You will regret having read this

Foedus perianale is an invasive arachnid species whose reproduction process makes it an obligate parasite of large mammals (including hominids).

Sexual dismorphism is present to a very marked degree : while the males rarely exceed four milimeters in length, weighing between one and two grams, the females generally exceed 20 grams. The largest known specimen weighed in at no less than 42 grams (about an ounce and a half). Their abdomen, very vividly colored and protected by six rings of hairs, go from approximately peanut sized before impregnation to almost the size of a walnut right before partum.

The female does not lay eggs, to be fecundated outside the body as is common with arthropods ; instead, the eggs form in a special amniotic sac inside its lower abdomen. Once fecundated, the eggs require a relatively high temperature for their maturation, which is probably the proximate cause of this spider's very peculiar behaviour : the female will seek out large mammals during the night, and will burrow itself abdomen-first into their anal cavity.

The installed female assumes a very specific position, with its legs spread out in a tell-tale pattern (the "brown star" or "kiss of dark" as it is commonly known). It bites down into the perianal tissue of the host, with its chelicerae constantly feeding a complex venom into the perianal lymphatic circuit of the host. The as-yet not fully described cocktail of alkaloids and other substances has a direct effect on peristalsis, rendering the host completely constipated for the six to ten day duration of the nesting. There are also less well understood effects, with the human host apparently incapable to conceive of the infestation, apparently unable to see it even if confronted with a mirror, and in any case entirely unaware of its own constipation.

Once the eggs mature, the spiders burst forth out of the mother's abdomen, in the process killing her. They voraciously feed on feces for the 8 to 36 hour interval necessary for the host constipation to resolve, after which are ejected into the environment and assume adult life directly (the males will never significantly grow throughout their shorti lives).

Some studies seem to suggest infestation leaves a propensity of further future infestation in the host, with human subjects observed to engage in specified risk behaviours (such sitting bare-bottom in the dewy grass or on wet tree stumps by the edge of broadleaf forests, often deliberately removing garments and undergarments without apparent awareness of the matter) which are either denied by the subject or explained away unconvincingly.

There are no adverse health effects known ; the rate of infestation is anecdotically placed at "between one and ten in a hundred" by a straw poll conducted among active proctologists. Further studies are necessary to clarify various aspects of this mysterious parasitism.

———An interesting element of Foedus perianale's life is that males rarely survive two weeks, but sexually mature within about a week and go on to fecundate already adult females, born either one or two generations prior. There's always cross-generational genetic interaction because of this pattern, and the species could not survive the extinction of all but one generation -- it requires at least two females of different ages to maintain itself. [↩]

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Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Thursday, 27 July, Year 9 d.Tr.

Why is "fighting corruption" the pantsuit callsign ?

There's a five years old piece on why corruption can never be eliminated that was never meaningfully engaged by the pantsuit ideologues for a very good reason : there's absolutely nothing they could possibly say.

"Fighting corruption" is not a rational process directed towards some sort of goal. "Fighting corruption" is a foreigni policy toolii directed at... levelling the field.

Consider a simple snowglobe rendition of the problem. The law (which is a term of art, and a specific item in this system) says "thou shalt not smoke" (or anything else -- kill, fuck women unaskediii, whatever it may be). I sit my ass down right in "your" safe space and light up a cigar. What now ?

The "corrupt" reaction will be to observe that I'm a special case : as your superior the law does not apply to me ; I can do whatever the fuck I please. This completely resolves the problem : you shall not smoke, except if I feel like (but not you). The law stays as it is, corruption allows specific, individualized exception to it that's well taylored to the circumstance and the parties involved and everything can continue unmolested : you reading your comic books on the iPad, me running the world.

The pantsuit reaction will be to... preempt. Instead of plainly and flagrantly breaking the law, I will haveiv hired lobby whores to write exceptions into the law for me. Doh.

As a result, the laws will become unknowably complex. This is no small matterv. Also as a result, society will be isolated : no longer will the superior intermingle with the inferior, but instead I'll hang out at special clubs off limits to the plebs, while the plebs have to huddle together in the misery of "social media", which is to say bedbugs & plastic.

This brings us directly to the levelling the field aspect mentioned earlier : the situation in which the "best country in the world" finds itself is one of deep desocialization and consequent extreme internal weakness. The much stronger arrangements of the orcsvi are a certain, real and very present threat to it. Consequently, it naturally attempts to destroy them : if orc can be persuaded to believe "corruption" is a problem rather than the symptom of his superiority over the faggoty colonizers, why, maybe some islands of Manhattan could be had for 40 bucks' worth of shiny beads.

The empire does what it can to extend its very tenuous grasp on the future. The only important question in all this is, why exactly are you buying into it ? The utterly insane illusion that through some kind of maneuvering you will negate my natural advantage, and no longer have to admit both my superiority to you and your inferiority to me ? Why in the burning hells would you even want such a thing!

———Ever wondered why corruption is never discussed internally, notwithstanding blue USG is both the largest and the most deeply corrupt organisation ever ? [↩]Whatever your country might be, an exact replica of this applies, being all they've got really. [↩]Do you see the difference between "fuck women unasked", in the sense that the woman is the object and unasked is the property of that object, and "fuck women unbidden", in the sense that the woman is the agent and your property is the performance on call ? Just in case you don't. [↩]Yes, I will have, future in the past. What, you think the law can catch anyone unawares ? That's counterdefinitional to what the law is! If law catches you unaware you're an idiot (such as were the Jews caught unaware in Europe, say). [↩]Yes, I'm aware it keeps the SOPS class fed. It destroys everything else in the process, much like open wounds keep the flies fed, it's true, but a) the flies are not a proper part of the organism but a latter adition to it due to disease and b) the cost of maintaining flies in this manner exceeds what the organism can support. [↩]The avion ti gori people managed to run Belgrade even without a government, or money. People still showed up to work every morning, and so following. This is a nation, even if small, as opposed to an empire, no matter how large (empires are never rich). [↩]

« Mafioso

Color revolutions (green), or today in USG corruption : Careerism, cronyism and malfeasance in the Special Warfare Center »

Category: SUA care este

Wednesday, 29 November, Year 9 d.Tr.

Why god has died.

Nevermind god for a second, let's look at something else.

So, the position of the literary "critic", or however you'd call him, is very tenuous indeed. Here's how it goes :

A third party (the author) produces a string S.

This may be productive for the author (economically, morally, sexually, however), but most often it is not.

The "critic" then endeavours to extract more out of whatever sloppy seconds are left after the original author is done.

To be perfectly clear : authors produce for all sorts of reasons, from patent insanity to an irritated esthetic, ethic or otherwise sense ; or because they happen to be drunk, or inspired or transported or anally probed by aliens, muses, machine elves etcetera ; or because they hope to be rich and famous ; or because they already are rich and famous ; or for all sorts of reasons. Critics, however, write for one reason, and one reason only : to get something by it. Whether it's money, or fame, or the favours of some smegmatic cunt -- there's no such thing as the critic who writes for any other reason than the hope of extraction, of benefit of some kind or another.

There are cases where the critic is actually an author himself, either an incomplete, impotent author ("Please do not eat the daisies" tells a great story in this vein) or else the fully blown item (such as you can admire on this here our sheet of immorality, Trilema) and thereby his "criticism" is merely a literary device, a transparent pretext. These cases are however rare, and such authors may be also critics, but they'll never be critics full stop, critics as such and plain-and-simplei.

On top of all these indignities the gods have rightfully piled on the deserving, the critic's position is made even more tenuous by the following circumstance : while the author may speak of whatever he pleases, the critic must speak of S! He's stuck, in a way the author isn't, and what's worse : this relevancy, this "about-S"ness is actually a foundational promise of the critic. If it should be the case that his verbiage turns out to not actually be about S, then whatever he managed to extract goes right into the injust enrichment pile, probably to be refunded!

For instance, the teacher who purports to teach Physics but turns out to have taught pseudo-Physics may manage to avoid having to repay whatever fees he already pocketed for his services, but is surely out of a job. Similarily, the "university" professor passingii himself for a critic of, say, Proust, should he be shown to have not, for instance, ever read Proust will thereby lose his job. Such is the indignity of the critic's position : his life's work is his livelihood, and his livelihood entirely depends on his having a close relation with S.

This opens the critic to the sorest fate of them all : because the author has a priviledged relationship with S, it therefore is the case that the critic's livelihood, and thereby his life's work, is entirely at the mercy of the author! Should the author stand up in the forum and invalidate the critic-S relationship, in whatever manner, such as for instance declaring "this dood has no fucking idea what he's talking about", the critic's up shit creekic without a paddleic.

Once the final throes of industrialization (sometimes called post-industrialization) have smashed together sufficient ex-laborers into dead end functions so that the universities were so fulla "professors" they actually started competing with each other!iii the critics then finally organized together for political ends (or in proper words -- to try and rob the public treasury for their own benefit). First on the list, obviously, the most burning problem of them all : that pesky author, and his hierarchial position over them.

How! They, clever, independent pantsuit-wearing scions of ourdemocracy to be mere slaves on the farm owned by another ? No! And so the solution was readily found : the author, see, has died! And as the author died, the slaves of yesteryear inherited the land, and get to sleep in finery and get to call the shots.

But why was this solution so readily found ? Why... because it... was found... once before. You see, the transition from the original Jewish god, eternal, omniscient and very, very angry to the catholic-protestant "Jesus", a ridiculous concoction, substantially as well as fundamentally undivine is exactly this same thing!

He has a pet dog, now, you see. God has a pet dog, and picket fences, and a mother, and a wife and a girlfriend, and of course credit cards.iv The God 2.0 of catholic-protestancy has all the good things, and especially the best one of them all : he can now die!

A god that can die is a fabulous item, because you see... finally... the death of the author! God can die, and the critics can tell you it was "for you", which it wasn't. It was for them.

God so much loved this world, he went down to the unemployment office to stand in line so Hillary can yak importantly about herdemocracy. And so should you!

Isn't soviet life wonderful ?

