MiniGame (S.MG), August 2018 Statement
S.MG incoming and outgoing
Incoming
Outgoing
Description
Value
Description
Value
Deposits
0.0
Loot pool provisioning
0.0
Serveri
0.05780660
Payroll
1.35062344ii
Total
0.0
Total
1.40843004
S.MG assets
Account
01.07.2018
Net change
31.07.2018
Cash
8`487.69512056
1.40843004
8`486.28669052
Tangibles
313.565213493
0.005417024
313.559796469
Intangibles and goodwill
74.890391647
0.005417024
74.895808671
Total assets
8`874.74229566
S.MG liabilities
Account
01.07.2018
Net change
31.07.2018
Player holdings
135.09753506
0.09135317
135.00618189
Shareholder equity
8`741.05319064
1.31707687
8739.73611377
Total liabilities
8`874.74229566
S.MG has a total of 88`096`605 authorised shares outstanding. The shareholder equity per share implied value is thus 0.00009930 BTC.
S.MG has Special Stock Warrants outstanding, as follows :
#
Fingerprint
Shares
BTC
Par
1
6160E1CAC8A3C52966FD76998A736F0E2FB7B452
88`096`605
8`809.6605
1
3
5015BD3D0AE659C8B8632F31CF2950F23C844002
192`307
25
1.3
4
E72DCCB73A5E06694C5CD781D5196EE6390F999E
10`000
1
1
5
BBB0A99950037551F533850A677ABD62D0AEE7D7
10`000
1
1
6
E72DCCB73A5E06694C5CD781D5196EE6390F999E
170`000
17
1
7
E72DCCB73A5E06694C5CD781D5196EE6390F999E
250`000
25
1
8
E72DCCB73A5E06694C5CD781D5196EE6390F999E
250`000
25
1
9
E72DCCB73A5E06694C5CD781D5196EE6390F999E
250`000
25
1
10
EA0FAD90985B3025576A5061454B0FC0BC07B87E
70`000
7
1
11
E72DCCB73A5E06694C5CD781D5196EE6390F999E
250`000
25
1
12
EA0FAD90985B3025576A5061454B0FC0BC07B87E
70`000
7
1
13
E72DCCB73A5E06694C5CD781D5196EE6390F999E
250`000
25
1
14
EA0FAD90985B3025576A5061454B0FC0BC07B87E
70`000
7
1
15
E72DCCB73A5E06694C5CD781D5196EE6390F999E
250`000
25
1
16
EA0FAD90985B3025576A5061454B0FC0BC07B87E
70`000
7
1
17
E72DCCB73A5E06694C5CD781D5196EE6390F999E
250`000
25
1
18
EA0FAD90985B3025576A5061454B0FC0BC07B87E
70`000
7
1
19
EA0FAD90985B3025576A5061454B0FC0BC07B87E
20`000
2
1
20
E72DCCB73A5E06694C5CD781D5196EE6390F999E
250`000
25
1
21
EA0FAD90985B3025576A5061454B0FC0BC07B87E
70`000
7
1
22
E72DCCB73A5E06694C5CD781D5196EE6390F999E
250`000
25
1
23
EA0FAD90985B3025576A5061454B0FC0BC07B87E
70`000
7
1
24
E72DCCB73A5E06694C5CD781D5196EE6390F999E
3`250`000
325
1
25
EA0FAD90985B3025576A5061454B0FC0BC07B87E
910`000
91
1
26
FC66C0C5D98C42A1D4A98B6B42F9985AFAB953C4
150`000
15
1
27
57EE94EA6F2049A47DAFA8568F4CE8F777BC59F9
150`000
15
1
Tiii
95`698`912
9`574.6605
1.00052
Provisional statement, will be considered accepted within 24 hours. Make any observations or corrections below.
Miscellaneous
Mining is progressing nicely since Mocky's very popular bot was finally released in useful form, build 29. Consequently we've been having some major pops spring out, which will bleed the next month's sheet.
———This was same test server for August. [↩]A portion of this was spent under a very peculiar arrangement. [↩]For clerical reasons we're no longer issuing warrants monthly ; nevertheless employee compensation package remains in force, and we intend to issue 12 months' worth of warrants for E72DCCB73A5E06694C5CD781D5196EE6390F999E on January 2019. [↩]
« No Such lAbs (S.NSA), August 2018 Statement
Surprised By Joy -- The shape of my early life. Adnotated. »
Category: S.MG
Wednesday, 05 September, Year 10 d.Tr.
MiniGame (S.MG), April 2018 Statement
S.MG incoming and outgoing
Incoming
Outgoing
Description
Value
Description
Value
Deposits
0.0
Game server
0.4752i
Loot pool provisioning
0.0
Payroll
0.63947468
Total
0.0
Total
1.11467468
S.MG assets
Account
01.04.2018
Net change
30.04.2018
Cash
8`491.18983275
1.11467468
8`490.07515807
Tangibles
311.28587974
0.09902325ii
311.18685649
Intangibles and goodwill
77.1697254
0.09902325
77.26874865
Total assets
8`878.53076321iii
S.MG liabilities
Account
01.04.2018
Net change
30.04.2018
Player holdings
138.10254812
0.06505752
138.16760564
Shareholder equity
8`741.54288978
1.17973221
8`740.36315757
Total liabilities
8`878.53076321
S.MG has a total of 88`096`605 authorised shares outstanding. The shareholder equity per share implied value is thus 0.00009930 BTC.
S.MG has Special Stock Warrants outstanding, as follows :
#
Fingerprint
Shares
BTC
Par
1
6160E1CAC8A3C52966FD76998A736F0E2FB7B452
88`096`605
8`809.6605
1
3
5015BD3D0AE659C8B8632F31CF2950F23C844002
192`307
25
1.3
4
E72DCCB73A5E06694C5CD781D5196EE6390F999E
10`000
1
1
5
BBB0A99950037551F533850A677ABD62D0AEE7D7
10`000
1
1
6
E72DCCB73A5E06694C5CD781D5196EE6390F999E
170`000
17
1
7
E72DCCB73A5E06694C5CD781D5196EE6390F999E
250`000
25
1
8
E72DCCB73A5E06694C5CD781D5196EE6390F999E
250`000
25
1
9
E72DCCB73A5E06694C5CD781D5196EE6390F999E
250`000
25
1
10
EA0FAD90985B3025576A5061454B0FC0BC07B87E
70`000
7
1
11
E72DCCB73A5E06694C5CD781D5196EE6390F999E
250`000
25
1
12
EA0FAD90985B3025576A5061454B0FC0BC07B87E
70`000
7
1
13
E72DCCB73A5E06694C5CD781D5196EE6390F999E
250`000
25
1
14
EA0FAD90985B3025576A5061454B0FC0BC07B87E
70`000
7
1
15
E72DCCB73A5E06694C5CD781D5196EE6390F999E
250`000
25
1
16
EA0FAD90985B3025576A5061454B0FC0BC07B87E
70`000
7
1
17
E72DCCB73A5E06694C5CD781D5196EE6390F999E
250`000
25
1
18
EA0FAD90985B3025576A5061454B0FC0BC07B87E
70`000
7
1
19
EA0FAD90985B3025576A5061454B0FC0BC07B87E
20`000
2
1
20
E72DCCB73A5E06694C5CD781D5196EE6390F999E
250`000
25
1
21
EA0FAD90985B3025576A5061454B0FC0BC07B87E
70`000
7
1
22
E72DCCB73A5E06694C5CD781D5196EE6390F999E
250`000
25
1
23
EA0FAD90985B3025576A5061454B0FC0BC07B87E
70`000
7
1
24
E72DCCB73A5E06694C5CD781D5196EE6390F999E
3`250`000
325
1
25
EA0FAD90985B3025576A5061454B0FC0BC07B87E
910`000
91
1
Tiv
95`398`912
9`544.6605
1.00052
Provisional statement, will be considered accepted within 24 hours. Make any observations or corrections below.
