange, but capable to stand on their own works of art. Never otherwise.

And of course those works of art don't therefore ever serve the purpose as the socialist had imagined it, because they're too readily usable by actual people to find actual truth in actual beauty.

It sucks to be the execrable avatar of damnation, what can I tell you. And they try so hard, too! And it never comes to anything! Who could possibly need more amusement than readily provided by watching the devil try to argue the light off ?

———1969, by Luchino Visconti, with the crew of The Night Porter. [↩]As it gets in the way of their surrogate for actual humanity, that star-shaped "future" "society" so very typical for every socialist work of any sort or kind. [↩]

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Category: Trilematograf

Monday, 23 October, Year 9 d.Tr.

The slaves of 1935

Motto: Nothing is ever what it seems.

Alex F. Mihaili, published in Realitatea Ilustrata of May 8th, 1935ii the story of his intercourse with a bunch of fellows behind the East Stationiii in Bucharest. At issue -- the sale of a girl. Here goes :

"Here's the thing master... You draw a writ like so : " tells me a pleasant enough fellow, maybe 30 or so, regular features, hair curling over his shoulders, a curly beard darker than the raven's comb and in the pictoresque costumation of a nomadic gypsy

"I, the undersigned, Gheorghe Stefan Avram, do hereby sell my sister, Savina, for the sum of 5`000 leiiv..."

I try to explain to the man that the law of our country does not permit the sale of a human, and even if I were to write it as such it would be worthless, unrecognized by any authority.v

"Well... the girl's getting married." said he.

"And therefore you want to sell her ?!" I ask.

"No. I want to settle them down." (later I found the handsome man that I was taking dictation from was the vatafvi of the group)

"But who sells her ?"

"We live here, behind the Obor Station," he explained for my benefit. "The girl is sold by Gheorghe Stefan Avram, who lives apart, on the Verg Barrier."vii

"And who's buying her ?"

"I am! Ilie Mihai." answered an ancient man, with a long flowing white beard.

"You're the husband ?!" I wondered, and he started to laugh.

"No, master. I'm buying a bride for my boy, Gogu Stanescu."

"I don't understand with what right his brother is selling her ?"

"Well, Savina's father is dead. So her eldest brother is selling her."

"But my good fellow!" I protested stubbornly. "There can't be such a thing as the sale bill of a woman. There are no slaves anymoreviii in this realm. Nobody in Romania can have the right to sell his fellow man."

"Why are you feigning all this bullshit. The masters sell the husband, we sell the wife. It is fairer this way, to pay for the expense borne by her father feeding and dressing her."ix

"Let me then write it like this, without mentioning any sale, so it fits both the law and what you want, an indemnification you deem the brother as entitled to."

"And write further that should Savina run away from Gogu Stanescu, I Gheorghe Avram Stefan, will be answerable with two acresx of land I own at Bariera Vergului, and further 5`000 lei to be spent on booze."

"You mean for the wedding you are contemplating."

"Food and drink", restated the man.

Afterwards I read aloud the somewhat irregular act I had put together, which all the partiers heard in solemn silence, declaring their approval and particular satisfaction to the occasional trim of well wishing I had sprinkled through. The vataf Banciu Ciucuraru and the bulibasaxi Mihai Cristache signed then, as witnesses, through placing their finger on a cross made in wet ink that I had placed by their names. Further digital imprints were left on the paper by two other older men, also as witnesses.

"That's done", said the vataf.

"The parties haven't signed, nor he who receives the money..." I protested.

"No need. Witnesses suffice." I found with some surprise that the Gypsyes of Romania still hold to that ancient customxii of the principalities that deals are to be signed by witnesses only. In the State's archives and in numerous private collections there's numerous such writs, signed by witnesses only, through digitation. The act they were aiming to obtain would have been a variant of the ancient form for the bill of sale of a slavegirl, regular for the first half of the nineteenth century, were I to follow their lead.

They asked me to sign as well, as witness and pisovnicxiii on my own autographxiv ; after I did even the brother of the bride acquiesced to place his finger.

With this freshly drawn document the troop attempted to obtain the stamp of the station master, which of course they did not manage. This did not stop them from renting an autovehicle and going to fetch the bride, prepared for the great partyxv. All I can add is that at the time the sale price of a nubile young lady may have reached as high as 25 or 30`000 were she beautifulxvi and worthyxvii. The ages could be very green : 9-10 years for girls, and 12-13 for boys.

I know you wouldn't sell your daughter for 35 or so 1935 dollarsxviii (even though your own grandmothers were so sold, and not too rarely at that). The question is, if you actually had a son, unlikely as the proposition may be, how much would you fairly peg him at ?

———Born in 1873, deceased probably around WW2. Romanian Jew, publicist, etcetera. [↩]I will point out and underscore that a century hasn't yet passed. [↩]Gara de Nord became the only train station of Bucharest, but this wasn't always so. [↩]That year Romania's total exports summed 16.75 billion and the imports 10.85 billion. That's right : 60% excedent, enough to buy one million of her. There didn't of course live one million gypsies in Romania at that time. [↩]He flatters himself, of course, in that deeply jewish notion that their "our democracy" female state is universal rather than irrelevantly particular to them. I for instance would recognize (and have recognized) such writs. [↩]A sort of maitre d' in medieval Romanian principalities, head of a troop of servants. [↩]Literally a barrier, properly a customs post at the time. [↩]And rather not to the old slave's benefit. [↩]The innocent, hearty, unsophisticated tribes perceive innocent, hearty, unsophisticated costs : clothing, food, stuff like that.

As people improve and civilize, those costs significantly lessen to the point of disappearing out of sight -- but other costs mount, monstrously. To produce a boy who will grow up into a man as opposed to a boy that'll grow up into yet another woman is so fucking expensive among civilised people, if anyone ever manages it you sure as fuck are going to be paying through your teeth for it. Comparatively clothing & feeding a slut for 15 years is just about free. [↩]Nominally, exact area is difficult to distinguish. [↩]Gypsy overlord. [↩]This is broadly true - marginal groups are infinitely more conservative than the mainstream, no matter what the mainstream thinks or declares itself to think (often, for fundamental reasons, something along the lines of marginals destroying the sacred traditions bla bla bla). [↩]Scribe. Slavonic. [↩]At the time this made no sense, signature being fundamentally an autograph. [↩]Where her bloomers bloodied through defloration were to be displayed to anyone's examination that very night, a public writ sui generis.

That habit hasn't likely died out entirely. I with my own eyes have seen it done, not so long ago. [↩]Beautiful means you felt like using her. [↩]Worthy means she could produce if put to use. [↩]The Romanian leu went off the gold standard in 1914 (when it was worth one franc) and its value fell. By 1935 silver coins worth 250 lei were circulating. [↩]

« Zuleika Dobson, or An Proper Love Story

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Category: Meta psihoza

Sunday, 12 March, Year 9 d.Tr.

The sexy problem, formalized

As an intro, consider this discussion :

spyked http://btcbase.org/log/2017-09-30#1718769

Sunday, 08 October, Year 9 d.Tr.

The scum ; and its hopes, dreams and aspirations ; and their effects

Let's quote from where the retardds gather :

Red Pill TheoryTheory: What women want: Live in a K selected society while she personally defects and pursues r selection (self.TheRedPill)

submitted 1 year ago by fap_the_pain_away

Intro

An r selected society is a terrible place. Think Detroit. It's about muscular thugs killing each other and being more violent than the last guy. Women, of course adore these shitheads, as they themselves are very weak (regardless of any "girl power" beliefs). Meanwhile, it takes a highly beta K selected society to produce a peaceful and prosperous culture with food, technology and medicine.

Body

No one wants to LIVE in an r selected place. It's a 3rd world shithole. But women are horny for r selected men, because sex is primitive and in a jungle the big violent brute wins over the nerdy engineer.

What women want is to officially proclaim that men should be nice. And educated. And gentleman. They encourage you to do this because they want to live in comfort and plenty.

They also want other women to go the K route. To produce those scientists and accountants.

But secretly, they all want to go the r route themselves.

Back when there was a patriarchy, men imposed standards. But with that gone, women are free to chase badboy and defect. Too much of this leads to destruction of society... Detroit on a larger scale. This is exactly what will happen. It is pure defection. Cheating the system.

Without patriarchy enforcing K selection, everyone will suffer, INCLUDING WOMEN. Only with men in control, and then using that control to promote K selection (both must happen), can society continue to function at a high level of prosperity.

Lessons learned

This post is not really a new paradigm. Rather, it's summarizing AF;BB in terms of biology and its effect on society. The main new idea is that women want everyone to do one thing while they themselves want to secretly cheat the system. Basically all women are liars due to the potential biological payoff. It takes and understanding of game theory to fully appreciate this post.

AF;BB stands in this lingo for "Alpha fucks ; Beta bucks", which is supposed to denote that "women" want to be fucked by "alpha" but fed by "beta" males. Leaving aside how that's not what those words mean, how's this for a beta's swan cry ?

Seriously now, so the narrative we're proposed here is that betas have money ? Where the fuck would they get money ? Yes, mommy-government keeps giving them "free" lunch money, in exchange for their obedient, tiresome behaviours and in recognition of the parts cut off as per the beta's covenant with Momweh. They truly are the chosen people, these schmucks, didn't you know. But then the alphas come and take it from them. It's not like they get to keep it, what the fuck.

That is the key here, isn't it. The mediocre man, confronting the end of his Empire of Mediocrity, would like to make one last deal with the rest of the world. He'll let... HE'll LET, you see ? He ? Lets ? Yes ? He'll let you fuck his wife in his own bed, provided, of course, you agree it's his bed. That's the deal, and that's why this entire nonsense is very much the compensatory fantasy of mediocre men. They'll still matter, there's still be a place under the Sun for them, the story goes, because even as the bully takes his lunch money, it's his lunch money that the bully takes. And the bully knows this, and cares. Deeply. The alpha utterly gives a shit, when he counts a pile of dough to buy a H&K or stuff for white bunnies to snort or whatever the fuck he's buying, the alpha goes "and this is Joe's lunch money, and this is Moe's chump money, and this is...". He's not counting dollar bills, fungible, pecunia non olet nickles and dimes. Oh, no, none of that, your bits are all the color of Joe dontchaknow.