———Teachers are a particular case of critics plain-and-simple. They usually hope to get a little money by it, and a lot of respect. Rarely, they hope to get exactly what G. Petronius describes :

"In Asiam cum a quaestore essem stipendio eductus, hospitium Pergami accepi. Vbi cum libenter habitarem non solum propter cultum aedicularum, sed etiam propter hospitis formosissimum filium, excogitavi rationem qua non essem patri familiae suspectus amator. Quotiescunque enim in convivio de usu formosorum mentio facta est, tam vehementer excandui, tam severa tristitia violari aures meas obsceno sermone nolui, ut me mater praecipue tanquam unum ex philosophis intueretur. Jam ego coeperam ephebum in gymnasium deducere, ego studia eius ordinare, ego docere ac praecipere, ne quis praedator corporis admitteretur in domum.

Forte cum in triclinio iaceremus, quia dies sollemnis ludum artaverat pigritiamque recedendi imposuerat hilaritas longior, fere circa mediam noctem intellexi puerum vigilare. Itaque timidissimo murmure votum feci et: "Domina, inquam, Venus, si ego hunc puerum basiavero, ita ut ille non sentiat, cras illi par columbarum donabo". Audito voluptatis pretio puer stertere coepit. Itaque aggressus simulantem aliquot basiolis invasi. Contentus hoc principio bene mane surrexi electumque par columbarum attuli expectanti ac me voto exsolvi.

[↩]The word denotes what transsexuals and crossdressers do when they pretend to be the gender they aren't ; and also what pseudointellectuals do when they pretend to a life of the mind. [↩]Think, what fucking nonsense this is, when you have more supposedly qualified professors than you have jobs for them! How, how could such a situation make any sort of sense ? [↩]Oh, you think I'm making shit up to go with the flow ? I'm not making it up, the shit's right there. Jahveh never fucking said "give unto Cesar", now did he ? [↩]

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Category: Gandesc, deci gandesc

Tuesday, 01 August, Year 9 d.Tr.

Why did the chicken cross the road ?

There's a lot on the net dealing with this topic, and it's all the same fucking thing, recopied ad infinitum on pointless websites run by witless idiots from what appears to be the same 1980ish Usenet source.

Let us then put to shame the theory that no intellect capable of any sort of useful production has been known to the world in thirty years by putting on public display the sad fact that there's actually just one. Mine.

Without further ado, I give you the philosophy of chickens crossing roads :

Heraclitean : Chickens are found interminably, indefinitely moving, left, right, up, down, circularily, linearily and along spirals. As a necessary result of this endless moving about, sooner or later each chicken will cross all roads. If you are interested, I also have a proof that no chicken can cross the same road twice.

Zenon of Elea-ean : To cross the whole road, the chicken first had to cross the road half way. To cross the road halfway, however, the chicken first had to cross the road half way of the half way, which is to say a quarter of the way. To cross that quarter of the way, the chicken still had to cross the first eighth of the way first, and so following through division infinitely. An infinity of distances can only be traversed in an infinity of intervals, and consequently no chicken has yet crossed any road, nor will within finite time. Morever, the chicken supposed to be crossing roads and the chicken sitting on the side both occupy the same space, and therefore necessarily are found both in the same state.

Epicurean : Crossing the road, the chicken doubtlessly felt great joy. Through the crossing it showed us that it freed itself of the overwhelming fear of death, of bodily suffering and the turmoil of the soul. That chicken is the wisest of all chickens which crosses the road.

Aristotelian : In the reality correspondent to the statement we can identify four fundamental causes : causa materialis, of the matter uniting chicken and the road ; causa formalis, of the form distinguishing chicken from road ; causa finalis, of the purpose of chicken and the purpose of road ; and finally causa efficiens, which in the end impels the chicken to cross the road and the road to be crossed by chickens. Nevertheless, none of these show why any certain chicken would cross any definite road. We can nevertheless say that the chicken contained the potentiality of crossing roads, and when this potentiality encountered in act the potentiality of the road to be crossed by chickens the chicken crossed the road. Nevertheless, act being anterior to potential, it follows that the chicken made the road so as to be crossed by it.

Baruchian : A determined chicken crossing the road is necessarily determined by God. Were the chicken not determined by God, it could not determine itself, not even enough so as to cross a road. Were this chicken blessed with intellect and the quality of seeing matters sub specie aeternitatis, it would have discovered itself to be naught more than a modus of the one Substance, immuable and eternal that is properly called God. It is therefore proper to say God crossed the road, sive gallina.

[Des]Cartesian : It is probable the chicken erred had it crossed the road. The chickenly intellect being more strictly limited than any chicken's will, it was easy for the latter to overpower the former and from this prepotence error was borne -- for its freedom, manifested in the act of crossing the road, was not preceded by knowledge through divine grace. It is therefore entirely conceivable a chicken crossing the road is godless by that crossing.

Leibnizian : The Supreme Monad pre-established through Universal Harmony that the chicken-monad shall cross the road-monad, without the two thereby realising any exchange of their true natures. As the event took place, it was impossible for it to not occur. Even were the chicken run over by a cart, the unexpected completion of the crossing of the road would have been equally well, as part of the best of all possible worlds which is the extant.

Kantian : The concept of chicken and the concept of road are empirical separate concepts. To know whether the chicken generally crossed the road in the general, the concept of a chicken is not sufficient, seeing how its analytical decomposition does not yield any crossings of any roads. "The chicken crossed the road" is a sintetic a posteriori judgement ; were the crossing of roads part of the concept of a chicken, we'd have been instead dealing with an analytical a priori judgement, pure if the two concepts hadn't occured to intellect through experience. Unfortunately, as I have never encountered a chicken crossing the road myself, as people in Konigsberg long took to adjusting their watches by my walks and as a result taking all roosters to the pot and further down the road finding themselves without chickens for lack of roosters to perpetuate their kind, which is to say as I've never had the opportunity to apply the pure categories of my intellect to the sensible givens of chickens and roads, I can't even surmise why a chicken in general would cross an arbitrary road in particular.

Rousseauian : I saw the chicken cross the road, and across the road I saw a virgin forest. Through the symbolic crossing the domesticated chicken returned to its true chickenly nature, which is not social, in the coop, but rather the primitive state of the sylvester chicken, that has in its breast but two strings -- the call of the principle of its self preservation and the twang of repulsion towards the scalding and the plucking of other chickens. Therefore the act of the chicken crossing the road signified a contestment of the contract extant between chickendom and society in general, a contract through which they renounced too much of the self in exchange for too little in the way of roost real estate and guaranteed daily meals.

Schopenhauerian : That chicken which you say has crossed the road is naught but instrument of the eternal Will. Activity, movement, the crossing of a road are all and in their totality products of Will. The very material body of the chicken, plump and juicy as it may be, is naught but Will exteriorized. In crossing the road, blind Will employed chicken to perpetuate itself. The chicken could never kill within itself this Will because the chicken is immoral, and naturally incapable of abstaining from constant pecking at the dirt ; and besides I've never seen a chicken engaging in aesthetic contemplation. The ox, however, could do such a thing. It is entirely possible that at those times when it stares in the distance, the ox may be indeed attempting to kill within itself the universal Will through aesthetic contemplation.

Nietzschean : If indeed a common chicken were to cross the road, we'd have before our eyes the Superchick, a chicken with a truly grandiose will. Unlike the other, common chickens, the Superchick only respects that which is proper to it. The Superchick only glorifies its own self, and its morality is placed beyond good and evil, those values of the coop invented in their current dropping form out of sheer resentment by her weaker siblings, with the transparent aim of keeping Superchick under control. Through crossing the road, the Superchick earned its freedom entire, recovered its self-respect, and its full conscience of the self, renouncing mutilation, subjugation and generally being hemmed in. It was probably the first chicken to cluck "the master died".

Laplacean : Were I possessed of intelligence sufficiently encompassing as to contain all the various forces acting in nature, I could answer not only as to why and when and wherefore this chicken crossed that road, but also how and where and in what conditions would any other chicken cross any other road. Were I possessed of sufficient force at my own discretion I could impel any chicken to cross any road, and even all of them at the same time. I could do anything, including permanently preventing idiots from asking stupid questions.

Hegelian : The chicken is the foremost manifestation of Spirit in History. When I saw it from my window crossing victoriously the road, I was suddenly overcome by a sublime fascination. It seemed to me as if the whole force and grandeur of the Universe concentrated itself in that center of the world that was Mme. Brukhart's last remaining chicken crossing the Pfahlplatzchen. Crossing the road, the chicken objectified Itself completely. This event constituted the end of history : the self-knowledge of the chicken became absolute conscience, and Niethammer lost all his business papers at sea.

Ficthean : The act of the Chicken crossing the road is not a property of existence, nor a consequence of it, but rather the very existence of the Chicken is the accident and the effect of its road crossing. The Chicken stands in stark opposition to the Non-Chicken. The Chicken and the Non-Chicken do not exist separately, but both together constitute the Pure Chicken, as a manifestation of all that is. The road is merely a spatial determination of the Non-Chicken.

Berkeleyan : The chicken and the road are mere projections of my mind, and I in turn am naught but an idea in the Divine Picklejar. There can be no demonstration had of whether chickens cross the roads, because there will never be any proof that either chickens or their roads exist anywhere other than in my own mind. That's all there is -- and should I perish, that chicken inquis and the road traversed will be extinguished back into the Jar with me.

Marxist : The chicken was capitalist and individualist. Crossing the road, it abandoned the protective interior of the collective coop and set towards bourgeois ideals. Across the road it will sell its own eggs as common merchandise, but will never receive in any exchange the actual equivalent of its own eggs, thereby losing control over the very byproducts of its existence. In the end, the chicken will become alienated from itself, and the eggs it produces will become the patrimony of the owners, who will thus expand their notional capital by imposing their domination on the chicken through oppression.