Miscellaneous
The forward looking statements included in the previous period's report were universally delivered upon -- we now have a brand new server and the conversation around protocol specification is progressing.
Meanwhile on another front, permit me to reveal yet another angle into the idiocy of the general population of useless worms :
Art Erotica
18,732 members | leave group
Looking for artist, long term project, make $$$
by LordMPofTMSR about 1 month ago
I want to sponsor a cartoon series ; it would be something like a mix between oglaf (you know Trudy's work, yes ?) and midnight_on_mars (stuff like https://imgur.com/nwJ1TCQ ), heavily slanted towards male domination. You must be cognizant of Bitcoin to qualify, at least to the level of being able to take payments, I'm not touching paypal with a ten foot pole.
Please show me samples of your previous work ; I will read and consider all replies.
If you know of someone who might be a good fit, please let them know. Also if you know of a better group for this, either let me know or crosspost it I guess.
Thanks for reading!
LordMPofTMSR:
Nothing here huh. A well...
jaggedpiece:
If i weren't already busy with my own projects, I'd be more than happy to help you out. I might be able to do a few things in a month or two, if you're still interested, however.
I'm more of a Saga, The Darkness, Lady Death, Danger Girl, and Witchblade graphic novel kinda guy myself when it comes to art and story writing...
Best of luck!
LordMPofTMSR:
At the rate this search has been going so far, it will probably still be open in two years. Somehow artists always complain about needing money yet it's never the case anyone steps forward to do some work x.x
DisobedientPens:
By 'Sponsor' do you mean you're willing to commission a work for hire?, if so provide some details on project scope and you'll get more nibbles, is it a 20pp full color floppy or 100pg b&w graphic novel, who wrote it, have you produced comics before etc. Going to a dedicated art website like hentaifoundry or deviantart will probably get you a better number of eyeballs though.
Also the 'Make $$$' is a red flag to artists, just reminds us of all those people who 'have a great idea just need someone to make it for me and i'll let you have some profit.' pitches that bombard us everywhere.
And nobody takes bitcoin, sorry. But money orders, bank transfers, google pay work and aren't paypal.
LordMPofTMSR:
Whatever.
KMR-Warrior:
@DisobedientPens , you raised some valid points. In my opinion the biggest red flag is that the opie intends to pay the artist by bitcoin. How many people have a bitcoin account. PayPal is a widely recognised payment method that has been around for a long time. It is legtimate, safe and easy to use. Even if the opie does not want to use PayPal what is wrong with bank transfer.
The web is a great wonderful place where utterly useless idiots and imbeciles tell each other how things "should be" and seek each other out for mutual support towards maintaining undisrupted their imbecillic idiocy and idiotic imbecillity. "Strippers" and "artists" and whatever else alike, united by this one strand of retard dribble -- that they're not going to do anything and will tell anyone trying to do anything how to do it.
If it all burns down tomorrow it's really not nearly soon enough. What can you do ?
———We entered into a yearlong arrangement providing us with the use of a high quality machine and free replacement, along with a pair of Fuckgoats boards, the lot having been blessed by republican hands to the usual high standards of such blessings, and hosted in the Republic's own, nato-reich-free, datacenter. This boils down to a marked increase in hardware power, a 0-to-1 increase in hardware security and a significant decrease in cost! [↩]Turns out it was actually under 0.1 (as at the time I suspected but was too lazy to verify). So there we go. [↩]At the rate we're shedding assets so far we could conceivably be even under 8`780 by the end of the year! [↩]For clerical reasons we're no longer issuing warrants monthly ; nevertheless employee compensation package remains in force, and we intend to issue 12 months' worth of warrants for E72DCCB73A5E06694C5CD781D5196EE6390F999E on January 2019. [↩]
« Qntra (S.QNTR) March - April 2018 Statement
Oregon represent! »
Category: S.MG
Sunday, 06 May, Year 10 d.Tr.
Messy
This text includes frank discussion of power "exchange" and rape as properly foundational of the outward (ie, sexual) and inward (ie, "private") life of the individual. As such you may find it intolerable.
Everything happened three years ago. Back then Messallina was in the last year of Feminist Theory, but she was considering starting over with Literary Criticism because this old mammie, her "academic adviser", kept suggesting it. I tried to counter-suggest to her a few times that the old dyke (really, she wasn't that old) had a crush on her and just didn't want to see her go, but it always went right past her somehow. Strangely enough for someone so insistently subtle when it came to interpreting what others did or said, Messy just had a different parry ready every time and that was all.
Long ago by that point, a couple of years already, I had finished business school in the Business Building right accross from their Humanities Hall, and my carreer was really starting to take off. I imagine you don't really care about any of that and you'd a lot rather heard about her name. I don't really know. She told me one time that before she was born her mother had heard all about this empress of Antiquity who was very brave and courageous but whose enemies kept calumnying her out of sheer jealousy ; Messallina got the same name so that she'll be just as brave and courageous as the empress, because people today are a lot better informed than during those dark ages and they'll probably see right through the envy. I'm not sure how true this all is. I never met her mother ; there was a Roman wife-of-somebody by the name Messalina, but with a single l, and her story was a lot different, too.