Which is where the fundamentally Empire-defending vein of mainstream "Red Pill" "community"i becomes apparent : you are supposed to believe that if you're a scientist, or an engineer, or in any sense powerful you can't thereby, for that reason actually be powerful. This is the Empire's stake in the game of mediocre self delusion : it gets its agenda pushed a little, which is why you read this nonsense on Conde Nast's platform.

Do you actually believe that you're not an alpha because you're an engineer instead ? How do you distinguish yourself from the girls who think they can't add because they're creative instead ? If your answer is "they go to a different subreddit" you lose, yes ?

Do you actually believe that in order to be an engineer you must not be an alpha ? Why ? They tried to tell me this, too, you know ? Do you have any idea how many iterations of random derps telling me "how things are" #trilema has seen ? BECAUSE THAT'S HOW THINGS ARE!!!1 Are they ?

The empire, always an unholy alliance of cons and cattle. What the fuck does it matter what color the pill is, as long as you're swallowing it ?

———No, it's not a community. The people who advertise Coca-Cola and the people who drink Coca-Cola don't constitute "the Coca-Cola community", do they ? And yes obviously this fantastic "community" will "exist". It will exist in the ads made by the people who make ads. [↩]

« Late to the party. As usual.

Cool it, Carol! »

Category: Cocietate si Sultura

Wednesday, 18 January, Year 9 d.Tr.

The Redditard

As the car came to a stop, the driver leaned across the seats and popped the door open, her breasts giggling against the dash. The man climbed in, and they looked at each other up close for the very first time.

After a pause long enough to grate her nerves he finally said something.

"Somewhat dangerous, picking up strange men like that. Don't you think ?"

"Yes. And you look like trouble, at that."

"So what's your thinking ?"

"I figure if I submit myself early and wholly you're intelligent enough to use me rather than hurt me."

"That's a point," he responded, pensively. Then after a pause, "What's your name ?"

"Jennifer. But my friends call me Jen."

"You're a smart girl, Jennifer."

"Thank you, sir."

That is how the dialogue should sound, of course, to ring true. All of it, and all the time.

That's not how the dialogue rings, of course, in any Hollywood production, for the past who even knows how many five year plans of glorious socialism -- and The Redditardi is no exception. That it consequently rings hollow is no concern of the inept jews involved, their aim is not to ring true but to dick around with the flashlight under the covers.

Missing thereby any chance whatever to cultural relevancy, The Redditard continues in the vein of jewfiction, depicting the usual trinity of man as forever and eternally seen in Faggot Identity Fic : either utterly inept redditard (the title character), harmless cuckolded husband (the "competitor", alternate pick for "President") or else utterly inscrutable and necessarily evil asshole, incapable to signify and therefore incapable to matter irrespective of any (much reviled among the jewry) personal abilities. He's unloved, don't you know, and that's the key to meaning in jewfiction. If you've the patience to sit through yet another rendition of the utterly inept redditard, Dave Foley does a very credible impersonation, with all the squealing, purposeless movement, entirely powerless rage explosions and the whole rest of the repertoire of the sort of child women that haven't a husband always end up stuck with. It doesn't seem to tax his art at all, which is as good indication as any that he doesn't have one.

Is anyone ever going to start making actual movies, at some point, somewhere ? Rhetorical question, of course, the Romanians have, for a while, the Italians have as well, there's the early Tarantino and the early Guy Ritchie and so on. But nevertheless -- can the wastage of reels with this inept, empty, uninteresting masturbation cease already ? There's scarcely any need to waste even more carbon footprint or whatever the fucktards call it to record yet another rehash of the same spinstery bullshit. It's not even fucking funny, it's just sad, like a gaggle of fat whores grazing away on the Oscars set, apparently confused enough as to their own identity to fail to realise they don't belong there. It's pathetic, and it doesn't belong under the Sun.

Keep it under the covers and out of the public space, exactly like you would if for whatever mental health reasons you found yourself unable to flush your shit down the toilet like everyone else and instead suffered under the sad compulsion to keep all the turds, individually wrapped in cellophane. Stop trying to show them to people! Nobody wants to see your sad girly turds! Really!

Jesus.

———1997, by David Steinberg, with Jennifer Tilly. Released in some markets as "The Wrong Guy" for inscrutable reasons. [↩]

« The fag joke.

The story of the scared slut. »

Category: Trilematograf

Wednesday, 01 March, Year 9 d.Tr.

The Pulation and other biodiversities.

You might not readily understand what this "biodiversity" word means. I mean -- obviously you think you do, how could you not. You probably also think you know what mangos taste like, or what constitutes a good cup of coffee. Let's explore the matter a little.

This one is biodiversily dead.

This other one is so biodiverse it's outright growing feathers and generally speaking explores the whole "how to become a bird" thing. Because they have so many different kinds the space of possibilities is fully explored quite to that degree. Now what ?

You know how colibris came to be, yes ?

This one has electronic countermeasures capable of jamming my camera.

This guy is biodiverse in an inconspicuous manner.

Here we have a biodiverse Iranian rug made out of bug.

And now for something completely different -- the best shot in the whole five floors of the Museo Del Hade. Above represented -- some religious artefacts of a likely ritual use.

Pulation para momentos. It's a thing!

If it makes a difference, I had a drink in the same spot Hemingway and some other obscure dudes did. I think. It might just be cheap publicity.

There's some lillies, and the guy tells you bye!

« The boundless burden

Nicaragua es un pais pobre. »

Category: Zsilnic

Sunday, 18 June, Year 9 d.Tr.

The problems of today

The problems of today are strictly and exactly one : nobody actually wants to do anything. That's it. There are no others, none whatsoever.

You don't think this is so, or rather you prefer to pretend like you don't. Sadly, the reason is exactly the same in your case as in anyone else's : you don't actually want to do anything. Anything whatsoever.

If you weren't entirely adverse to doing anything, anything whatsoever, in the manner and to the degree slug is adverse to licking salt, you'd stop and look around for a second rather than pretend like "you have a different opinion". You don't, because you can't, because the proof that I'm exactly right and all this is exactly so, the proof that nobody whatsoever has any problems whatsoever above and beyond an obdurate, insourmountable lack of activity are overwhelmingly present in their utter ubiquity. Aww, what's the matter, sentence got long ? You came here to read all about how you're fine bla bla ? You're not fucking fine. Not in the slightest.

The budget of the SECi, the self-same lulzcow producing such celebrated ineptitudes, is a billion-something. About half of that is available to pay for the supposed work of lawyers doing things.ii

What do these five hundred million yearly dollars buy the payer ? In a more active world they'd buy something over one million caged girls, aged on a normal distribution centered on 19 and weighing on a normal distribution centered on 100 lbs -- but then again that'd obviously be hard work. Imagine, raping and whipping so much cunt, you'd have to maybe even get off the couch! Only psychopaths, sociopaths and antichrists would want such a thing, I hope there's laws on the books to keep everyone safe from the activity.iii

What do 50`000`000`000 worthlessiv cents buy in this frozen, paralyzed world ? Does the SEC produce more words than Trilema in any given year ? We're not going to discuss quality, obviously a whole building full of dun-wanna-do drones can't come even close, but even in terms of sheer volume -- can the modern Shannonizer machine keep up with what's left of the European intellectual tradition ? Why do you think not ?

And before you go on the libertardian tack : the "private corporations"v that are banks have budgets a degree of magnitude larger for the same idle purpose. They spend tens of billions on "legal counsel" in a good year, and that's per bank, there being what, at least half dozen of them left ? What do these billions buy them, aside from a general, meta-cognitive agreement that "state agencies can't stand up to them in court", so therefore... yeah, you've guessed it, "shouldn't even try"vi ? Do you recall the last time you read an intelligent brief filed by one of these corporate lawyers ? Oh, "that's not the right place to be smart". Really ? The right place to be, smart or anything else, is somewhere else ? Where ? Not here on Earth, that's for sure.

For all the talk about bringing Bitcoin to Argentina a few years ago back when "everyone" absolutely and very firmly knew what Argentina even was (before utterly and completely forgetting all about it six weeks later when the "just the facts" cycle moved on to other things for them to "know all about", much in the manner they "knew all about" Cyprus and so on and so forth without let or respite since the invention of laziness) there's exactly one person who actually did something, did something towards that ostensible goal. Lots of others talked about, over and around it, of course. I was there.

Why ? Why is it ? Why is it that whenever you "go somewhere" it has to be to the "local" McDonalds ? Why doesn't your idea of travel include learning the local language, acquiring a local fucktoy or ten, a local lawyer or five, a local corporation or two ? What do you actually do when you say hello ?

But why should you do anything, right, doing is for poor people. That's what "we"'ve got the "third world" for, isn't it ? Here, your fabulous third world at work. Sadly, it's not a matter of "diversity". Minorities/poor immigrants think they should make money while they sit just as much, in kind, and in degree identically to women, or to the Eastern-European extreme right. Children or old men, red, brown or white, male or female, here there and everywhere expect, dream and desire nothing else and nothing besides making money without doing anything.

And they don't even mean anything in the capitalist vein by that "money" just like they don't mean anything in the sense of activity by that "make". All they mean, entirely and completely all they ever mean or ever think about, is being insulated from activity. That's it. "Make money while you sleep" was such a rallying cry among the urban poor not because of a love of money, or a desire to make something, anything. It's simply there because what anyone ever wants anymore is sleep -- and preferably, permanent.

Hopefully y'all get it, what can I say.

———Don't think they're in any way diverse. They're exactly typical for the whole of bureaucracy, there and everywhere, now and always. [↩]We're not talking actually difficult, actually demanding things, such as taking a hard look at oneself and discovering almost nothing's worth keeping, and then acting on this discovery. No, none of that. We're talking "self-actualizing" bullshit, activities which serve to confirm for the animal's psyche the correctness of the animal's investments. Getting to "feel like a lawyer" when lawyering's one's ostensibly chosen, professedly important "career path" aka principal activity. [↩]Yes, I'm serious : an hero is better than you in that at least he's fucking doing something! [↩]Why do you think the dollar is worthless ? "Mismanagement", is it ? "Those damned politicians" following "the wrong policies", at which they ostensibly arrived through fucking demonic possession, and not through responding to your perpetual and unyielding pressure, amirite ?

Is it perhaps because nobody is willing to trade anything whatsover for it, and especially not any kind of activity ? [↩]Oh, banks aren't really private nowadays, but more akin to the Gosplan-driven state entreprises of socialism's previous incarnation ? And why do you think that is, perhaps because the Commies invaded with the aid of covert fifth columns and forced everyone to change their activity to match their expectations ?