Husserlian : The apodictic evidence of road or chicken are mere chimerae. I aimed to consciously refer the chicken, because my mind is always obsessed with being the conscience of something, even of an ordinary chicken, that refuses to give itself to me fully, but only offers up fragments of itself, through incomplete perspective. Therefore should I catch one day a chicken I will put it in quotes and burrow myself into deep intuitive contemplation of chicken plucked of all that wasn't essentially it. Thus I will obtain the noematic core of chicken, that something keeping a chicken chicken irrespective of whether it should cross the road or not, whether it lays feathers or has eggs or any other accident. That is what matters. Why would some chicken like all others cross some road or other is not within my interests.

Heideggerian : The essence of the chicken is non-chickly. Deeper than the inquiry as to a chicken crossing the road is the questioning of the chicken's origin. The antique world denoted through "gallinacea" (g-alius-niqui) the extracting-from-the-state-of-disallignment-with-the-self. If we were to analyze existentially the chickenly Dasein we will arrive at the deep meaning, occulted over the passage of time and through consecutive reinterpretation, of the factual-road-crossing. Under the burden of terrible Angst, the chicken crossed the road to place itself into the clearing of Existence, where solace occurs, which is to say the resolution of the gallinacean state.

Popperian : The chicken was a victim of a totalitarian regime, defined through its imposition of an improper dichotomy between the doable and the undoable upon the unwilling subject of the chicken. By witnessing the chicken crossing the road we have in fact witnessed the birth of an open society.

Camusian : The chicken crosses the road kicking around a little pebble, then proceeds in the same manner backards. In fact, the chicken's been doing this for millennia, probably because it had the audacity to cross the injunctions of the gods. The road itself is not a rational road. At every moment of its effortful existence, the chicken in fact confronts the chasm of absurdity. And yet, in spite of the irrationality of its activity, and the general dearth of sense and meaning, the chicken can not run itself into a bus, because that act would reify the pebble overcoming it. We must therefore think the chicken happy.

Levinasian : Seeing the rooster on the other side of the road, the chicken considered the problem of Alterity. The nature of the rooster is disjunct from the nature of the object-world, which can be interiorized through understanding. Were the chicken not to cross (transcend) the road, the chicken would have missed the significance of the Other in its character of an Altogether Different. It intuited that the relation between it and rooster is accessible foremost through presence and only secondarily through cluckanguage. On the other side of the road, the chicken enshrined a face-to-face rapport with the rooster. The chicken understood that the Self, both its own and the rooster's, is ineffable because it is par excellence clucking, whereas the other, due to its differing character, can never be possessed.

Foucaultian : The chicken felt the need to exit the system, probably due to the system's manifest intolerance to the chicken's latent homosexual tendencies. Depersonalized, de-subjectified and anonymous, the chicken understood that all the values organising life in the coop were myths, self-generated from within the socially, historically and culturally conditioned epistheme by the leaders of the coop in question. Seeing that chickens were no longer plucked or scalded in the public space, it lived for a moment the illusion of freedom. Had it understood that neither the power nor the manifestation of the power of the elite ever disappeared, but merely became invisible, diffuse and fragmentary, maybe it would not have crossed the road. In any case, it will be sought, caught, brought back, punished and surveilled. Were the conclusion be reached that it can not be re-habilitated, it will be sacrificed through purely economic means.

Freudian : During its childhood, the chicken was sexually abused by the father-rooster, through assisting to a dramatic scene where the mother hen sexually interracted with him, or perhaps through his mere presence. Repressed into the subconscious, that seminal event became a subconscious driver which, manifesting itself to the ego in the shape of an irrepressible desire, led the chicken to crossing the road. The curative approach is to hypnotize the chicken, and through psychanalysis render the trauma back to the conscious plane. This way, the chicken will never again cross the road, or at the very least if crossing the road it will be aware of the reason.

Wittgenstein : Could you shut the fuck up already ?

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Totally not flooding, sir »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Monday, 09 October, Year 9 d.Tr.

Where THE FUCK!!! is everyone ?

Bitcoin is valuable today because for the past five+ years I've been intransigently sinking each and every attempt of all the scum and barnacles i sticking to its mighty hull to make it "more acceptable to governments" which is to say useless and stupid.

Bitcoin is not the money of Diane fucking Keaton. Bitcoin is the currency of the nameless 16 year old who runs away from home to bleed her way into womanhood live on camera. Bitcoin's entire point, and its entire value proposition, as numerously and amply discussed on Trilema these past few years, is to make it too expensive for the average head of cattle to present pantsuit.

That's why the obnoxious voice of the insufferable soysexual in that video sounds so fucking desperate : because for the past five years the base of his idiocy has been methodically undermined, and today he discovers himself in the only truly untenable position : that where he thought he's in the right because they were numerous, only to turn around and discover he's alone. Will the faggot press on, because he's right, now that he's alone ? You've seen these battle nigglets before, haven't you, talking tough and spewing shit while turning their head to check back every three seconds ? Yeah, the fabled suburban tough guy, that's him.

And yes the end game is having menopausal women in the exact position of dogs today : either they go around with a collar provided by a citizen or else get taken to the pound to be euthanized in thirty days if no-one claims them. That doesn't mean women can't be citizens suo jure ; but there's not going to be any prize for simply showing up, nor "human rights" nor "equality" nor any of the rest of the herdemocracy nonsense.

What can the herd of emos do about it ? The herd part is already melting away, leaving behind the ugly grub of emocracy exposed. How long can that last ? Who's gonna feed them their soy milk ? Who's gonna shade them from the unforgiving Sun above ?

Not I. And, importantly, neither will the jwzs. Slowly but incontournably, it is becoming too expensive for them to do it, which means they will not do it, which means it's time to say goodnight.

Where the fuck is everyone ?

———Linkage limited for brevity. There are literally hundreds of examples, not all of which even public in the first place. [↩]

« The world has changed

TMSR-RSA spec, extremely early draft »

Category: Bitcoin

Tuesday, 15 August, Year 9 d.Tr.

What the fuck am I going to do ? Literally.

Remember the sad days of Mircea Monroe ? Apparently they're not done yet. It gets worse.

What the fuck am I to do ? No, I don't mean literally, apparently literally I'm going to prevent the fuck from taking. I mean you know, figuratively. Actually I don't mean figuratively either, I'm very selective figuratively, they're all hourglass figured as I've no doubt you've figured out by now. But what am I going to do ?i

At least if they went with Popescuine or Popesquette or something I could hide behind all the other countless 2-nd-most-common-Romanian-name-behind-Idiotescu. But no, they had to pick the name of some ancient mass murderer to label their (meanwhile withdrawn, by the way, if you're wondering how come I'm talking about it) droneii maker.

How the fuck does a doomed subculture built around the notion that a pharmacist is someone to whom you must point out oral contraceptives don't help against venereal disease even come up with strings such as "Mircette" I wish to know ? Who's the god damned axe handle that told them ? You should be ashamed of yourself!

———"And who am I going to do it with?" is a subsidiary question we'd best leave undisturbed. [↩]You understand that the reason Mircea of Old could cut annoying immigrant heads by the pail and you can not is because Mircea of Old didn't drink Mircette pissed into the drinking water by all the non-smoking borderline sleeves in sight. He drank wine.

That's totally the one and only reason. [↩]

« Time to get out, by the way.

Schimb valutar »

Category: AICMF

Saturday, 20 May, Year 9 d.Tr.

What gets me hot

What gets me hoti is Traci Lords' first porno. You can get it online, either in still form via google or else in all its overexposed, 350 px wide glory via torrents.

Let's get the child pornography out of the way :

As far as anyone knowsii, the woman above depicted was about 15 years old at the time of the shooting -- and yet!!! the world hasn't come to a halt because of it! Turns out boring old women's idle posturing and pretense to the contrary notwithstanding, nobody gives a shit nor does it make any difference. The rest of the solo masturbation scene betrays her as very likely also a virgin, at least at the time, if that pacifies anyone.

The only reason we're even talking about this film is artificially manufactured scarcity in the above categories (virgins, underage actresses), otherwise What gets me hot is entirely unlikely to get anyone hot whatsoever. For one thing, all the snatches are unshaved. For the other thing, all the penises are unerect. How the heck do they manage to ejaculate without getting hard first it's anyone's guess, but you've not seen this sort of flexible hoses since that time you gave free handjobs at the geriatry clinic.

As far as storilines go, you'll have to do with the usual fare in the field -- Kink.com dialogue is no better in 2017 than ancient pieces almostiii half a century prior and the present offering is no exception. Apparently there can be no progress in screewriting-for-pornos for some incomprehensible reason.iv

Consequently the whole shebang makes about half a sense : the young master and his two friends fuck the maid, which yes is why maids even exist in the first place, from Angela to Zuleida. And yes they think they're coercing her, as fucking if, and that they're probably the first to have come up with this, also. And yes she sucks off all three of them. Except then there's also a scene where they take her anal virginity, which is not merely improbable, but pure absurdism. Really, that's how it works now, "oops honey it slipped in" ?

The things these impossible people tell each other vary wildly and impredictably between trite nonsense and the utterly improbable, just like the things they do to each other vary wildly and impredictably between banality and impossibilty. And then... nothing much happens.

The end.

———1984, by Richard Mailer, with Bunny Blue, Susan Hart, introducing Tracy Lords (apparently Nora Louise Kuzma hadn't come up with Traci just yet). [↩]Certainly the stereotypically deformed breasts indicate her age around there. [↩]1971 to 2017, 46 years. [↩]Shouldn't this worry the libertard crowd ? [↩]

« Spies in Berlin

Bad biology »

Category: Trilematograf

Tuesday, 08 August, Year 9 d.Tr.

What Ever Happened To Baby Jane ?

What Ever Happened To Baby Jane ?i is at the very least notable because it is such a grave of vanity. What has an actress more dear, and more dearly hers, than her youthful good looks ? This film disposes with the notion, not just barely, not just merely, but wrathfully trampling it. Bette Davis, at the time an aging actress with another two decades of acting career left in her appears grotesquely age-ugly, deliberately, through methodical misapplication and anti-application of makeup for the purpose. It isn't such a small matter -- you may think it is, but try and cast the part, then talk.