That fated day, I was going to ask her to marry me. I had a ring in a little box ready and everything. As we walked into the officially nice restaurant on one end of the campus I still had no clear idea of how I'd go about it. They never tell you this, they tell you everything else but somehow someone somewhere decided nobody ever needs to be told about any of this. Maybe I should pretend to go to the bathroom but then sneak into the kitchen and ask them to put the ring into her food somewhere or something ; but what if they stole it ? I had no idea how to even go into the kitchen, not like there's a secret gangway starting behind the urinals and ending behind the dishwashers. Maybe there should be ? Besides, what if she choked on it, or chipped a tooth. Messy ate like a wild python, she chewed twice every third bite and otherwise swallowed everything mostly whole, she could very well have not even noticed anything! How would I even tell her, you know, maybe back in the car, "listen, Mess, sift through your poop in the morning". It was a huge stone going by what hole it left in my credit cards -- it was one of those stitch jobs where you have to put chunks on different ones -- but it really wasn't larger than a corn nibblet. I had seen her swallow whole shrimp without a second thought, what fucking nibblets...
Then we were seated. There was... another box. The ring as the ring, but I really had no idea how to bring this one up. I kept fantasizing about how I'd be all suave and shit, say something like "And now here's the ring I want you to put on me", but I knew with 100% certainty I wouldn't manage, not anything even remotely close to that. You know what it was. I bet you do. I had fantasized about it for many many years at that point, I think I started daydreaming about being locked up and not able to do anything unless she gave me permission in junior high. Of course, back then they didn't have the thing, or maybe I just didn't know about it ; and I didn't know Messy yet. To be honest I was just thinking Mom'd do it, or maybe Julianne, my eldest sister. Or the math teacher. She was very severe. Or maybe the girls in class during PE, they'd just come in the boys' dressing room with the teacher one day and line all the boys up, then make us drop our pants and panties and cage all of us. We'd have to do all PE naked, 100% completely naked from that day onwards, because there's nothing you can do anymore once it's on. I sometimes wore special panties just in case it happens that day, so I'd be extra humiliated by the proceedings. They could maybe even pick on me. They'd pick on me because I stood out so much, all of them, just to hide their own shame.
There were very few customers in the bar/restaurant that evening, in spite of their song and dance about needing reservations. Other than us there were a few couples apparently finishing their meals and asking for checks and a large table across the floor where about eight or nine black men were seated. I think they were athletes on campus maybe, but I didn't know any of them. They were having rounds and chatting somewhat loudly. Our waitress swiveled in all quietly and then spooked me suddenly with her "Hello, my name is Valeria and I'll be your waitress this evening!" shot out of a cannon right behind my right ear. Then she gave Messy a very insistent look and she said "Oh my god, you.are.so.beautiful!" Messy smiled and thanked her, apparently not bothered in the slightest that this mulatto waitress was judging her looks. If it were some white kid on campus it'd have been a helluva different matter I imagine, she kept going to all sorts of "stop sexual assault" talking circles and things like that, but when Valery did it it was A-ok. She was totally hot and everything, incredible, just incredible bubble butt and very pretty face. The waitress I mean, Messallina was a whole different story.
"Hey honey," Valery continued in what seemed the same breath, "would you do me a favor ? I'm wiped, I've been trying to pull a double shift to make tuition, but it really can't be done. I can't even stand anymore. My feet are killing me. Would you mind taking over, just for a coupla hours ? There's almost nobody left, it's almost done. I don't want to lose the whole shift just for the tail end of it." Messallina was nodding understandingly, and even whispered "sure" without breaking eye contact with her for one single moment, which doubtless encouraged the intruder. "Here," she said, "wear this", as she put her name tag on Messy's blouse, "and if anyone asks say you're Valeria. And don't worry about your boy here, I'll keep him entertained for you."
Messallina was all pale, which strangely enough happens to her when she's excited just exactly the same as when she's spooked, you can't really tell these apart with her. As she slowly stood up she mumbled barely audibly "but... but... what do I do ?" Valery jumped up, grabbed her hand and pulled her away "Don't worry, come, come, I'll explain everything to you. It isn't that hard, oh my god, thank you so much for doing this!" and as they left hand in hand they left me behind, mouth agape. Really ?! What the hell just happened ?! Maybe I should be calling the manager, I thought, but then again what if Messy really wants to play waitress ? I don't think that she ever had before, her parents were so loaded they brought her up like a princess. Maybe it was interesting to her. So far nobody had really noticed what happened, so did I really need to certify a witness to the whole thing ?
When she told me I must prepare a "truthful and complete" account of "our first real date" as she put it for the Gender Studies meeting at our place this Thursday, Messy also handed me an old notebook. In the interest of truth and completeness I should probably point out it's really her baby shower, and that my first thought when I first heard about her idea to switch to Literary Criticism was that it's not the dumbest thing she could have possibly come up with, sure it makes a waste of three years' tuition but for one thing they were wasted already and for the other thing at least she doesn't want to have a baby. How people grow in three years though!
I had no idea she had kept a journal back then, but here it is, in her own words :
Then she grabbed my hand, and it was electrifying! I felt unknown watering holes swell up apocalyptically and inundate my chest. I could scarcely breathe. No man had ever touched me like that, it was exactly like professor Wienerschnitzel told us the great Crystal Eastman described it privately, "it wasn't harder than a man's grasp nor wider nor thinner nor anything else ; it was not in any definite way perceptibly different, and yet how very different it was!"
She took me to the kitchen and pushed my back against a rattling metal contraption. There were a few guys there seated around a small something, and they were kinda looking at us, discreetely, but I didn't care. Val got real close to me, pushing her hips into mine, her breast into my breast, talking one inch away from my mouth. I could barely perceive her outline, she was so close. It was intoxicating.
"Do you like him ?" she hissed, and I thought she sounded displeased, and I was suddenly heartbroken. It made me sick, the very idea, physically. "I do not want to disappoint her" I thought, and everything else melted into confusion.
"Who ?" I asked, my mind blank.
"Your boy back there."
"Ah!" it shook me back to reality, sharp, cutting. "He's a great guy."
She said nothing, but leaned into me forcefully and kissed me. Hard, harsh, her breath was scalding and as her tongue subdued mine my eyes filled and tears flowed, quietly, pleasantly. She broke it off just as suddenly and then hissed in my open mouth, "Yo' eve' been pimped befo', ho ?"
"What ?! Me ?! No!" I protested, desperately.
"Yo' gonna git pimped now, dat's fo sho." she hissed again, and I felt my knees buckle. She held me up by the scruff of my neck, and I could feel my nipples stand up, painfully, like tiny stitchstars. "Yo rich bitch ?"
"I... I... Yes!" I managed eventually, through all the confusion. Yes, yes I was, I still am very privileged.
"Here's how tonight's going to work, hon" Val said, dropping the Ebonics. "You work for tips, like any waitress. But you work for me. Understood ?" I nodded enthusiastically. "And at the end of the night, whatever you make, you match out of pocket. If you make five hundred, my share is a thousand. If you make six hundred, my share is..." I stared at her, blankly. "Can't you do math ?"