Really ?

How about it's because when the population gets sufficiently disinterested in agency, the forms of economy necessarily collapse into state ownership ? [↩]That is exactly it, the SEC settles with Dimon exactly like you and the rest of the schmucks settle with the USG. The rationale is "uh, they've more resources than me, and we're both equally committed to not doing anything like ever, and so how about we just pretend they won and go home". That's it.

Imagine what helluva game the 1988 "World" Series would have been, if the Dodgers met the Athletics on the field and went "you know what, LAN is 16.5mn worth of batters and 6.8mn worth of pitchers to OAK's 10.6mn worth of batters and 4.9mn worth of pitchers, how about we call it (16.5+6.8)/(10.6+4.9) = 6 to 4 and that's that, go home" ? How would you ever have found out it's really 5 to 4 ? Hm ? And who the fuck actually wants to even see Game 1, forget about it, why go to all that trouble... [↩]

« A better man than I ?

Nateeee »

Category: SUA care este

Thursday, 05 October, Year 9 d.Tr.

The practical costs of hallucinated freedom

This will require some buildup, so let's load up the relevant concepts.

asciilifeform: the uptake of whatever 'liberation' you forcibly thrust upon the cattle will be 0. ( these are creatures whose entire existence sits on a hallucinated pillar of 'choice' etc )

What hallucinated choice could he possibly mean ?

mircea_popescu: for the people who hallucinate choice where there is no space for them to choose, a usg will always be found somewhere.

What the hell ?!

mircea_popescu windows will either compete with tmsr or go away. if it competes -- it becomes. if it goes away -- it becomes. there is no choice and there is no will.

No choice ?! No will ?! What heresy is this!

But let us set heresy aside for a moment, and inquire into a different line.

mircea_popescu speaking of "why the fuck aren't your clotheslines connected to anything, lamer" : why the ef are they still not making aluminium books ? use 5 mils say, ruberized/siliconized edges...

asciilifeform waiwat

mircea_popescu which part ?

asciilifeform books?

mircea_popescu yes.

asciilifeform with aluminium cover? wai. sounds nasty

mircea_popescu PAGES. aluminium will go down to 5 micrometers np. this means 1k pages book = 5mm = 1/5th inch thickness. can even make PAGE arbitrarily thick so all books are the same thickness throughout, if you want. can do all sorts of things.

asciilifeform oh hey i got 1 here. except it ain't a book, it's a 1980s capacitor from su. it nicely illustrates the down side.

mircea_popescu how is it not a book. will fucking outlats ANY paper support. by 5mn years or so.

asciilifeform mega-pain to separate'em.

mircea_popescu ruberized/siliconized edges... are you telling me someone tried and hated it ? because hey, tin foil is in every house, no pain to separate.

asciilifeform this one is mylarized. still pain, because static. sorta why it worx as a cap. but this book would be great, easily hold enough charge to nuke unwary thief

mircea_popescu you don't use electrically isolated pages.

asciilifeform meh then, that's the 1 megafeature. ( not 4evah either, al oxidizes at stp. just -- slowly )

mircea_popescu right, alf has decided "permanent book, never will rot away" and "1/10th the thickness and 1/3rd the weight of current afid traps" no features.

asciilifeform not perma, see above.

mircea_popescu oxidation dun matter, you don't write in aluminium on it wtf. you can use pre-oxidized alum anyway.

asciilifeform pages will fuse.

mircea_popescu not more than tin foil fuses.

asciilifeform gotta try this. i do want one. now where to get nanoleaf al...

mircea_popescu i had taken you for a man who has and lived with a library. i am one of those also, and i have nfi how you can not immediately think of the DUST.

asciilifeform oohyea

mircea_popescu motherfucker, my library in ro could produce a pail a week. a FULL pail.

asciilifeform i got filters here

mircea_popescu yeah well.

asciilifeform but obvious limits.

mircea_popescu much better to not have 5 trillion little afid shits eating away at the deliuciouys desert innit now.

asciilifeform tru!! one catch : ain't nobody printing b00kz worth reading, nao. all them bookz, are old.

mircea_popescu so you repriont the old ones and need not worry about them.

asciilifeform may as well scan then, neh, if reprint and throw out paper.

mircea_popescu btcbase.org/log/2017-04-05#1638413

a111: Logged on 2017-04-05 23:00 asciilifeform but as a massively-distributed long-term backup, aluminium is ~unbeaten -- it's probably the only reason asciilifeform was able to find a copy of genera

asciilifeform this yes.

mircea_popescu you will want to note them on aluminium anyway. ANYWAY. might as well make them optoinspectable neh. at a certain loss of density, surely.

asciilifeform i'll point out that the al in cd is not exposed to atmosphere.

mircea_popescu asciilifeform you can get single-atom coats nowadays. you could gild the pages at no extra cost. or you know, plutonim them, platinum them...

Why do you suppose there's nobody staying up nights trying to bring to market the aluminium leaf book ?i Do you suppose it's because "it would never work", in the way flight with machines heavier than air, microwave point-to-point communication or touch-sensitive VGA screens could "never work" ? Or do you suppose it's because "it doesn't have a market" ?

This dichotomy is a strange thing indeed, wouldn't you say ? On one hand, the innovative mind is to ask itself some very practical questions, the answer to which does converge in finite time.

"Is this item practical ?"

"Can it actually be made to spec from available materials with extant processes ?"

"Can perhaps the required materials be obtained or constructed if not ?"

"Can extant processes be adapted or refined if need be, or could wholly novel processes be devised ?"

These are all difficult questions. It's not always easy to even formulate them correctly for the given case, it's almost always difficult and without exception costly to answer them meaningfully. Nevertheless, an answer can always be methodically had, and if the answer will surprise it will surprise in a very useful, limited way. The process is, after all, the process of human whiteii civilisation, from its inception to the present day.

Yet there's a different horn to the dilemma.

"Will this product have a market ?"

"Can people be convinced to buy it ?"

The marketeer is not part of civilisation, not of white civilisation in any case. He's exactly the nazi caricature of the jew : an idle, useless mountebank here to extract rents from human naivite and accreted stupidity. He does no useful work, contributes nothing, but sucks the lifeblood out of the culture. It doesn't stop there : he also injects foreign nonsense into it so as to keep the flow fattening him going.

Why is the marketeer possible in ourdemocracy ? Why was the "jew"iii possible in nazi Germany ?

"Women"iv, of course. Here :

The "German maiden" as imagined by the nazi propagandist perceives a choice before her. She could either go left, or else she could go right. The proposal implicit in the depiction is that the maiden's choice is based on hallucinated freedom, that she in point of fact does not have such an option as she perceives.

Is this true ? After all, the chief attribute of propaganda is that it works. For propaganda to work, a false choice must necessarily be at least in principle possible. So regarded, propaganda becomes a very simple exercise, perhaps the oldest trick in the book : crying thief. If the core of all propaganda is that it depicts a choice that is in fact present as absent in order to get the viewer to misrepresent a choice that is in fact absent as present, we have neatly and cheaply (in intellectual terms) explained both why it works and why it harms.

So! What the nazi propagandist is trying to do in that poster is in fact very simply this : every maiden, German or otherwise, has a choice before her cunt. Meanwhile, the viewer of the maiden's choosing, German or otherwise, hasn't a choicev. The proposition of propaganda switches these around, and I'm to believe (without thinking about it, or in any other way deconstructing my experience) that for my looking at the poster it is now therefore not the girl depicted that gets to choose which way her orgasm lies ; but instead it is me who gets to choose whether she does or does not have such choice before her.

If I choose she doesn't have such choice in front of her, thereby I'm also choosing to wear a brown shirt (there's a different poster to make that pointvi) and so on and so forth. Marketing is entirely and exactly the same thing : by representing a choice that does in fact exist, you are distracted from a different choice you in fact should be making. "Would you like one egg, or two ?" is the oldest item in the marketing book, and it squarely makes the point : if asked to choose between apple and blackberry you might indeed forget you simply don't want a stupid pocket dongle in the first place. Will it be coke or pepsi, and please don't notice there's no conceivable reason to even have a "president" ; and certainly not an "elected" one in any case.

This is why "you always have a choice" is such a foundational mantra of ourdemocracy and why pantsuits never cease spewing it : for as long as you believe you always have a choice, you're primed for propaganda. Whether that hook is then used in the nazional-socialist manner as depicted above or in the ourdemocracy-socialist manner as seen on TV makes relatively little difference (and enjoys relatively little stability, they switch back and forth depending on environmental pressures as you've no doubt been noticing these days). The important point is, for as long as you believe you always have a choice, your ass is theirs.

In reality, you don't always have a choice. You sometimes have a choice ; but at some other times you do not have any choice.

Here's an example : if as a young female in 1999 Romania you correctly perceive you do not have a choice, your country will be slightly cooler for slightly longer. If however instead you misperceive a choice that's not there, your country will go to shit half a decade sooner.

If, as an adult male in 1933 Romania you correctly perceive that you have no choice but to defend I G Duca with your life and everything, you have a chance. If you indolently perceive that it's your choice whether to go die aside the man, and could also sit around reading comics or whatever, your imbecility thereby assures you a very special place in hell, called "The Contemporary History of Romania" for short.

Qualitative examples aside, the cost of misperceving a choice that's absent becomes very quantitatively obvious if we return to our previous examples. There's a reason you don't have any cool things, for which the aluminium leaf book stands pars pro toto : if innovatorsvii could rely on your correct evaluation of your choices, they could correctly schedule their own investment of time and effort. Making a better mouse trap would in fact be a technological, rather than hierophantical affair, because you can in fact calculate how much better the better mouse trap would be and how much it would cost to get, at least most of the time. If innovators are however stuck guessing at how often and how deeply will random idiots misrepresent their choices, well... the only safe move is not to play (and if forced to play -- the only safe move is to play the cheapest hand).

Next time you wonder why you don't have any cool shit, offer yourself this ready answer : because people who could have made it couldn't guess whether you'll arbitrarily decide you have the choice of whether to like it or not.viii

Less preening and more work is the obvious solution. Contrary to what your fatlogic circuitry might be trying to tell you -- you don't actually have any kind of choice in the matter.