It is perhaps more notable still for the deliberate deconstruction of the tedium of respectable Hollywood and respectable Americana. Of the two sisters, the one conformant to the puritan ideal, the one properly attired, properly behaved, properly spoken, that misery of an insufferable woman is shown for exactly what she is : yes, the icon of middle class UStardian ideal, and yes an intolerable, miserable little clot, a cockroach that one stomps out of civic duty while holding his nose. At the same time, intolerable, and for that reason intolerable. The message is plain, loudly broadcast and entirely correct : fitting to the expectations of old women is dehumanizing in general, and the best way for any girl to grow up to be a stinkbug instead of herself. Smoosh!

Outside of these, there isn't very much there. Davis is an excellent actress, and she plays well. There's worse things.

———1962, by Robert Aldrich, with Bette Davis, Joan Crawford. [↩]

« Making the pussygrab great again ?

Postcards from Retardistan »

Category: Trilematograf

Saturday, 07 January, Year 9 d.Tr.

What did you expect ?

As I'm sitting at the table, kitten comes wandering by. So I slide a felt tip pen over the surface and poke her, in the pubic area, around the hip...

"Why he accosts us! And why so many accostments in general!"

"Well you're parading around naked, what do you expect ?"

"But I have no choice! Does it make it better ?"

"He has no choice either."

"I suspect that the same unsavory character is orchestrating both of these..."

"Did you say unsavory because I'm sweet ?"

"Yes. Yes I did. That's exactly what I meant."

Meanwhile at the same time,

The lady, whom I understand to be named Kate Spade, hath quietly delivered a dressed three year old boy over coffee. Now that's genital competence for you! Her skirt's not even ruffled!

As the Romanian expression goes, sa fiti iubiti!

« The Lordship list, fourth year.

Qntra (S.QNTR) March 2017 Statement »

Category: Zsilnic

Friday, 31 March, Year 9 d.Tr.

What are you being distracted from ?

I am a man.

I am a man from an older time, a time long gone by.

I am a man from a time long gone by, from a time before the "everything" became overpoweringly too largei for everyone.

Consequently, I perceive responsibilities where others very elaborately and laboriously manage to miss perceiving their own bankruptciesii. This doesn't just mean that I keep around the kittens' cars newspapers that I bought months ago and I intend to read months hence. It means a lot of things in that vein.

For instance, I have (mediatedly, I don't recall "whose" it specifically is) an iPad somewhere that I filled with games, having done on that platform the same thing I did with browsers, which is to say check out all the gamesiii. Because I'm a principal not to mention lead designer in a game publisher that's worth about 100`000`000 of those worthless dubaloos (or whatever you call them), and that position comes with responsibilities.iv

Today I reviewed the state of this platform, which spent six months or so downloading games from the walled garden nine months ago. Because I do such things. And I weptv for the sad ; I wept at the sorry state of all the meanwhile forgotten toys. Do you know the story of the velveteen rabbit ?

There they sat, a good half of them, befuddled. Pretty icons, little drawings, an overwhelming effort to cute that I could have easily mistaken for being a labour of love. "There seems to be a problem with your network", they blinked, confused. "Error connecting server", they sighed. What could be the matter ? "Make sure your network connection is..."

No, my network connection is fine. Their network connection isn't. Their server went away, one day. It was no longer "economically feasible", which is to say the ~0% ROI they provided finally exceeded the capacity for secreting hope of some spammer-minded "entrepreneur" somewhere and the plug got finally pulled. What do you mean "they should not have been made in the first place" ? You don't propose to limit the Catholic's creativity! Are you saying every sperm ain't sacred ?!

Their server went away, leaving them stranded, broken. Unfixable, of course, "walled gardens" come with some very real costs to offset the wholly imaginary benefits they provide to spammer-minded "entrepreneurs".

Sad, indescriptibly sad, little fragments of a thing that used to be, gutted and left about, inch-tall sweet faced "elf archer" or whatever else gamified existence that doesn't exist blinking at you from the intro screen that's never going to move on. Stuck there, forever.

Was it all worth it ? If you look back at all the stranded debris, very much not limited to a tablet misplaced about my house, do you feel content ? Are you sated ? Were your appetites satisfied, has the whole process delivered upon its promises as far as you're concerned ? Has anything you have done to date made your life any better ?

I ask because I suspect it hasn't, because I know it couldn't possibly have ; and I'll tell you plainly that if I actually expected the lifetime of things I make to not exceed my own lifetimevi I'd just go hang myself this fine morning.

The trading of power for the fetish of power, you see, the cornerstone underlying all ourdemocracy and all pantsuitism and all "modern" and all crap is fundamentally a promise to impermanence. The only way, absolutely the only way anonymous priceless cuntlet could have her hopes not be violently contradicted (which is still a ways away from any kind of satisfaction), the only way inflation could "level the playing field" for each generation, the only way there's anything there for all on the basis of their mere presence and for no further consideration is if everyone agrees to never ever ever do anything.

Never doing anything is a guaranteed recipe to unhappiness. That's really all there is to it. And it's not even all that easy to never do anything, which is why all the need for "distraction"vii.

What are you being distracted from ?

———The fight-or-flight response leaning towards fight is obviously the male characteristic, in that you can define the females in any population by their not taking that option.

Obviously, this is a discussion of gender, which is a sociocognitive construct (sociocognitive is how people politely say that it happens in the unthinking brain, copying what others do because they do it) ; its biological somewhat-underpinning is defined genetically : every cell in a sexuate organism's body has a number of chromosomes as necessary condition of its existence, among which a couple are sex chromosomes and that's the whole story of sex (no, you can't be "transsexual" unless you live inside a nuclear reactor -- the proper name for your affliction is "gender confusion", a small step up above Down syndrome, but still in any case mental retardation, as defined by "having failed to meet age-appropriate developmental goals").

The fight-or-flight response is also somewhat modulated (especially in immature males) by "sociocognitive" considerations. One revelatory aspect of this modulation is the crowd-seeking behaviour of the adolescent male, that monkey going to war while checking behind every five seconds to make sure "where the fuck is everyone". Another revelatory aspect is the "anger of the crowds" phenomenon, that situation where abnormal context suddenly assuages the inhibitory circuitry of a mass of ex-cattle-now-briefly-men who then promptly go on an angry rampage. They're suddenly willing to fight, the mob, as a mob and only as a mob.

The problem with "sociocognitive" isn't necessarily that USG agencies pretending to be "corporations" not to mention powerful and important will (unsuccessfully) attempt to "shape" it. For one thing the situation of those lost souls is much akin to the situation of a foul smelling old dood standing on a rock somewhere in a deserted mountain range going "I'm making it storm! I'm making it storm!" all day long, all year long. Obviously it'll storm sometimes, and for the poor idiot that is actually worse than it not storming at all!

The problem with sociocognitive is that as integration happens (integration being the main function of technology, incidentally) the subjectively-perceived crowd of monkeys ever grows, which leads to serious problems in ever feeling safe enough to act at all. (Yes, this is whence all that "anonimity" nonsense practiced by rural yokels jus' trynna make it in dis big city bidniss.)

In the old city of Athens, a half-man who could get a few hundred others behind him felt safe enough to attempt to take over the government -- and half the time succeeded. During the 1800s the crowd of Paris attempted (and failed) to take over the government. They had reasoned that "everyone is there", except a hundred thousand Parisians reflecting the "consensus" of the largest city "in the known world" turned out not to even matter. It's not a question of "weren't enough", you understand. Properly speaking it was a question of couldn't have been enough. Paris was united to the rest of the country, insignificant individually as it were, by rail and road, and consequently the government was readily capable of smothering the rebellion within days. Their armed forces were strictly speaking insufficient, but they didn't need actual armed forces, the simple gravitational pull of "sociocognitive" did most of the heavy lifting.

The missexperience of the Paris commune led the communists (as socialists thought it fashionable to call themselves throughout the 20th century) to only attempt paper-driven revolutions thenceforth, and to very carefully stick to a "nonviolence" schtick. As the mouthpiece of the Italian communist party well explains for your benefit in Romanzo popolare, the name of the game is avoiding the hostility of the "public opinion". This trauma-driven "ideological evolution" (a special kind of sociocognition) was also the original driver and the necessary cause of the pantsuit & ourdemocracy flowering of socialism that you see today in the colonies.

Leaving aside that the physical space of the greatest city in the world doesn't even exist anymore, having been supplanted by rather immaterial things, the integration has gone so far as to render the crowd sentiment of safety strictly unfeasible. How is the almost-male alt-monkey to ever feel itself safe enough to act on his male inclinations, when the scope of the world is entirely beyond any kind of evaluation ? He's more than willing to fight, you see, in principle -- provided it's safe to do so! And only then! Wut do ?

Predictably wut do is not much at all, apathetic anomie. You got a better idea ? That is safe ? So then! [↩]Consider the recent discussion...

mircea_popescu leaves September 12th log next to November 21st log for... i'm not even sure, everyone capable of knowing knows and everyone who doesn't know is not gonna find out anymore than my stove is gonna learn a merry jig.

a111 Logged on 2017-09-12 21:08 rothbart: I've been trying to grok the segwit "theft" incentive - as the bounty grows, so does the PoW defending it - doesn't this keep the segwit outputs safe?

a111 Logged on 2017-11-21 14:32 asciilifeform: 'the first SegWit address whose funds were recovered'

mircea_popescu remember back when "mp invented miner conspiracy" ?

mircea_popescu and can you believe the utter schmucktard still hasn't posted nude pics with appology scribbled in his own blood where his ballsac/eyes/etc used to be ?

mircea_popescu if your stupid head causes you to stumble, CUT IT FUCKING OFF! Gangs of New York style!

...of the ancient discussion...

hanbot kakobrekla so in the process of protecting the shareholders from a 17 btc bill, you managed to destroy all their holdings and stick the bettors with a 13 btc or w/e it's going to end up. pretty sucky, innit?

hanbot kakobrekla from the outside, all that's seen is you going gotta protect the shareholders!!1 and a week later the shareholders are fucked...and the customers are boiling. not that i expect you to take responsibility rather than talk about it, but you've fucked up.

hanbot nah, take responsibility for the following thing: "i, kakobrekla, turned the situation where the shareholders owed 17 btc and had credit to repay it in the future, into a situation where the shareholders have nothing, and the bettors owe at least 13 btc, if not more. this is the best i could do, hire me and i'll do the same for you."