"Six hundred! One thousand two hundred!" I blurted out.
"That's right."
"Do waitresses really make that much in tips ?!" I wondered outloud.
"Not black girls don't, no. But you will." I will ?! "You do wanna make good tips fo' yo' momma, don't you ho ?"
"Oh yes. Yes, yes yes!" I nodded enthusiastically.
"Take off yo bra." I stared at her, then my eyes darted around the room. "Dumb white bitches always in those dumb things. Let yo titties out, they need air, yo."
Mechanically, I reached around under my blouse to undo the clasp. As my fingers ran over my spine, the floodgates opened. Val snarled. "Properly, ho. Take dat top off!"
Before I knew it, my silk blouse was in her hand, and then my bra. There I stood, topless, in the kitchen, by the dishrack. I shivered. My arms instinctively tried to wrap around but Val grabbed my wrists.
"You excited ?" I nodded vigurously. I hadn't been that excited in my whole life up to that point. "Push dem jeans down around your ankles an' let's see."
My jeans were bunched up with my socks before she could finish her sentence. She leaned over, grabbed an immense knife with a really sharp point, pulled my G-string far far away from my left hip as if to give me a sideways wedgie and then touched it with the blade. It snapped instantly, then she cut the other side and then she pulled it out from between my thighs. I was drooling visibly, excitement flowing in rivulets down my legs.
"O yeah." she said approvingly, soothingly. "Yo ass gonna make good dough tonite, that's fo sho. That's fo damn sho."
It made me so happy, I was literally overjoyed.
She handed me the blouse back ; as I was putting it on she squatted down and pulled my jeans back up and fastened them herself. "Now listen up, rich bitch : what I join you can't take apart and what I put apart you can't join, is that clear to you ?" I nodded, though I had no idea at the time what she meant. I just wanted her to be pleased with me. My eyes were fixed on my maimed underwear, still in her firm grasp. "Oh, these. I'm gonna have you sign these for me later." She had a whole trophycase of these "white girl liberations" as she called them, but I didn't know yet. "Now go out there, and let those homies feel you up, you hear me ?"
"Yes."
"You go up to the table and you say exactly like this : 'Hi guys! My name is Valeria the Slut. The other Val is taking a load off her feet for a minute. You can just call me Slut.', got that ?"
"Yes. I go to their table and I say 'Hi guys! My name is Valeria the Slut. The other Val is taking a load off her feet for a minute. You can just call me Slut.'."
"That's right. Let them play with your tits as much as they want, but don't touch their junk. If any of them doesn't just lean over and put your rack on his arm or something."
"I will."
"Aite, now get outta here, ho! Time to make sum green."
And with that I was out of the kitchen, stepping hesitantly into the future!
To be honest, I had always suspected Mess wasn't crazy about me or anything, that I was more of a "could take it or leave it alone" sort of deal for her. I always felt I had to seriously compete. But to read it like that, pen on paper... I confess it's a shock, even after all these years.
The other Valeria came over to my table, and sat herself in the exact spot Messallina had just abandoned. She eyed me for a moment, then she leaned back, lifted her legs and put her feet right in my lap. She wore wedge espadrilles, which truth be told looked fabulous on her feet. At first she just pinched my cock in between her heels right through my pants, which was painful but also delicious ; but then she moved on to pushing hard on my balls, which was excruciating. I was holding my breath, trying not to start crying like a little girl.
"What's your name, boy ?"
"I... I can't remember." I managed, exhaling as little as I could.
"Awww, s'thematter", she cooed at me. "Do his itty bitty tata hurt ?"
"Yes!" I let out sharply.
"That's good. They should hurt. Don't you think your whole peewee should hurt ?" she asked, vising my nuts a different way.
"Yes" I admitted without thinking.
"Would you like to try without shoes ? Maybe it's not as bad." she offered, neutrally. I shook my head vigorously just as I was no doubt turning all shades of purple. She had really strong feet, and those heels, dear God! "Alright, take them off, then. But do it like a gentleman!"
"H... h..." I couldn't say anything until she eased the pressure. She toyed with it for a while before letting me speak. "How does a gentleman do it ?"
"Kiss and suck and lick everywhere. Especially the toes. And in between."
I undid her straps and then huddled over to worship her chocolate feet. They had all the flavour of the end of a double shift, with little gifts of lint or unidentified gunk hiding away in crevices here and there. Some parts were difficult to reach properly at first, but then she told me to kneel under the table so I could do a good job of it and indeed, it's much easier to do kneeling before her. Not to mention one's privates are safely hidden away that way.
I don't know how long I spent eating out her feet, but at some point Messy came by to ask if we need anything, all professional and serious. Valery ordered some drinks and told her to put it on the dudes' tab. I avoided any kind of eye contact and just focused on my task. I really didn't want her to see me or have to explain to her what I was doing.
While Messallina was away getting our drinks, Valery ordered me back in my seat, and then had me take off my shoes, and put the socks inside. It felt weird to feel the floor with my bare feet, but good, pleasant somehow. I thought maybe next it was going to be my turn. Maybe Valery orders Messallina to get on her knees and suck on my feet for a change ; or maybe she does it herself. I didn't think so, not really, I mean I didn't think it likely at all, but I slid my feet all over the floor to pick up all available dirt just in case.
The drinks took a while to show up, but eventually Messallina placed a tall stemmed glass with Bailey's Irish Cream in front of me and something amber, maybe rum, in front of Valery. She curtsied before her, too, and then started to leave, but Valery stopped her. "Take this garbage and throw it out in the kitchen, girlie" she said, pointing at my shoes. Messy squatted right next to me without looking, picked up my shoes and left. I had no time to think about what happened to her bra because I noticed the guys at the table were hooting, laughing and pointing at me. I didn't have any idea why, but I very much preferred to pretend it wasn't happening, so I busied myself with the drink. It was pretty strange, thick and clumped up in places, and pretty strong I thought.
"Kind of a whore's drink, white liquor. Don't you think ?" Valery offered neutrally.
"Yeah, that's what they said in my highschool, too."
"Do you like it ?"
"It's okay."
"Well drink up baby boy, I have a little suprise for you." I gobbled it all up in one go, so she ordered me to lick the inside of the glass thoroughly, which I did. Then she asked me how it felt being barefoot, and to my own surprise I confirmed for her that it was quite nice, actually.
"Sorta liberating, wouldn't you say ?"
"Yeah, actually."
"Shoes are for real men, anyway. You're not a real man, are you ?"
"Not really."
"Maybe one day, huh." she offered, cooingly, almost mothering.
"Maybe."