———Yes, obviously, the industry has been engaged in a downward spiral towards discovering the cheapest, sorriest excuse for a pile of garbage "the market" will still swallow as a "book", so this would be exactly counter-trend. But... why ? [↩]It's only human inasmuch non-white peoples act as if they were white, and in no other case. [↩]The constructive item, as imagined by the nazis, and opposed to any kind of reality-based abstract decoction. [↩]No, not any kind of reality-based abstract decoction, but the deductively-constructed item. [↩]Tradition to the contrary notwithstanding. [↩]In relevant part,

"Hey, gun advocates, did you know you like low corporate taxes?" I do? "Yes, because the people you hate are for raising them." Consequently, raising corporate taxes is felt like an attack on the Second Amendment. "Liberals! Taking away our rights!"

[↩]This leaves aside a very large section of the same problem : because car makers couldn't rely on buyers correctly perceiving their options, they were stuck coming up with the whole "emissions" nonsense ; and with the whole "electronics + cardboard = modern car" nonsense ; and with the whole rest of the crap.

The reason you live in a cardboard house whereas your grandparents lived in a larger brick construction has everything to do with the fact that you perceive you have more choices you actually don't than your grandparents ever did. That's pretty much all that's involved in the difference. [↩]You think this is entirely wrong, at this juncture, because it's finally string-matched some stupid in your head and so it's actively being blocked ? That's nice. Why do you suppose that cute guy never said anything to you ? Could it have been that he couldn't evaluate whether you'll arbitrarily decide you have the choice of whether to like it or not ? Why is it you didn't say anything to that cute girl ? Could it have been that you couldn't evaluate whether she'll arbitrarily decide she has the choice of whether to like it or not ?

Awww...

I'm sure it's works so much differently in all other aspects of life. Sex life is in no sense foundational of all other things, and for sure people don't take all other decisions in the same exact manner, do they.

Well, that's good then. Do you imagine you are at liberty to believe this crap "if you want to", incidentally ? [↩]

« The perennial Harriette Wilson.

Beating, that spark of heaven »

Category: Gandesc, deci gandesc

Saturday, 22 July, Year 9 d.Tr.

The Plumbin' Plumber

My life started innocuously enough one February morning.

I was late for ENG EK 500 (Probability with Statistical Applications) one cold, blustery February evening and rushing around the apartment we shared when the hot water faucet gave in the bathroom. Just like that, with a loud pop, as I went to turn it off it gave up the ghost -- would turn as you like it but not turn off anything whatsoever. I didn't have any time for that, so I just went to school. The commute, half hour, the class, two hours and a little over talking to the prof, the commute back, a sliver shy of four hours all told, but I couldn't believe my eyes when I returned.

The things, all the things, were covered in petrified pixie dust. The coach had a quarter inch worth of hoar-frost all over, sparkling like it fell out of the Disney truck. Most metal surfaces had disappeared. The floor was impracticable. The bathroom wall had extruded itself a solid foot towards the faucet, with a steamy spring cutting itself a complicated path out. For some reason probably to do with ancient stresses and the temperature differential the bathroom window popped at some point after I left shattering glass everywhere ; the interaction between the freezing winds outside and the hot vapors inside steadily redecorated the place.

My finances hadn't been in the best of places before this mishap, but it changed everything. I was very depressed at the time, and had been slowly building towards it over the college years. Mechanical engineering isn't all drinking and party sluts all semester long, you might imagine. New England isn't much into fucking, or living well for that matter. I was frustrated, desperate to save money and eating crap because of it, slowly gaining weight, too busy and tired to do anything about it...not a good place to be.

It's not legal in the state of Massachusetts to offer plumbing services without a license, be it as a "quick and cheap" ad on backpage or in any other shape or form. That's exactly what I did, in between taping over the hole in the bathroom window and collapsing into comatose sleep.

When I woke up in the viscously moist apartment, I had 147 messages from people needing work done. I said "fuck it" out loud, took the last of my savings and bought some basic tools, missed the entire day's worth of classes (I did call the office and told them I had caught the stomach flu eventually) and spent the whole day working as a criminal plumber. The work is remarkably easy to do when you can bill someone else for the needed parts rather than trying to make do with "household items", and everyone is remarkably eager to pay for materials considering the hefty discount on labour involved.

I visited 21 places in between 8.30 AM and 20:22 PM, long live the MBTA. By the time I rang the 22nd doorbell I had a wad of cash no doubt more substantial than any dope dealer's within a ten mile radius, and about twenty pounds worth of assorted spare parts besides -- it turns out that by the fifth time you go out to buy a faucet you just splurge and buy three and save yourself a couple of trips in the future. I was so tired I could barely stand, but also on a crazy sort of high. Charging people five times what I could make in my legitimate line was its own sort of ecstatic joy, but them thanking me profusely for the quick service and tipping generously -- it's one of those things you have to experience, can't be described. One agitated short guy with no neck just put five hundred in my hand from the get-go. There was nothing wrong with his toilet that the plunger couldn't fix, but he also didn't look like he was about to ask for change. What was I going to do, protest ?

It was the 22nd that changed my whole life, however. It was far out, I got off the orange and went all the way to Hersey, past West Roxbury. "That's a hundred just to get here" I thought to myself, which it absolutely would have been, if I had a van of my own like normal plumber folk do. An absolutely stunning lady opened the door, she must have been in her mid thirties I guessed, with a strange sort of innocent air about her and 1990s Mariah Carey-ish doe eyes. Come to think about it she was totally going for that look, what with the knitted top and curled hair and all. There was also a dude in his 50s, watching TV in his satin robe.

Their kitchen sink water pipe had sprung a leak, and they were well panicked about the insistent spray and the puddle steadily forming on the kitchen floor. No big deal, I reassured them, just give me a minute. The lady offered me various things I didn't need, and eventually went and joined the dude in the livingroom. I cut off the water, took out their ancient flexible, picked a replacement from my bag and screwed the ends in. The fit was marvelous on their ancient copper fittings, the whole thing was done within four minutes. Having learned from experience that taking too short is not actually a good idea, I sat there in front of the sink, caressing the new pipe I had just installed. Somehow, suddenly, the thought of getting back to the subway through the cold, dark Arctic climate didn't seem appealing at all. I simply did not want to leave.

At that exact moment a plan sparked in my head, absurdly audacious and for that reason irresistibly delicious. I just could not think away. A while back I had read this guy's novel online, Disgrace it was called. In it this black guy in South Africa simply has his way with the author's daughter. Just like that, because he says so. Because he's there, as it were. Well... I was here, wasn't I ?

I'm just going to go in there and say "Hey, is it ok if I sit and watch the game ?" I told myself. No way you have the guts to do that, I told myself at the same time. No way asking for permission is what Petrus would do, I also told myself. Eventually, in a state of mental excitation like you wouldn't believe, I managed to drag myself over to their livingroom.

"All done ?" the guy asked.

"Yes, it's done." I said, all the day's tired exhaustion ringing through my voice. She went to the kitchen, and at the same time, with superhuman, straining effort I crumbled on their couch, opposite him. "I'm going to watch the game" I said, plainly, as a matter of fact. He switched channels. That blew my mind, and I nearly creamed in my pants. There I was, calling the shots in these people's house. There was no stopping me now.

She was back a moment later, looking puzzled at the arrangement. "Rub my feet, will you honey ?" I said, barely any hint of the circumstantial question in my voice. She looked at him. He looked at her. I was expecting them to kick me out any moment now. What happened next is entirely inconceivable unless you actually try it yourself. They didn't kick me out. She got down on her knees by my feet and started taking off my shoes. Then she took off my socks. Then she started rubbing my feet in her hands. It was very pleasant, her soft, carefully curated hands gingerly caressing my tired feet, but I wasn't going to stop there.

"Use your mouth" I said, and much to my surprise she squirmed herself on her back under my feet and started kissing them. I glanced over at the dude across the couch, he was jacking off. "Bingo", I thought to myself, "this whole show is mine!"

"Take your top off" I said, and she did. As she lay there topless under my feet I rested my left foot on her fake rack while she was licking and rubbing my right. The dude clearly came.

"Go get me a beer, honey" I said. Then turning to her dude, "Would you like a beer too ?"

"Yeah" he managed, all hoarse.

"Get him one as well." I yelled after her.

"Name's Vinnie", he offered.

"Nice to meet you, Vinnie" I said. Normally I'd have said "My name is..." but under the circumstances that hardly seemed appropriate.

Vinnie's girl came back, tray with beers and glasses held with both hands right under her jubilant tits. She set it down on the coffee table, and as she bent over I cupped her right tit. Nice and juicy.

"Come here, honey." I said. I had finally decided to do something about the raging hard-on that had been angrily building for a while now. I placed her arms on the armrest, moved behind her, pulled down her jeans and pink panties. She arched her back, and one second later I was balls deep in her. The dude started jacking off again.

I fucked her like a fucking animal, eventually collapsing her over the armrest and just ramming it home like there was no tomorrow. This was the first time I had gotten any in over a year, and it was easily the best I had ever got. By very far, no doubt about it, better than the sum total of all the dozen or so shitty lays I had to my name up until that enchanted evening.

I came inside of her, not asking her or anyone anything, not caring one whit. They've got a posh enough place, they'll be ok, I thought to myself, and I felt like laughing, roaring. As she was panting under me, my dick still buried inside of her, I asked the dude if they had a spare key. He mumbled an affirmation, and I told him to bring it over. He did. Can you believe that ? He did, he brought me a key. I put it in my pocket like so much spare change. "Alright, I'll be back later." I offered.

I stood up and buttoned my pants. "That'll be 300." I said loud and clear. "A hundred for fixing your sink, and two hundred for fucking your whore." I continued. I couldn't believe what was coming out of my mouth. He could, apparently, because he got up, and came back with the money. He counted five crisp hundred bills in my hand.

"Is this advance payment for fucking her next time ?" I asked, entirely business-like. He nodded.

"Hear that, whore ? I'm all paid for next time, too." She stared at me, eyes open wide, entirely expressionless.

"Say thank you, daddy." I said.

"Thank you, daddy." she replied, mechanically. It wasn't clear at all whether she was thanking me or the dude who paid for her. Who was her daddy ?

I grabbed my toolbag and took off. Suddenly the Arctic climate wasn't either as cold or as dark, but on the contrary, twinkling with loving opportunity. That was the end of my career as a Mechanical Engineering PhD, and the beginning of my life. The next day I cancelled all classes and spent most of the afternoon fucking around in Gimp, getting my new business card design just right. The Plumbin' Plumber, it said, and included a female silouette dancing on a pole very gracefully. It was all very tasteful, nothing but pink and gold lame and such.