...of the endless discussion. When's the last time a precious cuntlet slash Princeton graduate felt the need to not merely apologize for being stupid, but actually to fix it ? In herself I mean, in the correct manner, I mean. Not bullshit "here's how I purport to alter reality thereby making my pretense of adequacy less glaringly nonsensical" attempts at sociocognition but rather the right and proper "here's me, on my knees". [↩]No, not most. All.

It can't be done ? Maybe it can't be done by you, have you ever thought about that ?

What, you thought the stuff in the first footnote applies to me just like it applies to you ?! Lol. [↩]Much like the crab is held to see all things around it, so am I. So are you. Why is it that I see you but you don't see me ? [↩]Literally, I did. My tears wettened tit. [↩]Washington Post & its camp followers flatter themselves with the notion that they're competing with me. Yet nobody except for me, and especially not they themselves have any use for their own product after its brief "newsyness" wears off. Articles on Trilema are linked half a decade after their original appearance, translated though a decade old, and not as some kind of debenture but because they're needed, organically part of the whole thing like old folks in "traditional societies". What possible relevancy could a month old Atlantic piece bear to anything or for anyone ? Same-day culture, and a Black Monday awaiting behind every tomorrow. [↩]Which necessarily doesn't work, either, because it's made in the same deliberately-impermanent way. Somehow five hundred generations of Persians were content to play the same game of chess whereas you need a reimplementation of the same tired old timers every six to eighteen months. Why is this ? [↩]

« #trilema maintenance

Let's de-Ballas a Ballas piece. On rape. Well... on "rape", anyway. But it's with sexing genders and interns so you know... »

Category: Gandesc, deci gandesc

Saturday, 25 November, Year 9 d.Tr.

Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story

Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Storyi is a little shining gem of a movie you absolutely must watch. I am aware it has John Reilly in it, and most people of taste and breeding eschew anything featuring that hammy oaf. Let's say that the film was made for a hammy oaf title character, and so for once in his life Reilly is not out of place. Like one of those dreamy alt-realities where, for instance, fat "feminists" are somehow people, Walk Hard is an imaginary reality where Reilly works as an actor. The magic of the silver screen, what can I tell you, it produces impossible, absurd but fascinating non-worlds.

The story is approximately that of the Trump-before-Trump, of the Buffett-before-Buffett, back when the name of the coolest-guy-of-his-generation-the-cuckolds-and-jews-won't-name was... Johnny Caaaaaaaa-aaaash! You know, basic shit like fucking over four hundred women, siring three dozen children in the process, marrying a few of them too just for good measure (not necessarily at different times), eating (sometimes through the nose) everything found on the road and so on and so forth. A fundamental, vital, virile man, complete and definitive, and consequently oh so deliciously scary for the girlies.

The execution works well because the contrast between the "simple country simplicity" of the leading character, who very naturally appears quite dim throughout, and the batshit insane nonsense composing the recent history of that god forsaken colony. Their interplay, as exposed on the breadboard of unforgiving, Voltairean plainness of expressionii illuminates something fundamental about the essential inferiority of "muricans". Intellectual, first and foremost, cultural and civilisational as a necessary result, but perhaps at the lowest level a myopia of feeling, a shunted, mongoloid faculty for emotion. A nation that can be (and repeatedly has been!) sold on the notion that "here's a list of words not to say to get to heaven" is a little more... I mean a little less... well in any case something other than a nation of misfortunate human beings beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Perhaps not exactly a nation of irredemable imbeciles, structurally unable to humanity, left out of any sort of covenant. Nevertheless, evidently not quite people for some reason. Perhaps not yet ; perhaps not ever. I guess we'll see.

How the hell could you not watch it ? You must.

PS. There's tits, if it helps. And a plain and unadorned penis. How many films ever dared ? How many people mastered these, so their use of "dirty bits" is something besides "here's a huh-huh-huh ehh huh-huh-huh" Buttheadery ? Name three.

PPS. Did I mention it is funny ? It is funny. Go see it.

———2007, nominally by Jake Kasdan though evidently a Judd Apatow movie. With nobody in particular such as John C. Reilly. [↩]"The wrong kid died!"

Who, other than yours truly, do you know who could have written that line in this language, and signed it ?

Yeah, me either. Old man spends his old age making little songs on the theme! [↩]

« The story of the bulb that was

Clockwise »

Category: Trilematograf

Sunday, 26 February, Year 9 d.Tr.

Vivre sa vie

Vivre sa viei is a miserable piece of low quality sexploitation remarkably poorly made by a very inept hand.

It is only notable because it was the backdrop of a discussion with a girl coming into her ownii (which is to say, being washed of the filth). During the police proceedings upon the model-with-panties-glued-on displayed in Godard's shilmiii she got mildly indignant (remnants of a "fuck the government, man" hippy echo, I guess), but I pointed out that the police are perfectly correct, and their treatment of her judicious : she is, after all, a whore. "How is she a whore ?!" came the disbelief, and I pointed out that there goes a girl owning no real estate. What'd she call it ?

"I don't own real estate. Am I a whore ?"

"Of course you are. You're my private whore."

The notion that whether privately installed in a private home, for the immediate use of the lord and his servants, or else publicly installed in a public house, for the mediated use of the lord though some mercenary temp-servants, a stove's still a stove had apparently not occured to her.

She had thought, naively, that "in order to be a whore you have to, at least once, have sex for money", to some ritually specified level of specificityiv. Then again this is directly and obviously false, isn't it. Random vagabond, whether she imagines herself "a student", or "a journalist" or a "PR expert" or whatever else is nevertheless and insecapably a whore. She's may be a poorly qualified whore, sure. She could be a remarkably inept whore, definitely. She could even belong among the self-hating tribe of whores, or the self-denying tribe, or anything else. But while Eleanor of Acquitanie may act as a whore she can never actually be onev ; and similarily whether the whore put up whatever Joiana-the-cow or Jolene-the-pantsuit pretense she might, act "as a lady" all he wants, she nevertheless stays a whore, to be judged for her performance as such.vi

Outside of this circumstance, Godard's inept offering fa proprio schifo. The best characterisation would be to say it's the exact equivalent of a documentary on May 1968 attempted by a slightly overweight and definitely overpampered scion of the Comte de Melgueil & Narbonne-Pelet, Seigneur D'Ales who spent all of 1968 at his father's country house (five rooms! two and a half bathrooms!) in some obscure village. The unremarkable Candide has no friends ; nor has he ever gone to college ; nor has seen anything of Paris but randomly chosen and slightly worn 2nd hand reproductions (and is consequently unsure whether the Big Ben's in the XIVe arrondisment or not). Some country girl from across the river passes in his eyes for that famous Mme de Rohan, and in general Godard's Vivre sa vie is exactly and unerringly cinematic donquihotism through and through.

But where simpleminded stupidity turns away from bonhomie into sharp, pungent evil is where the reduit mental actually dribbles women-nude-from-behind in utterly spurious scenes trying to prop up his entirely absent credentials with cheaply bought nothings. It's the exact equivalent of

Above depicted, Jean-Luc Godard back when he was doing totally serious IPOs ; whether his move into cinema has been a net gain or a net loss remains an open question.

I do not recommend seeing this film unless you've competent whores to keep you compaknee.

———1962, by Jean-Luc Godard, with "Anna Karina" (actually Hanne Karin Blarke Beyer, rando 18 yo frogfaced ukrainian from Denmark that the dood obtained via Coco's bridemail service). [↩]The establishing shot here would be that during a previous conversation wherein I observed something like "that girl really liked you" she returned "you don't know the half of it, when we went to the girls' room she kissed my cunt". Then I asked what the other's name was, and she confessed ignorance, so I congratulated her on her whorishness.

Which... yes, I think a lot more of a teen whore than I think of Jolene -- and this isn't some kind of eccentric quirk, some outlaying idiosyncrasy "like all great men have" according to the despicable "people themselves" looking for comfortable ways and means to worm out of existing. No, none of that : it is the most factual, purely objective evaluation. The wide open teen is doing something with her life, specifically living it ; the other scumbag pointedly is not doing anything, and she well fucking knows it. [↩]A shitty film is, evidently, a shilm. [↩]How exactly can you not "have sex for money" ? Is your fucker buying you dinner ? How about permit the use of his stagecoach, his bed, something, somewhere ? If he spends an hour with you in preference of spending it with an accounts book, is that hour magically not worth money because your cunt is so special as to make physics magically stop ?

Human existence is money, and the bizarre, deliberately-nonsensical metaphysics associated to copulation aren't a thing -- which is why they're satisfying! Otherwise, of course you're having sex for money. For as long as anything happens in this world it's for money, what the everloving fuck would it be for ?

Oh, you meant to say "not just for money", "not principally for money" ? Nice cop-out. No competent whore ever did it "just for money" in this sense either, what did you think, that you personally invented lace and warm water splashes ?

You eat, somehow. The odds greatly favour the theory that you eat in the manner of Napoleon's preggos. Or what, you earned your keep ? Oh but please, do tell! From whom ? How ? "It's not whoring if you whore out to Jesus", that's the further cop-out ? For as long as you're not any actual man's whore but whore out for "abstractions" ie abominations all's good ? Please. [↩]Not because "queen" of this or that jure uxoris, but because duquesa suo jure. [↩]If the other gender preoccupies you, the word's a knave. [↩]

« Carniceria por kilo

Roma »

Category: Trilematograf

Saturday, 28 October, Year 9 d.Tr.

Vedo nudo

Vedo nudoi is a broadly unremarkable collection of vignettes a'l Italianaii.

There's the still-hot famous actress which so distractsiii the staff of a small hospital, the roadside casualty she was supposedly rushing there turns fatality. There's the piddly tedious story of the male "transvestite" boring the shit out of the viewer while he navigates the unbearably inconsequential minutia of his low level relationship with some accountant bereft of any vestige of vitality. There's the eternal "old virgin discovers to her amazement that sex's not nearly as big a deal as she'd imagined, nor every shadow a rapist, nor anything under the bed".