"So do you want to play a game ? I heard baby boys love games."
"Sure!"
"You're not giving it to me, darling..." she trailed off, so I repeated a very enthusiastic "Sure!" and even clapped for some reason.
"Alright," she said, taking out her smartphone and resting it in front of her on the table. "Take off your pants. There you go. Fold them neatly and set the on the chair. There." My mind was racing, as I regained my seat in just briefs. I hate to admit it, but they weren't normal briefs. They were from this thing, "HommeMystere", you had to order them online. I had put them on because I was secretly hoping I'd somehow summon the guts to talk to Messy about the rings, both of them, the golden one with diamonds and the steel one with keys. I knew that I would never dare say anything as long as I had these on, and the humiliation was intoxicating. If only I had worn some normal boxers, I'd think for the entire rest of my life, maybe I'd have had the gumption somehow to tell Mess all about everything. Maybe we'd be happily together ever after. But I couldn't wear normal, plain, ordinary boxers and go through with it. I knew I couldn't. I had to wear these. This exact pair, I knew the moment I saw it, this is going to be the pair of panties in which I won't dare say anything to Messallina. So pretty, pink-and-purple lacy G-strings for gay men from a specialty online store. Valery chuckled, then ordered me to stuff them into my empty glass. Then she ordered me to spread my legs widely, and rested her toes on either side of my scrotum, tickling me with her toes.
"Here's the game we're gonna play, baby boy. I'm going to start a counter on my phone. You don't get to see what it is. Then I'm going to squeeze your balls between my feet, and press them against the seat, and once your cock is hard, as it certainly... oh look at that!" she exclaimed as I presented a raging erection, "I will force your baby tool in ways it doesn't go and scratch it all over, hard, especially where it's sensitive right there" and she pushed her toenail right under the flare, which made me wince. "That's right. At some point you're going to say 'I'm sorry, Mommy, I'll never grow up. I just can't. I'm such a disappointment.'. Repeat it."
"I'm sorry, Mommy, I'll never grow up. I just can't. I'm such a disappointment."
"That's right. If you say it after the counter has run down, I'll give you a nice foot massage and then you can clean my feet with your mouth again. But if you say it before the counter has run down, you will have to paddle barefoot, as you are, panty glass in hand, to that table over there and ask them why are they pawing your fiance. And then wink at them. Is that clear ?"
I just nodded. The only thing I could think of is whether I could actually take a whole hour of this, and whether she maybe had one of those crazy timer apps that did more than an hour. Could she have ?
"Alright baby boy, now stuff those magic panties of yours in your filthy little mouth and don't let me hear one peep or whimper out of you until you're ready to swallow the whole enchilada. Go!"
As she said go!, the balls of her feet came together at the root of my ballsac and pulled the captive flesh sharply towards her. I couldn't breathe, my eyes watered up, it hurt worse than anything I had ever experienced, and the pain kept coming and coming, layering itself over itself like thick sheets of pudding at the pudding plant. Then she used one foot to push my ballsac against the rim of the chair, real hard, balls dangling underneath. Her other foot was kicking them from beneath, slightly at first, then harder and harder. Then she changed feet. Then she held my penis tight against my belly with her left, pulling it down softly, while she ran the nails of her right toes side to side and then up and down around the urethra. I could vaguely perceive, from the fiery ball of pain I inhabited, Valery looking down at her clock now and again ; then she stopped doing it altogether. Perhaps it was safe to say the words, but I knew we weren't done yet. Then Messallina showed up.
"Ma'am, the guys over at table nine say that after midnight it's topless waitresses here ?"
"Ah, that's right, sure. Here, I'll take mine off too." Valery retorted, her pressure on my genitals undiminished.
"Alright ma'am, I'll go tell them they can take mine off too."
"Wait a second. Go sit over there next to the baby boy, he has something to tell you."
Messallina obeyed her without hesitation. She came and sat next to me, without making eye contact. She just sat there facing her, head bowed, the picture of obedience.
"Go ahead, baby boy. Say it!" Valery ordered.
I spit out my gag, and whimpered "I'm sorry, Mommy, I'll never grow up. I just can't. I'm such a disappointment."
Messallina suddenly turned towards me, and our eyes locked for a long moment. Then her hands went around my head, comfortingly, and pulled it to her breast. "I know, baby. I know. It's okay now. It's okay." As she said that I could feel her hand caressing my shaft, softly. Valery's iron feet stopped torturing me and soon joined her caresses. Within seconds I was splooging, thick, lots and lots, string after string after string of viscuous glue. Some of it went on Messy's hand, but most ended up on Valery's feet. Mess wiped her hand in my hair, like a caress, and ran it over my face. I could smell it. Then she took off. I knew what I had to do.
I took my time cleaning up Valery's feet, inch by inch, retracing portions I had already done to give my tongue enough time to produce plenty of saliva to well dissolve and digest all the goo. Eventually I was done, and we just sat there in silence for a moment. Then I had to ask.
"Will you make her throw out my pants, too ?"
"Sure."
"Please don't do that. Please don't."
"Why not ?"
I had to tell her. I had to. "I was going to propose to her today. There's the ring."
"Oh how romantic! A ring! Is it beautiful ?"
"I think so..."
"Let's see it. No, don't get up. On your knees like you are, reach over, open the box and present it to me properly."
So I did. She took it like due homage, and put it on her own finger. "Nice." she said.
"There's... there's..."
"There's what ?"
"There's more." and without another word I reached into the jacket pocket and retrieved the other box. I presented it the same way, and she laughed and laughed. She had the most beautiful laughter, lilting and feminine. None of those big, coarse HA!s. I hate those.
She wasted no time fastening it on my purple, painful, abused genitals, and then commented that this is just beautiful, she'll keep the keys and my only hope of ever seeing the light again is through getting Messallina to bring me along with her sometime. This made perfect sense to me, and I was absorbed in the reverie of it while she rifled through my jacket pockets as it lay there, slung over the backrest. She found... oh my god... she found... I always carry a tin of vaporub. I need it for... things. Medical things. Like when I need to feel my cock catching on fire.
Tonight I had with me an almost full package of Extra Strong, Triple Action, Intensive Care formulation. In retrospect not such a bright idea, as she wasted no time in emptying it. She delicatedly coated my balls in a layer so thick you could actually see it, and then, for disposing of the last gobblet, she ordered me feet up on the chair opposite and mercilessly shoved two fingers coated in the gelatinous lava up my asshole. I'd be a liar if I tried to claim I never put anything ever up there by myself, but nothing really ever this big, and besides I didn't really know what I was doing. She, however, knew very well, and after a few short minutes of my cock trying desperately but hopelessly to burst through its steel cage, I splooged again. It wasn't really pleasurable in any sense, but it did make the needles stop for just one brief, short moment. Messallina showed up again, her breasts beet red continuing along her chest and all the way up to her neck, her nipples visibly irritated.