But about all that, perhaps another time.

« King's Bounty Reloaded - Mages Still Rule

The Plumber Rampant »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Thursday, 09 February, Year 9 d.Tr.

The perennial nature of tolerance

The extreme lefti wastes no opportunity to try and push the narrative that it is tolerant ; whereas non-it, whatever it may be, is thereby intolerant.

Other than being a rather flimsy if transparent attempt at window-pushingii, this is of course, false. Everyone is tolerant. The only matter is, the idiots (aka, left) are tolerant with some things while sane people are tolerant with some other things.

To wit : idiots are tolerant to the weak ; and intolerant of the powerful. Sane people are exactly opposite : they are tolerant of the powerful ; and intolerant of the weak. Everyone's tolerant, and I dare say to the same measure, it's just the objects of tolerance and intolerance that change.

Consider the "code of conduct", as fine an example of lefty imbecilism as ever concocted. Verbiage in the vein of

Treat the situation as the problem, accept the users for who they are and try to figure out how best to help resolve the difficulty.

is bound to be included (and this is a mild version, most instances the ethnologist will end up collecting will include all sorts of anti-meritocratic hatespeech) ; and will be ever found doubled by insistent warnings that curators/moderators/administrators/white men/people in power are to be held to more, not to less scrutiny. This then is the whole socialist picture : tolerance, for the weak, intolerance, for the powerful.

The converse, which is to say, tolerance for the powerful and intolerance for the weak is also amply documented in functional social structures, I won't bore with lengthy recitals.

What it all boils down to is that tolerance is an invariant. There isn't a case with more, or with less tolerance. The only part that varies is where the tolerance available gets applied. Yes, the retarded left would very much like to get you to apply it the way they want you to and then forget it even exists at all, much like they generally like to steal your shit and then steal your having been stolen from also -- career criminals have learned a lot about how to cover their ass in the course of their unmentionable careers. If you buy into that sort of nonsense you're just advertising you're stupid, and that's about all for you.

The truly amusing part, however, is that the stupidity of the left is not mere epithet, hurled by a political opponent. Consider : if you tolerate the powerful and do not tolerate the weak, this creates both an incentive among the weak to stop being weak, and an incentive among the powerful to support you. If conversely you tolerate the weak and do not tolerate the powerful, this creates both an incentive among the powerful to stop being powerful, and among the weak to support you. Who do you expect is going to win a confrontation between the camp with more loyal, more powerful followers and the camp with less loyal, fewer powerful followers ?

Oh, don't tell me, let me guess -- the left is pacifist, and all about "the electorate" and "our democracy", which is to say constituencies as large as possible so the stupid and the weak may drown out the smart and the powerful ; an enchanted lala land where power dun matter and conflict is not possible.iii

The only problem with this set-up is how rapidly it went away. Yes such nonsensical pretense could be maintained at immense cost and for a short interval between the end of industrialisation and the rise of computing. The odds of that mindbogling outlier to ever repeat are about the same as the odds of the Earth capturing another Moon. Plan accordingly.

———Most everyone is left, which includes almost everyone who identifies as "right on some issues" etcetera. Here's some simple heuristics : If you speak English as your only language you are absoloutely left, without possibility of escape. If you're female and have never killed (mammals!) with your own hands (no, abortion doesn't count ; getting the boys to beat each other bloody in highschool also doesn't count, for the same reason) you are absolutely left, irrespective what you may [like to pretend you] think. If you are a "minority" in the modern sense of a "protected class" you are left, irrespective of what you like to publicly pretend. If you've never been called a "sociopath" by lefties pretending to be right you're absolutely left. On it goes, the list is long, as far as the life of the average castratto (they prefer to be called "middle class" ; they also prefer to think castration is ok if it's done for the sake of music and therefore civilisation) is concerned there's nothing but the left all around him.

Socialism (which is what being left is), always and everywhere the perennial doctrine of the stupid, is repugnant in and of itself, but by the time it ends up logically inconsistent as well as practically intolerable you know you're no longer dealing with the plain, simple and ubiquitous left but with the vocally amusing extreme left.

That's it : the difference between the quiet dullards and the offensive idiots is how loud they get and how self defeating their proferations are. Left vs extreme left, a story of the dullard and the rabid. [↩]Perhaps best illustrated by the all-time champions of idiocy, the retarded subhuman scum inhabiting Argentina. [↩]But most of all, an enchanted lala land where all interactions occur on the terms of the object of the interaction rather than on the terms of the agent of the interaction. A hallucinated world where the axe doesn't cut down the tree because it's an axe, but because the tree permits it. A batshit insane alt-reality wherein krill has a say in when it's fished and by whom.

If the world worked this way, if agency were somehow denied altogether they imagine their bubble could forever survive unpunctured, and hence all their bizarre preoccupations with imaginary rapes. [↩]

« Qntra (S.QNTR) January 2017 Statement

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

Category: Cocietate si Sultura

Thursday, 02 February, Year 9 d.Tr.

The New Capitalism

For the practical part of this article, we shall quote from the #eulora logs :

lobbes ok, I was able to get this working on my local devbot, letsee if this works here. Testing...

lobbes !Qauction 2mn 2 Demo Auction

lobbesbot AUCTION # 1 STARTED by lobbes: Demo Auction Opening: 2mn coppers Ending: 2017-02-07 10:18:54 UTC (2 hours)

lobbes !Qauction 4k 4 Demo Auction 2

lobbesbot AUCTION # 2 STARTED by lobbes: Demo Auction 2 Opening: 4k coppers Ending: 2017-02-07 12:19:48 UTC (4 hours)

lobbes !Qbid 2 5mn

lobbesbot AUCTION # 2: Demo Auction 2 Heard: 5mn from lobbes Ending: 2017-02-07 12:19:48 UTC (3.99026459278 hours)

lobbes !Qauctionlist 2

lobbesbot AUCTION # 2: Demo Auction 2 Opening: 4k coppers Highest Bid: 5mn Ending: 2017-02-07 12:19:48 UTC (3.98393601222 hours)

lobbes !Qauction 20 5 Demo Auction

lobbesbot AUCTION # 3 STARTED by lobbes: Demo Auction Opening: 20 coppers Ending: 2017-02-07 13:21:51 UTC (5 hours)

lobbes !Qauctioncancel 2

lobbesbot AUCTION # 2 was cancelled by lobbes

lobbes !Qauctionlist

lobbesbot AUCTION # 1: Demo Auction Opening: 2mn Highest Bid: No bids Ending: 2017-02-07 10:18:54 UTC (1.94675836583 hours)

lobbesbot AUCTION # 3: Demo Auction Opening: 20 Highest Bid: No bids Ending: 2017-02-07 13:21:51 UTC (4.99592494611 hours)

lobbes okay, seems to be working!

lobbes I'll be watching to make sure the 'announce-each-hour' and the 'resolve outstanding auctions' calls are happening as expected.

lobbes I'll post a commands list to the help later this week (off to bed), but basic commands are as follows: !Qauction <opening> <duration in hours> <lot/item string? ; !Qbid <auctionid> <amount> ; !Qauctioncancel <auctionid> ; !Qauctionlist <no args> will list ALL active ; !Qauctionlist <auctionid> will list the info for that ONE auction, regardless if it already expired

lobbes ^ mircea_popescu, et al

The bot is already working, having completed sales worth ~7mn ECu to datei, which (as Pete Dushenski will inform you) are worth something, and which lead directly to

mircea_popescu lobbes and by the way i'm all for your monetizing this. charge people 200 ecu / hour for successful auctions and 1k ecu/hour for auctions that end with no bids to cover for the cost of spamming the channel, and you can keep teh proceeds.

Suppose later on someone else wants to maintain the bot. Evidently he will have to buy the privilege from lobbes, which will conceivably cost more or less depending on how inclined lobbes himself is to continue operating his landed estate. And yes there's some escheat involved, to keep things running smoothly, but outside of rebellion, treason or shocking incompetence my incentive isn't to intervene.

Privilege, you understand, in exactly the feudal meaning of this term. Feudal tenure was historically based on grants of the foncier, which modernity translates as "land" but historically simply means font, as in source. Ie, the king grants the ruling class license to draw from the well of life, in exchange for specific performances and other obligations. That's what feudalism is, and guess what ? It is entirely compatible with capitalism, in any saneii understanding of that term.

Add to this the discussion of DNS as a general conceptiii and the future world order becomes quickly evident. And yes, obviously the enemy will attempt to challenge my control of names, as it's been attempting for a lengthy while. As the saying goes, "that wedge will not prevail"iv.

The path from here to the expulsion of ten million Californian Cathars, to die naked in the desert should be pretty evidently direct ; but if it isn't, let history be your guidev.

———10 stacks TPF at 1.1 mn ECu plus 1 stack WWB at 5.5mn ECu. [↩]Which is to say, in any understanding that excludes socialism. [↩]As carried in the TMSR forum, or for that matter as transparent from the bot spec for instance. [↩]In the example given, wedge #1 ("but mp, in order to use item x you have to do y") directly resolves to "but mp, you are not sovereign", which is laughable. Wedge #2 ("but mp, if you truly are sovereign you will be alone") is, from experience, also laughable -- we're not merely discussing the sad case of the talented mr Kocevar but also the happenstance that more people read Trilema than the fake news establishment. And have. For a while. Add to that #3 here, "but mp, if you call him Bahamas he doesn't thereby become Bahamas", something along the lines of "I think I know how to spell my own name" and you have a cvasi-complete picture of the standard playbook of socialism going forward. [↩]Provided you can read it somewhere, which in female societies is altogether dubious, they're too preoccupied with their idle gossip to be maintaining any sources.

Anyway, let it be clearly stated : the "atrocity" of Hitler's Germany destroying the "future is female" female states of the Jews, or Gypsies is no departure from either natural law, historical norm, or the conceivable. On the contrary, it is very conceivable, entirely normal and absolutely lawful. It was how and why the process started that ended by burning obnoxious nags at the stake in New England -- with the female state of Languedoc, at the time the most highly urbanized area in Europe, populated by dorks who abhored war and killing, and the eating of meat, and etcetera.

There is, to be perfectly clear, no place and no future for that. Not in this wolrd ; likely not in the next either. [↩]

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King's Bounty Reloaded - Mages Still Rule »

Category: Cocietate si Sultura

Wednesday, 08 February, Year 9 d.Tr.