Then there's the outright outrageous stuff, like the crosseyed chicken fucker who recounts before the provincial court how the animal seduced him, and is granted extenuating circumstances in view of the statutorily unwilling but otherwise complicit partner's looseness. The bargain is sealed before the judge's very eyes : 5`000 lire, but he gets to keep her. Exactly like family court went at the time, you know ?

Or else there's the man who has a fetish for being run over by trains. Yes this is a thing, albeit a rare thing. His wife is supportive throughout, although she has trouble believing he's falling for a locomotive (though he assures her sentiments don't enter into it). Or else the severely myopic would-be Don Juan who notices a naked girly across the road, in the shape of his own image reflected by the mirrors in the apartment vis-a-vis. Or I guess the advertising executive with aggravating erotomania, though pretty unredeemably formulaic.

In any case, Dino Risi's love affair with terrible background vocals continues paroxistically.

———1969, by Dino Risi, with Nino Manfredi and a bevy of girls consisting of Sylva Koscina and Veronique Vendell. [↩]Moderate production values and lotta titties everywhere. Quasi insalata Caprese, cheese & lotta olives. [↩]In no way her fault, she's just a well behaved European female, which is to say polite and courteously tolerant as far as tolerance can be pushed -- and perhaps further. [↩]

« Alexandru Osvald "Pastorel" Teodoreanu

Cezar Petrescu -- File dintr'un caiet de amintiri : Mateiu I. Caragiale »

Category: Trilematograf

Tuesday, 07 November, Year 9 d.Tr.

Various multitudes

Since BB just published some shots, I was energized to also unload my camera card upon the expectant interdarks.

Multitude class A : a multitude a graves.

If it's called a murder of crows, is it then a copse of corpses ?

Multitude class B : a multitude of... dwellings, let's say.

This is the standard of construction here : gas-formed concrete bricki walls with one angle sheet metal roofing. Everything looks like a cheap barn, including the police station in the more affluent neighbourhoods, most restaurants and so on. It's cheaper, and what do they care if the wind blows in ? Free HVAC, it's not like the atmosphere ever goes out of its strict 20 to 25 Celsius bounds.

The Duckitude

There was also a goose, but I cropped it out of the shot.

Multitude class D : a buncha los angeles.

Multitude class MUIE : a collection of toxic fake news media and its chumps

Can you believe that tanchetaii tencuitaiii belabouring under the misapprehension that she's like female and things ? Let's take a closer up look :

Actually, on second thought, let's not.

Multitude class 0 : here's a multitude in general.

This is Avenida Dos, where most of the slutwear shops are located. Amusingly, they all offer ~the same merchandise, which changes every coupla weeks or so -- I guess whenever a new China boat shows up.

Multitude class F : a mob of rebellious Latino teenagers.

Yes I know they look just like a buncha dorks, but believe you me they're thoroughly respectable future citizens of great cool. Heck, even those seemingly ridiculous cheese graters they bear are in fact traditional Molotov Kitchenwares.

Y u no believe ? Justin Belieber!

Multitude class G : a large variety of names to choose from.

Yeah, that's right, they're in highschool. And the year is 1957 or some shit. Latinos.

Multitude class H : an assortment of shiny brass trimmings.

The singularity :

This helpless looking bug patiently rode the car bus all the way around town and then back up the hill again many hours later. All that for a garbanzo!

And now in closing...

———AAC, Autoclaved aerated concrete. [↩]Romanian word, diminutive of tank. Just as wide as a tank, but entirely useless on account of light armor and lighter armaments. Basically, a tankette. [↩]Folk Romanian construction technology requires a layer of plaster on all walls prior to the application of paint. Wallpaper is not permitted. Wainscotting is niggardly (in this place understood as North Western, catholic or in any case unitarian and perhaps even Hungarian). The wall'd better be brick, by the way, if you know what's good for you. [↩]

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

"3 idiots", in preference of saying "Indians are cognitively impaired for reason of genetic inferiority" »

Category: La pas prin lume

Wednesday, 06 December, Year 9 d.Tr.

Untrue story

Let me recount an untrue story.

While walking the Surogatei I noticed two chicks maybe about 30, in the funeral uniforms of the Communal Policeii (by the way, who came up with the nutty notion of dressing girls in pants ?), pretty, lipsticked, painted, coiffured, propping the shadow about the Chamber of Commerce. On heels.

And I asked my companeraiii, should I walk up to them and ask them to suck me off, what odds do you give the performance ? Smallish, she says. Whyssat ? I insist, to put her in difficulty. Let's say that, what do I know, let's say I give them money. So I take out ten grand in a chunkiv I doubt it has anything to do, she says.

I think on it for a while, and then I say but were you one of these community policewomenv and some guy came to you to suck his cock, would you perform ? Depends on the guy, she says. God damned whoredomvi they manufacture these days, you can twist and turn as you will and still not find anything to catch them with.

So I walk up to the girls and say, towards the brunette, being she the fiery-er and the blondy gentler, missy, will you suck my cock ?

They both measure me head to toe, once, twice, then she looks up and says ask her, pointing to blondy. If she sucks it, I'll suck it.

I turn to blondy, eyebrows raised in a Well ?, she chuckles and says ok, but where ? Over here in the gangvii comes out of me the inspiration of the moment. So I leave my girl at the entrance sitting sixesviii and go forth in the company of the two organs of public force and state authority to do piggies.ix With them on their knees. (That's why I was inquiring about the uniforms, they'll wear out.)

Can you believe this ? I thought so. Which is why I said from the very title, "untrue story", so you don't end up focused on the matter, in the end unimportant, of deciding whose cavities I filled earlier. For the dry truth is that either way, your own bed isn't getting any warmer nor does the consideration much help you otherwise.

Let's rather pass on to the essential point, which may help you or not, who knows, but at least it's not certain it can't. So. The brunette thought herself a smartass, perceived herself in a situation of superiority, and made lax by the implicit comfort gave an answer to show just how smartly ahead of the game she is. Normally she wouldn't have risked her muzzle, but once she put the birdy out (figuratively speaking), the call was no longer hers to make. And blondy, shier, provoked by this other one judged that she couldn't afford to refuse, because that'd open her up to the other's incessant, endless and cruel mockery over her timidity and cowardice, like women do. So she jumped in.

Two fundamental mechanisms were seen at work. Specifically, for the brunette, the fact that people are generally more inclined to follow than to lead, corroborated with the desire of seeming smarter than they are put her in the position of saying something for the sound of it, and then sticking to it to avoid the marked downside of going back on her word. For the blondy, the fear of the known and representable disadvantage (the brunette's dominance in the group) was judged larger than the fear of the perhaps more marked, but unknown and unrepresentable disadvantage of taking the passerby's organ to meet her tonsils. From the unhappy interaction of these vices and defects there came something warm into their stomach (mostly the blondy's, for those interested in scientific rigour).

After I left they were left in a very particular situation : two cops that just sucked (licked, whatever) some passer-by in a gang. Such context is rather traumatic, and the answer can be in one of two veins : either they go mental, proceed to cry in church, hang themselves in the campus room they share, confess to their boss, quit etcetera ; or else they accept their new mutual status. They become very close friends, intimate outright, after all, they've sat together at the table. Generally in the psyche of the healthy female the latter solution is very heavily biased, and so it comes up with remarkable regularityx On average, let's say. So I'm going to risk predicting that in the next week they've pretty good chances of fucking, since they've started on the road, what's there to stop them ?

This'd be the secret mechanism of amorous-sexual living in a good majority of hominids. They pick themselves up and drop themselves into a club, where they get well drunk, for the plain and deliberate end goal of being in the sort of situation which probably produces themselves nude in a foreign bed and with a headache at the other end, the next morning.

After which, once in the situation, to decide that well... rather than cutting wrists how about calling the new object a "significant other". Do you recall that Seinfeld moment wherein Elaine recounts the story of her cocktail flu, acquired at a party the previous night where she drunkedly made out with some dude to the amusement of her colleagues, and as she recounts she realises that if she pretends to have a relationship with the guy then the whole item changes from a drunken bout of skunko-roman wrestling to a beautiful moment between two lovers ?

Well then. That's the relationship engine, that simple realisation that in the end perspective is the whole substance of human relationship, and you're at liberty to take any perspective whatsoever. A circumstance which puts a certain pressure on middling males : they know that if they manage to bring the female naked in the morning after, the relationship's all but guaranteed. So they do all they can towards this end, with all the awkwardness desperation bestows on their naturally awkward nature.

An observation which has the unpleasant effect of taking common rape (the majority of rape isn't the TV-ready species, with armed, aggressive psychopath laying in wait among the bushline ; but they're of the domestic kind, people who know each other, often closely) from the ideologic lands of absolutely abhorent behaviour and landing it nicely right in the midst of the warmest intimacy, directly proximate to the tritest of daily life.

Isn't it a great boon that the whole story was untrue from the very beginning ?

This story was originally published in Romanian, in 2010, as Poveste neadevarata.

———Timisoara has a century-old tradition in socially-enforced humiliation of Jennifer Lawrence and her sisters : in the large plaza between church and Opera house, couples promenade on Sundays. On the right side, called the promenade, actual people. On the left side, called the surogate, non-people, such as maidens, fanciulle, slatterns, hussies etcetera. Aspirants, in a word, to the status of adult woman. [↩]For some reason they made a sort of City Security Guards Union, and gave them black uniforms. Complicated adventures in wasting money. [↩]Blanca huella que, todos los dias, clavado en el yugo, me ves picanear ; companera del largo camino las horas enteras te veo blanquear. Buey zaraza, tus ojos tristones mirando la huella parecen buscar etc. [↩]About $3`000 in alt-orc currency. [↩]Understand that if you hire suddenly a large number of not-old females without specific college degree requirements you will mostly hire (recently more-or-less reformed) hookers. This is an unavoidable fact. [↩]Storfet is a much better term for the conclave of young-adult women. For one thing, it's endearing. For the other, it's properly-respectful, which is to say respectful of what they are and unconcerned with what they wish to pretend to be, or be seen to pretend they're being or etcetera nonsense. [↩]That's how you call in this language one of those covered walkways which lead one into a Leyla Black courtyard. How do you call them in your language ?