"They tipped me eight hundred and forty three dollars, ma'am. They said, ten percent of the bill and a hundred dollars from each of them." Then after a pause, "Do you take a check ?"
"Yes, but only in round numbers."
"What d..." started Messallina, but then she stopped with realisation, reached into her purse and wrote a thousand dollar check, tits dangling freely over the table as she did it.
"They also wanted me to call them two cabs, or a shuttle."
"Don't they have that Hummer van thing outside ?"
"They said they're too drunk to drive."
"So go back there and tell them that the house will be happy to provide a driver, at no charge. Point to the white boy here when you say it. Then tell them that of course you and me we'd join them in the back for entertainment if they want." Then she turned to me, "you can drive, can't you sweetie ?" I nodded.
The solution was evidently acceptable to the inebriated patrons, as they wasted no time in gathering all around us. I had to ask Valery if I may wear pants in their drunken hoots and hollers, but she shook her head no, and then told them "don't worry about peckerwood here, he's fixed". They found this the height of comedy. As we filed out past the bouncer Valery said "You close up, kay Bob ?", barefoot just like me, her shoes in her hand. He nodded, and next thing I know I was putting the car into drive just as Messallina and Valery were each straddling one guy. They peeled off Valery's jeans first. She fastened her shoes back on, then pressed her see-through panties against some guy's face. Messallina was kneeling on the seat facing back, her face pressed against the partition into my cabin. Valery undid her jeans just as two different guys were taking off her shoes, then they pushed her face down and to the side making her butt bulge out obscenely and pressed the privacy button. I drove in silence to the indicated suburban mansion, and by the time the last echoes of the mentholation were dying off we were pulling into the driveway.
« A gift of memory
Happy Mew Year's! »
Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Monday, 01 January, Year 10 d.Tr.
Medicine Tactics
So I dumped a story in the logs, it went like
mircea_popescu meanwhile in the lulzy tales : late last night i went into girl's room cuz i couldn't sleep and wanted to play. she was asleep. she woke up startled, and then i could see panic grip her. and i was you know, all "don't worry baby, you're not in trouble, there's nothing wrong" and she was looking at me with these big and growing eyes and turning progressively whiteer.
eventually she was awake enough to remember ~she had put earplugs in~ because went to sleep while place still active, and ~that was why~ she couldn't hear a word i was saying.
As I typed it in, the story of Medicine Tactics came back to me, but I didn't want to keep pouring into the logs, so here it is :
We're walking down Avenida Central, where all the two dollar whore outfits are on sale. Speaking of which, have you ever had the car stopped in the middle of the jungle, on the "road" that's never seen asphalt, put the blinkers on and march girl into clearing in the jungle wall, in nothing but her town shoes, to be fucked from behind, arms tied to tree ? No ? Yes ? But then did you compliment her on her two dollar whore skills, and give her the two dollars she's so earned (one of which just happens to be this one dollar bill you picked up off the floor in the very busy Mercado Central, among thousands of poor people, much like, many years earlier, you had picked a five euro bill off the floor of Istanbul's most frequented pedestrian bridge) ? Did she take it well, which is to say as the great compliment that it is (both being good at being a two dollar whore and getting the magical money you've touched) ? Because if you answered no at any point you haven't yet lived, ha-ha-HA!
It occurs to me the blog is a more supportive environment for lateral thinking, almost as if irc is for depth but blogs are for breadth ; but we digress. So we're walking down Avenida Central, and girl wants to continue previous conversation, so she says to me
"Do you remember what you told me about Medicine Tactics ?"
"The what ?" retorts I, completely taken by surprise by the entirely unexpected request. Medicine Tactics ? What medicine tactics!
There are two distinct items that contribute to make this quite the major brain cycle eater. Three actually. One is that I never know what of mine the girl's read. Maybe somewhere in the depths of Trilema there's a discussion of Medicine Tactics, why not. God knows everything else is there. Yes she said "you told me about", but it's possible I told her to do something entirely else and this was linked and thoroughness is mandatory in this harem -- they even eat the cum once it's extracted from its dispenser, and then eat it again. And again... but we digress.
The other is that I always reconstruct what girlies say into the most interesting form ; it's an ancient habit, one which I expect most people who ever taught sooner or later developed (and I tell you it'd have driven me to madness even sooner among the retarded "philosophy" students, but anyway. It's informative, in any case, and educative, and so "what could she possibly mean, Medicine Tactics ???"
Then there's also that I'm professionally dyslexic, which is to say in the course of my business I juggle vast but strictly disjunct "namespaces", and that "strictly disjunct" comes at great cognitive expense of not being able to cross certain boundaries readily -- which is to say, not with the nimble step of the clueless. So, what am I not seeing of this Medicine Tactics joke ?
From the other side, she watched me obviously sink into confusion, "what Medicine Tactics ?"
"The Medicine Tactics discussion! You don't remember telling me about the Medicine Tactics problem ?"
"When was this!"
"Yesterday!"
"What are you talking about ?"
"Medicine Tactics."
"I have no fucking idea..."
"Remember, you explained to me, how a variable has a name, but also a content, like a jar with a label and some pickles, and knowing which is which..."
"Metasyntactics ?"
"That's what I've been saying!"
"No, you haven't. You've been saying Medicine Tactics. Your enunciation is terrible, and in fact your pronounciation of the two different things is strictly identical. Apparently in the context of variables it sounds exactly like "metasyntactics" to my ear, but as we were discussing plastic surgery earlier, it stuck to Medicine Tactics and wouldn't come off. You're going to diction classes next."
Imagine that! Has it ever happened to you that one of your girls used a grand total of maybe five consonants, and it was upon you and the grand gods of context to distinguish t and d, sy and ci, etcetera ? Because if it hasn't...
... you haven't lived!
« Traditional family vs the harem, a comparative study
You know who the best US president was ? How about Andrew Johnson ? »
Category: Zsilnic
Friday, 06 April, Year 10 d.Tr.
Meanwhile...
Did I mention how we were going by a dime store with pretty credible whore outfits in the window so I bought the bimbo this delicious duck-yellow romper with SpongeBob-Cheeseguyi drawn all over it ? That she had to wear to the lesbian club on free entrance night, obviouslyii. So what if it was made for a twelve year old ? That just means no underwear, rightiii ? Makes it all the easier to make out with local chicks (notwithstanding she didn't manage to kiss one, don't ask me, they have weird kissing hangups here).
What can I tell you, things be happening meanwhile, c'est tout.