The mother of all unexpected visits

"Can I help you ?"

"Yes. I'm here to see... wait a second... yes. Eugene Alsmith."

"Is he expecting you ?"

"No. No he isn't. In fact, this is the mother of all unexpected visits."

"One minute please."

"Do I know you ?"

"No, you don't."

"What's this about ?"

"This is about that darling Jessica of yours. Ohohoh, what happened ? Did I get your attention now ?"

"How... how do you..."

"How do I know Jessica, you mean ?"

"Yes."

"I know her very well. Next question."

"Wha... what..."

"I had no idea you have a speech impediment. It's cute. Pretty emasculating, don't you think ? She's told me you're as beta as it gets, but she never mentioned you're too much of a cocksucker to speak clearly."

"I... I..."

"Just shut the fuck up, you're bothering the wildlife. Here's the thing : Jessica's late. If you can call having had your last period a month and a half ago late. Also, she pees double lines now."

"Wha... wh..."

"I stuck a bun in her oven, dawg, what's so hard about the concept ? She's keeping it nice and warm at the moment, as she has been for at least six weeks. More, really. She's very good at it, and I have no doubt that before the year is out you're going to be a father. Are you getting a promotion by then ?"

"I... I..."

"Obviously, you'll have to marry her. You understand that, don't you ? And besides, child rearing is expensive. Now that she's started in the family way she's not going to stop, you realise."

"Yes... yes I..."

"Alright, now walk me to my car, I have something for you."

"Get in."

"I have to say..."

"You have to say what I tell you to say. Here. This is the tool that got your baby girl all coming like a madwoman, and all knocked up. What do you think ?"

"I... I..."

"Say it's fucking beautiful, cocksucker."

"It's... it's... it's beautiful."

"Fucking beautiful."

"Fu-fucking b-b-b-b"

"What ?"

"Fucking b-b-beautiful!"

"What do you like about it ?"

"What ?"

"What the fuck do you like about this beautiful tool, you inarticulate shithead."

"The... the... that... that it... that... thick."

"Oh yeah ? That it's thick ? So does her. Now kiss it."

"Wh... wh..."

"Kiss the fucking tool that you and your Jessica both like. Kiss it better motherfucker, who kisses like that. Pull it back, like that yeah, and take the head between your lips. There you go. Now do it again. See ? It grows on you."

"Yeah..."

"Don't take it out of your mouth if I don't tell you to, cocksucker. Keep kissing it all over. Yeah. That's good. Now kiss it with the back of your throat. Yeah, like that. Harder. Put your hands behind your head and push it down hard. Yeah. Harder. Back and forth. There you go. Back and forth. That's right. That's a good cocksucker. Now kiss it and rub it all over your mug. I want you to walk back up there with a proper fuckface, you hear me ?"

"Yes sir."

"Say thank you for getting Jessica pregnant as you're kissing it."

"Yes sir. Thank you... for... getting... Jessica... pregnant... Thank you... for... fucking Jessica... thank you... for... getting...her..."

"That's good. Take a look at yourself in the mirror. Don't you look pretty ?"

"Should I go now ?"

"No, not yet. Take your pants off."

"No, really, it's ok."

"Around your ankles, bitch!"

"Yes sir."

"Your boxers too. What the fuck is this, daytime TV ? Ahahaha what the fuck is that..."

"It's my pecker, sir."

"Not much to be said for it, is there ?"

"No sir."

"You know, you should probably call me sire. I am after all the one with the working tool, as Jessica's ass can attest."

"Yes sire."

"Look in the glove box, there's a little something for you."

"Oh!"

"Do you know what it is ?"

"Yes sire."

"Put it on. There you go. Don't you look great in that thing!"

"Very fitting, sire."

"Alright, get the fuck out of here."

"Yes sire."

"And go straight from home at 5, no dilly-dallying in bars or anything of the sort. You've got serious responsibilities now, and besides, Jessica's got some new rules for you and whatnot, help you settle down in your new life role."

« And now for a special Eulora news bulletin

Der Schlussakkord, o sopirla. »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Thursday, 14 September, Year 9 d.Tr.

The Most Chauvinist Serene Order Of The Holes Gloriouses

That is all, seriously now.

« The disambiguation of laughter

Here's why you will end your days in a concentration camp »

Category: Oda Superbiei

Monday, 18 December, Year 9 d.Tr.

The Mechanic

This is a translation of an earlier article by the same title. The original was written in the very spoken sort of written Romanian I practiced at the time ; as English has no such mode unless you're willing to go Scottish which I'm not, the current piece does the original scarce justice. I'm sorry.

I despise "action" movies.

I get nauseous just thinking about it. Let aside that some fatsos who used to work out ten years ago beached themselves in front of the TV wrapped in the lard that started as primo beef -- but what's the use, if no one ate it -- devouring painted plastic with the painted plastic in which it comes wrapped... supposedly watching action movies. No, dickhead, there's no action involved. They're just as bedridden as any other movie. There's absolutely no difference. A movie in which a male idiot who can't act presents a constant unchanged face to the camera while shooting 25 Giga Joules through a two kilogram piece of metal, which consequently reaches temperatures in the millions of degrees (notwithstanding the fact that all that quantity of spent shells somehow disappeared is perhaps engaging in fusion producing even more energy) is exactly equal to a movie in which a female idiot who can't act presents a constant unchanged face to the camera while snorting daisies and farting skittles or whatever the fuck it is they do. What's the difference ? Is the human wreck beached by the TV ? It is. Does it suck Poca-Pola and Cecsi through a straw ? It does. Is it too lazy to visit the toilet, so it holds it in while mentally spinning on the topic of how much longer can this continue ? It is, and it does. Well, what the fuck ? What action's involved ? No action.

Leaving this aside : there's a copper. But, he's not the copper one sees whenever business takes that one to such a taxpayer-funded copper zoo as they have in "the civilised world", an object too fucking dumb to not sneeze while taking a piss. No such thing. This copper him by himself and of his own initiative (no, seriously now, coppers with initiative and supposedly this isn't a mistaken identity comedy, it's an "action movie") saves the world. So the world, right ? All of it. Including Africa (probably on account of being too fucking dumb to consider the matter of why exactly is he saving some dorks with much bigger schlongs than his who consequently fuck all the hotties which is why he ended up married to an elephantiazis patient). I'm just saying, if I were a copper saving the world I wouldn't also save Africa. But whatever, the dood is himself, he saves the whole world including Africa, and this in spite of his boss who doesn't understand him, just with the help of his helper. Whose name is, let's say, Bula. Or whatever, Tinklebell if it's an US production.

And he disarms bombs. But you know how these are, the bombs ? They've got clocks. Just so you know, if they've no clock on them they're no bombs. At some point ticking was also on the list of requirements, but more recently beeping's good enough. Oh, and the bomb has colored cables. Mother of god, were I a manufacturer of artisanal bombs I'd put nothing but gray wires in all my products, just to fuck with the action movie heroes who will die chunked up by my bombs because I'm not fucked in the head enough to put the wires out where you can fuck with them if they're actually doing anything useful. It's not like that clock's obviously glued on so the potato on the couch can clearly see "how close it was", for being too fucking stupid to figure it out any other way. It's not like the wires are there just so that Pepsiboy gets the impression "he also could". Because other jobs, matters more involved than "grab the cutter cut the wire" he's not capable of undertaking, this universal man incapable on his own initiative of as little as going to take a piss in time.

Or those with the "martials arts" experts -- fuck my dick, there's no such thing. They're not arts, to begin with, they're dancing and gymnastics. And they're not martial, in the second place. They're ballet. Martial comes from war, not from Mary walking on tiptoess across the livingroom in the vague hope that maybe she finds a good husband like that whore on the second floor. So, the story goes, this SEO expert in martial outer spaces keeps injuring himself against the world. But not the world understood as one or two dudes at a time, like when you open the closet door. No such thing, dozens, hundreds, BILLIONS of citizen-enemies, all arranged by the finest calipers such that they'll fall like domino pieces carefully arranged by the caliper.

I recall an encounter of my own with one of these martial arts experts. I was in some bar, the stupid kind with dancing, and I grabbed the ass of some chick as I was coming out of the bathroom (I piss in time, okay ?). She smiled at me and this dude grabbed my shoulder, "Listen friend..." I turned around "Yes ?" and he produced this indescribable noise, you can't properly notate their interjections, something like an old train trying to stop in a rural station, and cracked me one that sent me straight on my ass at my very table, among the five dudes with which as it happens I had come in. Five dudes whose main role in this world was to make sure I don't get beaten up, and whose only hope of survival was my staying alive.

So they grabbed the artist for a corrections round, breaking three different chairs on his dumb face in the process. It should be noted that they weren't "martial arts" experts, as I don't hire idiots. They were jailbirds, those I hire. What the my probiscus, they've paid their debts to society, it's time to make new ones. In any case, the 70 kg martial arts expert did not beat up the half-ton together five dudes! I give you my word of honor, I know it won't be believed because you know better as you've seen the action movies while lifting things with your toes hardcore, watching the ballet artist beat up a whole contingent of coal miners every ten minutes. But in reality, he didn't just fail to beat them up, but ended up with more broken bones than he ever had girlfriends. And I still took his woman home. I'm not saying I took her to my place, I took her to her place, but it's the intention that cunts, aite ?

Anyway. This dude, the cinematic arts expert, doesn't usually save "the world", but his wife, or daughter, usually from a gangbang. Or else he revenges their gangbang, in any case some bullshit in this vein, fascinatory for every closeted homosexual incapable of admitting it (or taking time to piss when he needs to).

And then of course there's your true blockbuster, with the copper martial artist (don't laugh) who saves the world from catastrophe while saving his univiteline twin wives from a planned gangbang with stallions, in spite of the boss who doesn't understand him and with the sole help of a funny busker named Friedjorf, plus variously sophisticated equipmentry (electric pencil sharpener, Bruce Lee's petrified boogers, rhododendron-flavoured anal vibrator etc). After which he dragon-punches some meteorite or something that was loitering about. And this in spite of the boss who doesn't understand him (did I say this part before ? that's ok, they repeat themselves also) and while ignoring a full set of pre-established procedures for the greater good (which greater good he alone can understand and apply, given that he's a very smart fellow and well versed in all parts of philosophy that are called logic).

Ah, and usually there's also some cunt, who broadly speaking contributes tits.