Oh, wait, you don't have them in your language, like you don't have the courtyard or the leyla black. Aww. [↩]That's how you say lookout in Romanian. It's likely a WW1 invention (so soldier, rather than theft cant), and rather obvious : on traditional wristwatches, 6 indicates behind. So someone left behind's left sitting sixes. Amusingly, this won over the competing 22 (vingt-deux, voila les flics) for some reason. [↩]Hey, that's how you say things in Romanian, whadda ya want from me. Porcarii, literally, pig-things, is how you call the freely offered snacks in a house where they just cut the pig (still a yearly event in traditional families, scheduled more or less for mid December) or else doing pleasant, enjoyable things you shouldn't. Anglophones "pig out" with sweets, the civilised world pigs out on cock, what can I tell you. [↩]Which is precisely why it's so difficult for actually cool males to rape anyone -- it de-becomes rape retrospectively. [↩]

« Michelangelo Antonioni c'e un imbecille che non hai altro.

The socialists pretending to relevancy »

Category: Lifespiel

Sunday, 22 October, Year 9 d.Tr.

Un borghese piccolo piccolo

Un borghese piccolo piccoloi is an extremely violent film ; so drastically violent I don't expect it could be either made (or, for that matter, enjoyed) by the mainstream of today. It employs the classical Italian cinema trick of wasting the first half hour with minutious, elaborate tedium simply to build the wallpaper against which your blown out brains will most elegantly contrast later on. You'd think these people heard Symphony 94 in the key of benedction and nothing else as children.

The implicit thesism may grate towards the very end, but then again art entirely without intent is neither readily accessible nor easily made nor, I suspect, worth the effort. In any case Sordi's filigreed work is a lot closer to actual art than say Villaggio's perfectly equivalent, but drastically squalid, thickly fingerpainted dramolettas.

Definitely worth watching, in the sense that there's so much crap under the waterline out thereii, pretty much anything floating's worth a gander.

———1977, by Mario Monicelli, with Alberto Sordi. [↩]Earth's face is 80% water ; but Art's face is closer to 99% submerged. [↩]

« Roma

Giancarlo Giannini : Settebellezze & Sessomatto »

Category: Trilematograf

Saturday, 28 October, Year 9 d.Tr.

UHF (the film)

UHFi is pretty much the entirety of the libertard blueprint. Here's what the retards that figured they inherited the world planned to do with it : a completely inept loser (title character) who is supposed to be redeemed by his "great imagination" coupled with a SJW-acceptable sort of salt-of-earthiness joins forces with a dimwitted (but magical! power of love!ii) janitor and together they, to quote Ballas,

The #OWS demo wants to see powerful men humbled before the t-shirted, tweeting masses, it allows them the fantasy that it could some day happen here, which it won't because the propaganda worked.

There's a kickstarter campaign involved, of course, and "the public opinion" and "leaks" and really, the whole shebang. "Transvestites" are missing, as are fat women, but then again in any serious examination of the libertard ethos one'd readily observe they're accreted straw that ended up glued to the side through happenstance, not essential to the substantial dung.

Obviously, that's the entire fantasy of the impotent, of the useless, of the powerless : that one day he may matteriii and I might care. That's all. Their whole fucking fantasy is about getting my attention undeservingly and perhaps awe me without earning it. What can I say... awwww ?

Anyway, Richards does more of his Kramer here than in his whole career subsequent, a sad testament to the natural ineptitude of biology. Similarily untrained, freeranged females tend do most of their fucking before they're twenty, because ars longa, and besides, stupidity and lazyiness conspire.

Leaving aside the cast and crew, let it be plainly stated and clearly understood that whippings and nothing else (perhaps some straw ?) constitute the entirety of the acceptable diet for whosoever perceives this item as familiar rather than alien, whosoever recognizes themselves in it and so following. If you think UHF is okay, I think rape in a burning shithole is the best thing that can happen to you.

PS. The main character gets the TV station from his rich jew uncle. TV station. For free. Geddit ?

———1989, by Jay Levey, with Al Yankovic, Michael Richards [↩]Have you seen Dreamcatcher ? I haven't even reviewed it, it's so fucking horribly bad ; but here's a comment from 2011 :

Idem the stories about the genius kid, they seemed directly lifted from brainwashing footage for schoolchildren, the sort dedicated to "don't beat the chindribblers to death, they're important as retarded as they are and might one day save the world", a sort of Dreamcatcher if you've seen that piece of shit.

To be perfectly clear : no retard ever saved anything. No frog ever turned into a prince, either, and it is fucking unseemly to see males engaging in the faggoty behaviour of kissing frogs. [↩]But not through his change. He doesn't want to grow the fuck up and then matter. He wants to matter as he is, infantile, immature, entirely worthless. (And obviously, yet again, the whole story is a story of men and manhood.)

Wouldn't that be easier ? [↩]

« Clockwise

The fag joke. »

Category: Trilematograf

Tuesday, 28 February, Year 9 d.Tr.

Tute

So last night I took a girl to Hotel Del Reyi, which is one of the two or threeii surviving local brothelsiii. Perhaps this isn't the first time such a wonder ever happened, but judging by the very confused locals (whores and puntersiv alike) I'll venture a guess it's been a while.

My girl was taller than all the girls there. She did have more tit than most, and certainly a better waistline than any other. These things matter, you know, I don't so much care your waist is seventeen-and-a-half-inches like fabled Scarlet's if your chest is eighteen and a quarter. I couldn't care less about your gallon-and-a-half boobage if your waistline looks like a Michelin advertisement. The idea is for your waist to be both over a dozen inches under and under two thirds of both your tits and ass. As for smarts, capacity to decode the foregoing sentence is sufficient, I can teach you anything else if you can do that much on your own.

Anyway, so I passed the girl my hat and umbrellav and sat myself down to play tute.

Tute, the local name for caribbean stud, is a recently constructed game, driven by the greed of casinos. You see, owing to the fluke popularity of poker casinos got very interested at some point in the late 70s, but poker has a fundamental flaw : the rake is small. "Table games" ie casino roasters are much more popular with the casinos, because instead of a tiny rake they can get a much largervi chunk of the money sloshing around. Speaking of which, the fact that this silly blackjack replacement only took off once a progressive jackpot was linked speaks volumes as to the intellectual and more generally biological quality of the players involved.

Anyway, Tute is played against the dealer. There is no bluffing, and no table competition, which makes it ideally suited for wasting some time. Player can bet whatever he wants, the dust minimum bet being common. Upon betting all players and the dealer are dealt five cards face down. The dealer turns one (or two cards). The players may bet again, but only twice their original bet. If they do not, they lose that original bet. If they do, and the dealer has a hand no better than Ace-King, the house pays their original betvii. If they do, and the dealer has a hand better than Ace-King, and the player's hand is no better than the dealer's, the player gets nothing. Finally, if the player does bet, and the dealer hand does qualify, and the player hand beats the dealer's the player is paid on a scale based on how much better his hand is than the dealer's.viii

So, to conclude : I played a few hands of this thing in the little over an hour my valet slavegirl expert took to evaluate the local hookers, after which I cashed in, 60% richer over the 4 Bitcentsix I went in with.x I suppose I can take next week off now, right ?

———This place would be best approximated by a high energy, fundie-only frat house from the 1970s. Other than the fuck rooms (proper hotel arrangement, none of the ad-hoc lodge nonsense) there's a lobby, hosting low pressure / low stakes casino tables, a bar and a restaurant. The entire surface, an acre or so, is populated by dozens to a hundred+ girls pretty much every night, each and every one ready to go. The fee is a coupla Bitcents, they're just waiting for you to smile or wave them over or for the love of god something, anything, please. Some will even follow you away from there, within reason.

And yes if you're coming to visit me this is where I'm booking you. [↩]Other two being Sportsman and whatever. Here's one funny bit : rooms at the "three and a half" stars Del Rey hotel will set you back about 2.7 Bitcents or so. Meanwhile a room at the "four stars" Sportsman Lodge will set you back 1.8 Bitcents or thereby. It's not all in the stars, as you can see, some of it happens down on Earth. [↩]The local's notion of a brothel is heavily influenced by Asian traditions, that large warehouse covered in reeds or sheet metal if luxurious, with tiny "rooms" made by hanging gray old textile matter on zinc wire.

I am using the term in the white man's sense, proper hotel with gambling and "independent contractors". You know, like Vegas back before the bureaucrat mob took it over from the republican mob. [↩]Speaking of which, one of the advantages of going to Costa Rican brothels is that it can't possibly not make you feel good about yourself. The gringo population is made up of bankrupt fellows in its virtual entirety. I don't just mean financially bankrupt, that's mendable. No, I mean biologically bankrupt. I don't just mean frail, whispy hair, expired sexagenarians (see what I did there ?!?!?!). Obviously the anatomy is an important part of male function, but not the whole. The physiology is not doing any better, when a bunch of police stormed the place around 1 am, the coupla gringos to my side huddled into each other because "why do the motorcycle guys have their helmets still on it's so intimidating". Fancy having to fuck that for a living!

Meanwhile the police, doing an immigration raid, proved themselves too intimidated to ask my girl anything. Notwithstanding that she was seated at the bar with the whores, chatting with them. Notwithstanding that there's not so many girls working as for the police to not be expected to remember their faces. Notwithstanding that an immigration raid is all about figuring out where the newcomers came from. Nope, none of that, under the divine protection of carrying my hat she was beyond interpelation. [↩]Apparently the wonders of gentlemen being dressed still haven't percolated all the way through the Caribbean, judging by how they have no allowance whatsoever for the most basic needs.

So she gets it, because yes she is my valet. Splendid idea, this, by the way -- slavegirl valet. Grab cunt any time you feel like because skirts and no underwear ; plus get rid of your hat any time you don't need it and get it back any time you wish because the girl's trained to make contact periodically and watch your hands on cue and so on.