———Yes they meanwhile explained to me he's not an animated block of cheese, what can I say, I thought... [↩]Or to quote some fetlife fatty, "some lifestyle ignorant asshat" -- because their having read about it "online" for a coupla months totally beats my having practiced it for a few years past the decade. Doesn't it ?! [↩]If you don't count "Cheap Whore" spelled out in thick red marker as "underwear", I mean. [↩]
« ffytche
Dies irae »
Category: Zsilnic
Monday, 08 October, Year 10 d.Tr.
Lucy
Lucyi is the 2014 reinstallment of Besson's impotence driven copulation substituteii.
Other than the strict adherence to The Pill Codeiii and the predictable colorizations in generaliv, the Katniss effectv is in full swing and the pseudoscientific wank overpowering. I defy you to sit without cringing through Morgan Freeman's weathergirl delivery of the up-to-date equivalent of 1800s slavery apologism.
Nevertheless, the first ten minutes or so are quite watchablevi and overall the summarized version quite correct : the only future for the wankers is exactly as discussed on Trilema previously -- to be used as cattle, as here depicted, as encountered in daily life, as it is. Why, you thought something else's going on in your life ?
It could easily have been about half an hour shorter ; it wouldn't have been much better even if it were half an hour shorter. Nevertheless, it works as it is to prove that the herd understands quite well what its future looks like.
What can you do ?
———2014, by Luc Besson, with Scarlett Johansson, Morgan Uncletoman and various orcs. [↩]Come on, you have noticed what Joan of Arc, the 5th element etc have in common, haven't you? [↩]You have noticed that all pantsuit-alligned productions feature blue rather than red pills, haven't you ? A sort of a desperate last gasp of femsociety, "blue pill can be good too" much in the "soviet tech also works" vein. [↩]You realise that as "brain capacity" increases skin tone turns darker and darker in pantsuit pulpwank, yes ? And the "reminder" Resplenduminous keeps of the Old World is some orc-looking Syrian or whatever the hell that "French" "police officer" is. Habba habba! [↩]To quote the scientist who originally described this,
Here's your first point of irony: this true lady-centric blockbuster franchise isn't named after Katniss, it's named after what happens to Katniss, which is why it is truly a lady-centric franchise.
How would you classify this book/movie's genre? Is it an action movie with a female twist? Is it a love story? A drama? Sci-fi?
No. It is a fairy tale.
We can start with the obvious. The book is about 24 kids thrown into an arena to fight to the death, only the toughest, the most resourceful, the strongest will survive, and it better be you because your whole village depends on it. It is such a scary premise that there was some concern it was too violent for kids to watch. Well, big surprise: Katniss wins.
Hmmm, here is a surprise: Katniss never kills anyone. That's weird, what does she do to win? Take as much time as you want on this, it's an open book test. The answer is nothing.
This is not a criticism about the entertainment value of the story, but about its popularity and the pretense that it has a strong female character. I like the story of Cinderella, but I doubt that anyone would consider Cinderella a strong female character, yet Katniss and Cinderella are identical.
The traditional progressive complaint about fairy tales like Cinderella is that they supposedly teach girls to want to be princesses and want to live happily ever after. But is that so bad? The real problem with fairy tales is that the protagonist never actually does anything to become a princess. Forget about gerrymandering or slaying a dragon or poisoning her rivals: does she even get a pretty dress, go to the ball and seduce the prince? Those may be anti-feminist actions, but at least they are actions. No. She is given two dresses, carried to the ball, and the Prince comes and finds her. Twice. Her only direct and volitional action is to leave the ball at midnight, and even that isn't so much a choice as because of a threat.ii The clear problem with this isn't that girls will want to hold out for a Prince, but that it might foster the illusion their value is so innately high that even without pretty clothes or a sense of agency a Prince will come find them. Sleeping Beauty and Snow White are worse: they don't even have to bother to stay alive to get their Prince.
In this offering I dare argue the ineptitude is productive however, as it saves us the half hour or so worth of "martial arts" wankery. She just walks right through the (necessarily azn, of course) mooks. It's not just easier this way, but to any sort of analysis it could not be stated anything important's lost, so the economy of bullshit's quite welcome. [↩]If you're going to "create a superhero", the "accidentally ruptured magic drug pouch" is a lot better a story than "he ate some flies that were nuclearoctive" or whatever the fuck silver age bullshit. [↩]
« Land of coffee, land of winds, land of oddly moistened bints
Lay the Favorite »
Category: Trilematograf
Tuesday, 09 January, Year 10 d.Tr.
Lili Marleen, the only English version that doesn't suck.
Intro
"Motherfucker, there's no decent English version of Lili Marleen. Waht the fuck is this, 'create a world for two', where do these shithead Beatties get the fucking nerve! Next it's going to be about gender equality and the wage goop."
"There must be one on Trilema, I remember reading it."
* looks *
"Nope, no such thing."
"Oh, you know what I bet it was ? You just did it with me, I remember our going through it, but I think you never actually wrote it down."
"Oh yeah !?"
"Yeah, remember, at the *** after *** you held me in your lap and I had to tell you what Tor is and then you explained the beta-ss thing and..."
"Oh, yeah."
"And then we *** so it never got written out properly."
She's right, it never got written out properly. And so now I don't have it, which means I have to re-do it. But anyway, whatever, I'm redoing it. Here it is :
By the soldiers' quarters, right besides the gatei
Stood once a lantern
And in front she'd wait.
That's what weii want, to meet againiii
Under that lantern, let us stand
Like once Lili Marleen
Like once Lili Marleen
Our twinning shadows shone as one withoutiv
That we loved each other
You could tell right out
Let every body see quite well,
That looks within that lantern's spell
Once was Lili Marleen
Once was Lili Marleen
Clearlyv rung the bugle, calling out Curfew
"Three days that can cost you" --
"I'll be right there with you."
We said our burning goodbyes then,
But how I'd rather they were damned
For you, Lili Marleen
For you, Lili Marleen
Your steps, how she knows them, that pretty old gangvi,
All night long it burns there,
But me it long forgot.
Should harsh misfortune strike at me,
Who will then stand, guarding the light
With you, Lili Marleen
With you, Lili Marleen
From the realm of silence, from the reasoned groundvii,
Raise me up once more, dreams in your loving mouthviii
When the final mists will drain,
Will I by that old lantern stand ?
With you, Lili Marleen
With you, Lili Marleen
Now there, that's an English Lili Marleen that doesn't suck.
It blows.
What the fuck did you think it was ?!