The whole thing is so fucking dumb I can't comprehend how the actors manage to not crack up laughing. I have some working hypotheses :

They're so fucking stupid they literally have no inkling of what's going on and just how ridiculous they're being. This'd be possible if they hired ex-boxers exclusively, which is to say some people whose brainbox didn't pedal all that well to begin with, and certainly doesn't pedal at all anymore, after Stephen Hawking is the last one left to not have cracked them one in the jaw.

There's ten minute breaks every two minutes of footage, during which they bring in beggars and patients from the hospital of cancer for children on the set, and proceed to cut these up with a rusty straight razor. So the "acting" is really a sort of shock.

They get chemified to Trompi, they shove everything and anything from botox to that thing the faggots use to expand their butthole, I forget what it's called into them. By the shovelfull. This'd explain the face, but it wouldn't explain how come they move. Whatever, maybe they're on wires or something.

But seriously now, punching meteorites and disarming bombs by wirecutting. Any one of you could spend ten minutes searching teh Interwebs and another ten minutes following instructions, thereby producing a bomb that'd send straight to Heaven (which is where idiots go) the hero-artist-policeman-martial, alongside the sidekick, the director, the producer and a good portion of the "love interest"'s artificial boob material. And you wouldn't even need any kind of red wires. What red wires did that McVeigh character have in his van, and who cut them, dearie ? Mumu.

Yet let's say for the hell of it that you're the perverse kind, after all you're reading Trilema. So you mount an electronic timer on the bundle of joy. What's the big deal, can be had for a few dollars, not a problem. Ok, you've mounted it. Tell me now that you also set it to the right time. First of all who the fuck has the patience to set up clocks, my cellphone for instance thinks it's July 1st 2009, 19:45. Because that's how long it's been since I last dropped it so it went into parts. I did gather it, and reconstruct it, but for setting the clock I could summon no energy. And before that its clock was also in the same situation, so it can't be said I sufferent some notable information loss. And secondly, why not set it 47 seconds late, just to fuck with people ? 0:59 "dramatic" music, 0:49 close-up on the hero's forehead sweat, as he's fucking with some decorative wires, 0:47 BOOM! Seriously now, there should be a film like this just to troll the idiots, they'd probably piss themselves and get the couch wet too.

What's worse, I can't grok for the life of me who the fuck would pay to see new "action movies". New, aite ? What the fuck is new ? Oh, the clock is now beeping instead of ticking ? Thanks, but I really can supplant this by the power of my imagination. New action movies is straight nonsense, they're all exactly the same much like Lindsay Lohan's ugly mug affixed here on the right. Or like the "music" of the latest music girls, they're so different from each other I can't distinguish them anymore than I can distinguish my own earwax. Can you ? If you can, you possibly are spending too much time analyzing your earwax, I suspect.

It's also boring, so in the 1930s there was a dude with a long moustache tying some dumb ho on the railroad. Then in the 40s the Nazis, mang, the bad people. Not the Russians, the nazis were the bad people. Then in the 50s "scientists", those were the problem, there's a scientist somewhere with happenstantially-Einsteinian hair, and he does the bad in some abandoned bellfry somewhere. As it happens "scientists" of that kind were exactly the reason shitheads could even watch color TVs instead of, picking randomly, spending their ample idle time inside the Arbeit Macht Free fence. Rather ungrateful. But then by the 70s it was something with teh drugs, then moving into the 90s it's terrorists. And the bombs have evolved from some kind of mechanical spearhead adjusted so as to impale some blondy cuntwise to absurd nonsense in the vein of "polar cap melting ray" and then "bombs" which are some kind of "nuclear" something or other. Preferably something that couldn't possibly exist.

Which takes us to the most amusing, and most painful problem of action movies : reality. You know, that thing which takes place after, before and while you're watching TV. Name the policeman who avoided by his own self that big Oklahoma blast, through cutting the red wire. What was his name ? Oh, you forgot his name ? Me too. But who's the hardass who caught that Las Vegas shooter guy, in spite of the spiteful boss and the suffocating red tape, even before that madman sent five dozen useless ESLtards to meet Saint Osama (which in a way is almost like the end of the world, I admit) ? Oh, wait, he was caught... after, not before. After killing himself, that is, before that he held his own against the idiots no problem.

But what was the name of that (martial) artist who beat up with his bare hands a dozen Kuran lickers, found in different planes all airborne ? Wasn't that one hell of an action movie, how the martial was jumping from plane to plane, ten thousand kilometers apart and way up in the sky ? Our good fortune that we had such a hero on the side of Good, else what the fuck, bad things could have happened. They might've flown those things into like skyscrapers or the pentagon or something. Oh, wait. They actually did hit some skyscrapers. And the pentagon ?! Fucking hell, and where was this martial artist guy ? Did the government photoshop him from all the pictures ? Is there some kind of world conspiracy at work ?

The first and most important thing a trainer even remotely competent will point out is to stay the fuck out of trouble. Simple things like "if you see some dudes carrying pipes marching with a frown, take a left". And yet, I've yet to see the martial in one of these action movies try and stay out of trouble. Which means that any trainer even remotely competent'd have a) broken his head off for idiocy and b) kicked them out of his gym for idiocy. Perhaps not necessarily in this order.

So, how did the policeman who's no policeman by any conceivable standard and the karateka-thaiboxer-whatever that'd be thrown out of any dojo on Earth such major cinema tropes and cultural icons ? It wouldn't be on account of the watchers being idiots, by any chance ?

Alright then. This is the whole thing with The Mechanici : it's a bad remake of a bad action movie. The first was useless in the 70sii, this one's just as useless today. It'd try for a comparative, but it's not possible, they're both equal. To zero. In there starring, if the word can be so abused, Jason Statham. The guy had some decent parts in the excellent films of Madonna's husband, one Guy Ritchie. They were secondary roles. Under the harness of a competent director, a rather dim bulb such as Statham managed memorable parts, much like in a well run corporation all sorts of vegetalians, great lovers of action movies, manage to produce slightly above what they consume, an arrangement which they could never ever reach on their own.

Some idiots thought of giving him main parts. In which he sucks horribly. Practically speaking he's a sort of Teo Trandafiriii : existent for as long as he exists as a small cog in a large mechanism. Visible, but utterly irrelevant. When it tries to be the mechanism... mumu.

That's about it. I want my money back for this film, notwithstanding I didn't pay to see it nor did I watch the whole thing as by the 20th minute the chicks started taking turns on my cock.

It's that bad.

———2011, by Simon West, with Mini Anden and some faggots. [↩]The Mechanic, 1972, by Michael Winner, with Charles Bronson. [↩]A sort of Romanian Megyn Kelly. [↩]

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Category: Trilematograf

Tuesday, 17 October, Year 9 d.Tr.

The Master's Textbook - Why do girls seek you out ?

This is a translation of a 2011 piece, Manualul stapinului - De ce va cauta fetele ?

Since the recent liberalisation of societyi ever more people are seeking their place in the world.

Liberalisation always complicates life ; the more that's allowed, the more opinions you're required to form. This would be the principal reason oldsters regret communism : it was a lot simpler, mister, you knew what's what, good and bad, conventionally, because you were told. You knew what fits you and what doesn't fit you, indifferently as to whether it fit any or not at all whatsoever, because there was who to take decisions for you. The dummies became car driversii and shop girlsiii, the smarties engineersiv and teachersv, everyone married, everyone two children, everyone bedroom furniture Feliciavi and kitchen sets Christina or whatever they were called. The problem of choice was essentially absent. What kind of milk we wish to buy ? What do you mean what kind ?! Milk! What furniture do we intend to buy ? Well, that depends, what are we furnishing ? Is it a kitchen or a bedroom ? See how readily all problems find their solution!

In a freevii society this isn't nearly as easy, because there's kinds of milk, of which some aren't even milk, so caveat emptor and I wonder what kind of milk does Mary buy, and what kind does Jane drink, and why's Eve not drinking milk at all, what's better, to drink or not to drink ? Does anything happen if you drink milk ?viii How much milk did Napoleon drink ? What matters, in the ruckus of options, possibilities, opinions, preferences, warnings, dangers (which are real ? which are imaginary ?) and so forth ?

The concept entered our life at some point in junior high, when during French class, among the words and expressions of distinguished inutility (moissoneuse-bateuse ?!) a new camelostrichix rose its strange head, the so called "embarras du choix". Some kids dressed about the same (but not quite as the same as the previous generations) read there all about the problem, the impossibility, the difficulty and the degout of choice, and thought in their own heads "What suckers, what degenerates unworthy of the world are these Westerners we admire! Let them bring their choices forth, and we'll make them for you, yo! Louses! To not be capable of that much, to choose what you want or what you should or what is best ayayayaya your poor heads, the women at least, are you capable of mounting thosex ?

Yet seen from the other side, the problem of choice is the principal limit to scientific development. Logically speaking, who or what prevents you from building a teleporter ? A, it's possible that it's impossibile ? Of course it's possible. Maybe it breaks the laws of physics. You know what else breaks the laws of physics ? A pump. Yes, a pump, it pushes water uphill, whereas the laws of physics demand water flow downhill. And an airplane breaks the laws of physics, the same ones, because it floats although it's heavy. And computers break the laws of physics, and absolutely everything around breaks a certain, sufficiently pedestrian, formulation of the laws of physics.

What prevented all those who lived before the pump was invented from inventing a pump ? What prevented Newton or Pericle from inventing an aeroplane ? Ah, exactly the paradox of choice. It seemed to them they have better things to do with their time, by virtue of the fact that there existed areas in the universe of representations drowning them then that seemed more apt to receive their ordering. That's why the Greek steam engine, or the atoms of the same Greeks, or Michelangelo's helicopter didn't end up too far at those times : people failed to make the correct choices.

Every act of scientific research (which is, essentially and paradigmatically speaking necessarily the model of any act of existence in the world) is based on choices : between the important and the irrelevant, the possible and the impossible, the functional and the dysfunctional and so following. The problem of choice isn't, in other words, a defect of freedom. It is a defect implicit in the world itself, which authoritarianism aims to cover, often by inventing false problems, thereby creating a false silence.

False or not, said silence can be very useful, very productive, and absolutely beneficial for the individuals, given their limited capacities. In fact, the word "silence" is not used by accident : currently, admitting that you're sitting in silence, you have in your own ears a fine example. This apparent silence that surrounds you is actually based on your own deafness, for you don't hear the noise of Brownian motion. If you heard it, it'd sound about the same as white noise on an old TV set disconnected from its antenna (which works exactly as a detector of background noise, not resulting from Brownian motion however, because it's not a mechanical detector like the eardrum, but instead resulting from charge variations and quantum phenomena in the amplifier circuits).