Some people regret the glories of the past. I do not. I improve upon them instead. [↩]Ten times as much is common. [↩]So you get one third of what you put down, this three chips in a triangle / four chips in a square pattern being perhaps the definitively descriptive structure of the game. [↩]A fours-fulla-kings in my hand prevailing over the dealer's one pair saw the house line up seven chip stacks to match my two matching my one. That sorta thing.

The amusing thing about this was that by some twist of chance the dealer had asked me before dealing whether I want the "accumulado", which is this two-dime special chip that buys you access in the progressive jackpot. I waved it away. Everyone at the table was duly horrified by how I missed out, and how I could have made bank, and the dealer told me she told me so smiling sweetly and so on.

But the butt of the joke is that such a jackpot chip would have earned me no less than fifteen thousand colones!!! (about .6 Bitcents) whereas my actual bet was twice that, and consequently my winnings fifteen times that.

The locals play the table minimum (about 0.04 Bitcents) with a dedication worthy of a better cause, and so they get so fixated they simply can't process the reality of progressive jackpots being for chumps. A well. I bought some of the inexpensive (about 0.004 Bitcents, we're dusting hardcore by now) tokens to humor the company. [↩]Still worth a coupla pairs of tits, by the way. [↩]Such richness is not common, the usual fare is dude changing 10`000 colones to chips (about .4 Bitcents). This very tensed up, mexican-looking dude showed up with one of the ugly balls of lard the locals keep marrying for some incomprehensible reason and gave away his red BAC tarjeta, apparently unaware of how the whole card showoff works in this context, or that it even exists. Why would anyone make heavy metal cards and so on ? What, really, to discreetly compete with the other castrated males in sanitized brothels like they have on the East Coast ?!?!

Anyway, teh gangsta wanted 25`000 charged, and was very gangstery about it when they wanted to see his id. I don't mean he didn't show it or anything, but he did it with gangstery moves, okay ?

Which reminds me, this US born lady, retired Physics teacher, living here for a coupla years warned self-same slavegirl not to go on hill hitches alone, and refused to pair up. They need at least three women to be safe, she explained, because there's bandidos that "come right out of the coffee fields". The notion that a male in this country would actually rape a woman pales in terms of ridicule at the thought that somehow somewhere a retired Physics teacher imagines that if rape were on the menu, three was somehow the magic safety number. Not two, mind you.

Thoroughly imaginary bandidos (in probable reality, Nicaraguan farm hands trying to be friendly and I dunno, daring to say hello or whatever such near-death experience for the average dreamer) that rape one rape two just as well. But not three. No bandidos could handle three of the stupid cunts. Just one or two. Hear them roar. [↩]

« Fifi, hamburguesas bimbo

A Face in the Crowd »

Category: La pas prin lume

Sunday, 20 August, Year 9 d.Tr.

Tuesday Medley

Helo and welcome to the soup!

You may perhaps be wondering why do the seven year olds find themselves gathered beneath the shadow of a large stone votive representation of anal beads while some woman is drilling them. Me too.

Here is a possible explanation :

This piece of nonsense, hung in the halls of Costa Rica's Museum of Modern Arti is what Rosie O'Donnell thinks may pass for a credible script for the "alternative" TV show tentatively titled "Let's Make Up Random Shit About The Sexual Activity Of Others And Pretend Moral Outrage"ii. It's bound to premiere at a school/community center/bla bla supplier near you! Multiple times each year since at least the mid 80s!

Seriously, a guy who's a lawyer and worshipped as a god by his daughter is going to have no fucking idea about contraception ? This bowl of plot holes in a thick fridge horror sauce passed someone's filter, somewhereiii ?

But the point isn't reality, or sense, or any kind of credibility. The point is to Michael Moore all over other people's notions of this world, to associate powerful, worshipped males with some kind of sexual malpractice / moral outrage. As if it's even fucking possible to be outraged at what the leader of the pack does, whatever it may be.

It's starting to all come into focus now, wouldn't you say ?

Man bad, woman good, ethnic better, vote Pantsuit!

Simple enough, innit ? Even those fucktarded women, blacks ethnics etcetera should get the message and vote correctly, stupid as they are.

Then you notice that these children are going everywhere hand-on-anothers-shoulder, and suddenly realise what the fuck is going on here. There's obviously a ring of pedophiles, composed principally of fat, annoying, ugly middle aged women with some helpers -- the dorks who provide the literotica excerpts playing B-side to the Rosie O'Donnell main feature -- that have settled on the next-best thing to actually picking a kid in twenty, tearing their clothes off and fucking them proper.

The Washington Pizza Club has settled instead on a much more noxious but (at least in their estimation) much easier to conceal approach. They will just needle every kid a little. Call it the Snowshoe Pedo Method : instead of picking one kid per class and making him parade naked before the assembly of old women, stuffing vegetables etcetera in all holes, they'll just make every single kid sit under the statue of anal beads and go around touching the others in the mandated manner and so on and so forth all day long.

It's low level, easily deniable pedophillia, and they're apparently all in on it! Give up penetration, which they can't engage in anyway for lack and get instead the low dose, constant endorphin rush of you know, having nine year olds touch nine year olds the way you want them to and no other way. It's something, innit ?

If you haveiv one of these, beat her. Hard. Today.

Enuff said.

Sieg Heil!

This, believe it or not, is a tree. The rainbow eucalyptus tree. They grow in parks.

This is Sabana park, as those familiar might have recognized. Brave pigeon sitting on an owl head, how often do you see such in nature!

Originally I wanted to go on a paddleboat ride on that lake. The whole arrangement renting them out was all padlocked shut, I went around looking for someone responsible but encountered not a soul. Eventually fished a policeman out of the Fuerza Publica outhouse, and he told me that the dude opens late, I should return, ten thirty, eleven even. I point out to him it's actually five past eleven, to which he has no retort. I move on, only to discover the water is incredibly filthy, of a pure sewer green and lightly farting HS foulness into the atmosphere. I suppose the dude's laziness saved me the raw experience.

This is the local version of that ancient theme, the crow. The crows of Costa Rica are legitimate song birds, however, and I am rather fond of their call. Moreover, they're built like jet fighters, watching them go about Hitchcock's idea became suddenly very sharply clear in my head. They're fucking scary, what, all edges and peaks and power lines.

Typical scene of downtown San Jose. I don't think you've ever seen ghetto the likes of this town can ghetto. And yet the people are friendly and hard working. Dude making a few dollars a day (plus getting to live for free in little cabin just about enough to set a mattress down and a chair next to it) will go out there in the middle of torrential tropical outpour and fight with clumps of roots and leaves while underserving schmuck in the US will take in ten times as much money to sit under the closest lamp post and glare at oncoming traffic. It's incomprehensible -- except, of course, through social immersion. Nobody's spending all day long telling this guy here he's being "oppressed" by "the white man" as a cover-up for needling his children up the ass all day long in "school".v

This is a very rad club, as Cherenkov doth attest.

Very rad club scenes. On my way over, the cab driver inquired if I've ever been. I told him I hadn't, a friend invited me over, but I'm sure it'll be fine. He was suspicious of the notion. It turns out it's a gay club, possibly the only one. So I bought some lesbos drinks, big fucking deal.

Further radness.

This is a gecko who had somehow slid inside a poster stand. They get in everywhere.

And that concludes our Tuesday Medley. Come back some other day!

———An absolutely beautiful building left over from a much greater earlier period. The decay shows, you understand me, they have here this museum of modern art wherein the most accomplished piece of art is the pillar of the balustrade. Nothing among the "exhibitions" comes even close, as they consist of literal garbage (squashed fizz cans, plastic refuse, etc) strewn across the floors and assorted nonsense. [↩]Recall when a bunch of retards actually swore before courts that the small children recounting the nonsense they themselves had implanted in their heads actually "remembered" some sort of "repressed" memories ? Yes, that was before the falling out between pseudoscientific "psychology" and the fat old woman party. [↩]This is why she's as fat as an exercise ball, see ? Woman has no filter, will eat up anything. [↩]A fine criterion is, "independent woman eating my pasta". There are others. [↩]Can you honestly make the argument that the US school system is anything but a large concentration camp for "teachers" to satisfy their low level sexual urges on nobody's children ? Sort of like Darfur, yes ?

What are you going to do about it then ? [↩]

« Items from my newspaper

Mathilde the ant or Mathilde the Data Processing System, at your option. With extras either way. »

Category: La pas prin lume

Tuesday, 25 April, Year 9 d.Tr.

TRB-I Addressing Scheme Proposal

Since discussion of the Ideal Bitcoin progressed some in the Republican forum today, and since I can't say I'm a great fan of the current addressing scheme, here's a proposal for an alternative implementation :

A TRB-I address under this scheme would be composed as follows :

To a one byte versioni is added a 512 byte public key.

The 513 byte numeral from the previous step is put through MPFHFii, obtaining a numeral of an unspecified length.

The numeral of unspecified length from the previous step is put through keccakiii, resulting in a 256 bit outputiv.

A one byte checksum is calculated as the successive xor of the 32 bytes from the previous step and added at the end, resulting in a 33 byte output.

The 33 byte output from the previous step is put through base64v. The result is a TRB-I address, I guess you can prepend B to it or whatever.

Comments welcome.

———Version 0 is 4096 bit RSA (as discussed). Other versions may be implemented, up to a total of 255 alternatives. If the implementation uses less than 4096 bits for its public key, it is required to also provide a padding scheme as part of its specification. [↩]MP's Fabulous Hash Function. [↩]Specifically no NIST "standards" are being contemplated or seriously considered. All those who seriously believe USG crypto may or should be taken seriously are rank imbeciles who can't, nor should, be taken seriously. [↩]The keccak implementation will be configured to actually offer 256 security bits ; in any case the number of rounds used will not be less than 64. [↩]And let the idiots who run terminals with bad glyphs buy better hardware / run better software. [↩]

« Let's put one and two together.

The story of the bulb that was »

Category: Bitcoin

Sunday, 26 February, Year 9 d.Tr.