If you found yourself surrounded by deafening, perpetual commotion, it's improbable you'd manage to think, or live. In fact, what'd happen is pretty well documented : you'd die. Crazy. Which is why it's not surprising that the human body, this cvasi-perfect object, induces deafness if it's confronted with loud or overlong noise, as a defense mechanism. A false deafness, to create a false silence, to allow life to continue.

This then takes us, after the lengthy introduction, exactly to being able to answer the titular question. Why do the girls seek you out ? Well, they seek you out because of your magical capacity of ensuring their silence. Obviously many of them represent this search in sexual terms, or psychological, or who knows what else, especially if they've no experience in the field. Nevertheless, the fundamental truth is that the Master can assure at least some degree of silence.

The notion that slavery implies necessarily less existence, or a weaker degree of existence than freedom is false. The majority of researchers, and especially the vast majority of young researchers carry their work within bounds drawn by others. Dicklet the Physicist does not establish the research paradigm at the age of twenty except for the rarest of cases (and then his name's never Dicklet, because can you imagine how that'd sound in a textbook ?)

As such, the role of the Master is precisely this, to systematically discern the essential from the unimportant, and to impose these choices as an absolute given, thereby freeing the slavegirl from the burden of answering all questions at the same time, and allowing her to answer a few exceptionally well.

That's why the girls seek you out : because you're capable of making silence, annulling the noise such that they can focus on the things that actually matter, to them. It's not an altogether common capacity, it's true, and it rather goes against the hopes and aspirations of the kids, as lo it's neither a matter of a large organ, nor of money nor so forth. Again and again exceptional situation comes down to exceptional ability and exceptional competence. Isn't it fucking annoying ?

But such is life.

———Sounds weird, doesn't it ? What's it mean "recent", it's always been liberal, neh ?

Not really, no. But then again the only thing new in this world...

Moreover, liberalisation here does very much not denote "increased progressivism", "raised awareness", etcetera, as the text will no doubt reveal to you in its unyielding flow. [↩]In Romanian, always male. [↩]In classical Romanian, a shop clerk is always female. [↩]In Romanian, almost always male. [↩]In Romanian, always always female. [↩]I've stated this numerous times but it bears repeating : a planned economy, such as the US is moving towards (by necessity rather than choice, you think the Chinese will long indulge the pretense of consumer choice from some people who have no money ?), contains one kind of underwear for all the girls, to be taken off on the one kind of bed found in the one kind of bedroom. That's it. [↩]Perhaps a better word would be "open", such as Soros spent his adult life trying to help build, at least declaratively.

For what it's worth, I believe. And I also could have told him in 1960 that his efforts, not in spite but because coordinated, insistent, financed -- which is to say, not exactly impotent, outright and visibly so -- will in due time earn him a spot on the Enemies of The People List. Because that's how "The People" fucking work, what. You think Stalin did the Stalin purges ? What else do you think ?

Intr-o tara comunista, cind esti fire arivista si-ai si-un caracter sinistru poti ajunge repede Ministru.

Dupa ce-ncasezi la prime, si te faci partas la crime, esti bagat la inchisoare, si-apoi condamnat pentru tradare.

~ Jean Moscopol.

Ie, in a communist place, if you're an upward mobile nature also blessed with a sinister character you can readily end up a state minister ; after you cash their checks and become part of their crimes they'll stick you in jail and then convict you for treason.

That's plain enough to read, but what does it mean ? How's it to be understood ? Perhaps that's not equally plain ?

Whatever you may think "communist" means, or is supposed to mean, what the string denotes here is one of the two possible manners of organising society. If "the people" are sovereign, to make their own rules for themselves, as they best see fit, that place is communist. Conversely, if the people are not sovereign but subjects, of an individual invested (arbitrarily, of course) with immanent transcendence (aka divine right), then that place is... not-communist. That's the dichotomy here, either you have Plato's monarchy, as he imagined it, or else you have Plato's democracy, as he himself actually lived it.

Do you know how that went, by the way, Plato's democracy ? How a bunch of imbeciles set out to butchering their betters in Athens ? How they sent people to every respectable citizen's house to force him to either kill someone on their list, thereby becoming a party to the carnage, or else engage in "treason" as they defined it ? Oh, don't tell me, teh FBI agents training courses you took to date inexplicably omitted these little historical details. Did they also forget to mention how the whole idiocy cost Plato Socrate's respect ? How they rather made the foremost thinker of the classical world repent thought, or at the very least the effort of teaching ? As a matter in principle, teaching anyone anything whatsoever.

So : "if the land is unsettled, which is to say the lower class is going about brandishing items inadequate for its station", so far. Let's continue.

Ariviste, the French concept, similarily found in Romanian, is not well served by the UStardian notion of "upwards mobile" for the very simple, obvious and direct reason contained in the "tard" part of UStard. These people are fucked in the head, is the point, and they imagine the irredeemably bad notion of arivism as the indisputably good concept of "upward mobility". This failure, where they look at shit and think to themselves "food" is very much the diagnostic, whole and complete, of what exactly do we mean by them being not simply "others", auslanders, but actually not-people. Yes there exist organisms which see shit and think food. Necessarily, as a biological absolute, those organisms can't be of the same kind as the organisms that produce the shit!

If indeed you are a great man, what Plato'd have referred to as "made of gold" accidentally borne to inferior parents (and I do not mean "socially" inferior, as an excuse -- but entirely, substantially, personally and inescapably inferior, as what they actually are) ie made of tin or zamak or whatever, then yes it's perfectly fine and good for you to float to your own level. However that's not how UStards think the matter, but in characteristic fashion they reverse the cart and horses. They say "because I floated to the surface, therefore I must be good". This is wrong, turds float to the surface "intr-o tara Comunista". That's the point, that the replacement of legitimate authority with the always illegitimate authority of the sociopath horde leads to widespread environmental destruction, affecting in second place the production of objects, but in first place the structure of meaning.

That's the point of Cicero's "equidem is sum qui istos plausus, cum popularibus civibus tribuerentur, semper contempserim" : that "intr-o tara comunista" the applause of the delusional mob seeing itself as some kind of arbiter is actual poison, and will lead you astray. It is, if you wish, a negative signal, which is why Hussein Bahamas or Britney Spears are turds (and indistinguishable turds at that) while Joe Stack a hero rather than the other way around. Thereby our correct translation continues to, "if the land is unsettled, which is to say the lower class is going about brandishing items inadequate for its station and you are one of those lost souls apt to confuse the passing of the exam with the faking of the exam". Good so far, further now!

What is a sinister character ? The word comes into current language from late Middle English, where it ended up stranded from Old French, which imported it from Latin, where it meant... left. As opposed to right, which was in fact confused with the Sun and properness. Will a natural directness, a firm solarity, a square sort of dullness save you from the scum of your own nature and the collaborating pressures of the shitty environment ? Or are you rather a subtler kind, an "adaptable" sort of scumbag, the sort of sinister character that will imagine alignment between his own nature and the sorry state of the world is some kind of proof of correctness ?

And so here we go : "if the land is unsettled, which is to say the lower class is going about brandishing items inadequate for its station, and if you are one of those lost souls apt to confuse the passing of the exam with the faking of the exam, and if you're not blessed with a functioning heart to moderate the broken head, you can readily end up a government minister."

Because no, it is not a respectable thing, it is not a proper thing, it is certainly not an impressive thing and absolutely not a good thing for you, Richard. A man should go where he won't be tempted, said sir Thomas, and right he was. Here :

"Italian silver. Take it. No joke."

"Thank you."

"What will you do with it ?"

"Sell it."

"And buy what ?" (For what does it profit a man to take the whole world if he giveth his soul for it ?)

"A decent gown!"

"But Richard... that's a little bribe. At court they offer you all sorts of things, home, manor houses, coats of arms. A man should go where he won't be tempted. Why not be a teacher ? You'd be a fine teacher. Perhaps a great one."

"If I was, who would know it ?" (For I'm an UStard so unconvinced of my own existence, I need others to inform me of it!)

"You! Your pupils. Your friends. God. Not a bad public, that. And a quiet life."

"You say that. You come from talking with the Cardinal."

"Yes, talking with the Cardinal. It's eating your heart out, isn't it ? The high affairs of state."

Now do we understand each other ? [↩]Why exactly do you suppose kids' chocolates must include a toy inside ? Being good ain't good enough, something's gotta happen to translate the good to you ? What exactly should happen ? Flying, screaming, jumping through the air ? Spiking volleyballs, jetskis, girls in bikinis ?

Maybe you're putting too much ice in yours. [↩]The word is celebrated in Romanian because it was introduced derisively cca 1600s, by Dimitrie Cantemir, a sort of Novelist-King of Romania. He's still widely read, by the way. [↩]Enfin, it can't be said junior high kids thought in exactly these terms, but it can be said they thought the exact same thing, much like they had wet dreams which worked exactly like all other wet dreams of anyone else, except that in their case as opposed to the "normal", their juvenile wet dreams did not include any representation of cunt anywhere, given that they didn't know what one looked like. But otherwise everything was functionally the same.

Speaking of which, I recall reading in some periodical recently the story of some guy, from his youth, when he had at his university some overactive Latinoamerican for a colleague, who didn't understand why aren't they making a war ?! When was there a war last ?! And when someone retorted that his grandfather had enough of war, he came back very dissatisfied with a "Yeah ? Then let your grandfather do all the fucking, also!" [↩]

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Category: Lifespiel

Saturday, 30 September, Year 9 d.Tr.

The Mangocratic Oath

"How about a mango ?"

"Sure... but what if it's poisonous ?"

"Naaa."

"How do you know ?"

"It's a mango. They can't be poisonous, would go against their Mangocratic oath."

"What's that ?"

"You see, each mango gets to swear a Mangocratic oath. An official bee comes by when it's but a flower and administers it."

"But there's so many mangos. How could a single bee handle all of them ?"

"Oh, it's not a single official bee. There's lots of them. They have an office for official bees and everything."

"Are you saying there's a beerocracy ?"

"O ya."

"They're probably all drones."

The problem with taking in six-year-old slavegirls is that you have to explain everything to them!

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Category: Zsilnic

Wednesday, 23 August, Year 9 d.Tr.