———Neverfucking mind that they told you Kaserne is "barracks" in the dictionary. Sure it is, in the dictionary, but what matters here is the jockstrap scent, okay ? It's supposed to faintly connote prostitution, and precariousness, and... oh what's the use! What matters here is that "right besides the gate" flows, syllabically, exactly like "von dem grossen Tor", not whether it is or it is not fucking large, nevermind the easy irrelevancy, focus on the important. In all the chaos and confusion, this man nevertheless loved a woman ; a woman he never got to know so well. [↩]We, you understand. Not he and she. Him and you. [↩]How the fuck could anyone miss out on the again-Marleen match is beyond fucking comprehension, outside of wilful stupidity there's no explaining it. The whole fucking point of the name is nostalgia, good god, vat-things without a history that understand nothing! [↩]Yes ?
It's not fucking "our two shadows looked like one". Beiden is both, and Uns're beiden is not fucking "our two", alright ?! It's "our both", which means nothing in English, but our twinning does mean, and works splendidly, at that. Because English works. If you work it.
It works better than fucking German, at that, because yes sah'n is to see, but to see in the active, was seen, it emitted the fact of sight. Shone is stupendously good for this purpose, specifically because of the contrast with the concept of shadow. See ?
What do you see, when you see ? Is it what you look to see or what I show you to see ? [↩]Schon is a bitch in German, one of the worst. [↩]See also this discussion. And yes, the implication contemplated here is very much in the vein of "When you sent her to my car." ; try and understand that for a large stretch in both space and time, a stretch easy to confuse with civilisation altogether, just about the only way a young filly got initiated was with an older woman there holding her up, much like for baptism. So yes, she the gangway, the scant old woman blessing their union, such as little they had muchly they cherished.
Fucking "lovely way you walk" motherfucker on a stick. I need a spittoon. [↩]Ye ken ? [↩]Yes, very much oral sex. Because while she does it you close your eyes, yes ? And you dream away, yes ? [↩]
« Double Indemnity. But proper, like.
So I went to buy a new hard-drive... »
Category: Trilenciclopedia
Wednesday, 14 March, Year 10 d.Tr.
Let's duckduckgo a little, see what comes out.
Here's a bash oneliner. Don't you just love my bash oneliners by now ?
cat trilema.txt | while read line; do echo "$line" >> t-ddg.txt; curl -k -m 20 https://duckduckgo.com/html/?q=$line | tr '\n' ' ' | sed 's%This is the visible part -->%\n%g' | sed 's%</h2>%\n%g' | sed -n '2,11p' | tr '\r' ' ' | sed 's%class="result__a" href="/l/?kh=-1&uddg=%\n%g' | sed 's%">%\n%g' | awk '{print $1}' | grep "http" | awk '{print NR"."$0}' | sed 's/%2F/\//g' | sed 's/%3A/:/g' | sed 's/%2D/-/g' >> t-ddg.txt; echo "-------------" >> t-ddg.txt; sleep 2;done
What could be found in trilema.txt ? Oh, I don't know, whatever list of keywords or keyphrases that interest you, one per line, + used as a word separator. In the instant case it's a list of all 2`423 titles of articles published on Trilema since I started writing it in English ; but in your case it could be anything you damn well please.
And what will be found in t-ddg.txt ?! Why, something quite like this :
how+to+remove+usgalphabet+usually+called+google+by+the+jews+pantsuit+from+your+web+experience
2.http://trilema.com/2018/kumho/trackback/
3.https://www.yelp.com/biz/june-minneapolis
-------------
getting+your+messages+out+of+the+shitpile+called+fetlife
1.http://trilema.com/2018/getting-your-messages-out-of-the-shitpile-called-fetlife/
2.http://trilema.com/2015/heres-who-doesnt-belong-in-bitcoin-you/
3.https://notjustbitchy.com/how-to-get-responses-on-fetlife/
4.https://www.youtube.com/watch%3Fv%3DdQPTW4vyjAQ
5.https://www.rooshvforum.com/thread-16260.html
-------------
wood+impregnated+in+oil+a+metaphor
1.http://trilema.com/2018/wood-impregnated-in-oil-a-metaphor/trackback/
3.https://www.practicalmachinist.com/vb/general/ot-impregnating-wood-249681/
Isn't that neat ?
There's 1`656 occurences of trilema.com among the 12`115 slots for it to occur available in that file, about 13.67%. Considering a natural maximum would be 20% by implicit design of the item in question, I'd guess not so bad (or considering 100% is the natural tendency of anything everi, I guess pretty miserable).
cat tddg-stat.txt | awk -F '.' '$1 {sum += $1} END {print sum}'
2831
Meaning the average occurence of trilema.com among the top five results on a duckduckgo search for a title of a Trilema article (no quotes) is on position #1.71.
Could be worse ; and now you know.ii
———As the girly said,
You are not a dom. You are an oppressor disguised as a Dom. You feed on the women you think are weak or you crave to break down those that seem to be strong. I don't fall for that trap.
because totally, ~I~ am the reason there's no strong, independent women to be found anywhere. Poor Pantsuited Hilarity'd be trynna, but I just dun let her. Not the exact fucking way around, no oh no etcetera. [↩]Specifically what you know is that if you "didn't know" about Trilema, you face the following trilemma : either a) you're fucking stupid, in that you've seen it before but didn't realise what you were looking at ; or else b) you're fucking boring, in that it'd never occur to you to search for anything like what I write about or finally c) you're fucking evil, in that you know plain well but hope against hope there's still something you could do (or as the case actually is -- not do) about it. [↩]
« The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari
So what's out there ? »
Category: Meta psihoza
Friday, 29 June, Year 10 d.Tr.
Let me tell you how bad I have it
I wanted to write an article, right ? Because it's been a while, and I love writing for Trilema. Back in the day I used to write pieces hourly, nowadays the weeks stretch into years and the years pile into centuries and cohorts and eons and whatnot before I put two words together.
And yet... there's nothing to write about!
I don't do anything, practically speaking, in the unexpected sense that I live in a sort of paradise, a complexly decocted tincture of perfection countless cocottes labour to provide me with. I drink the best rum in the world, but I've already mentioned it. How many times can you say the same thing over again ? I also have cocktails, but il migliore, naturalmente and I don't happen to feel like sharing the recipe of the world's best cocktail with the world at large.
I go to the beach, and it is the best beach there is to be had.i Unlike the cocktail I feel like sharing some limited aspects (images, mostly, because I sure as fuck don't want to see the "general public" anywhere even remotely near), but what's that do for the problem at hand ? I've already shared so many, it's well described. What, yet another YAPP ?
In short, if it's any good it stays good. If you don't feel like sharing there's nothing to say, and if you do feel like sharing you've probably shared qs already.
Other than that, I do unspeakable sexual things, but they're unspeakableii and moreover how god damned much intimacy can one share before he becomes a sort of camera rather than a sort of person ?
I vaguely considered posting the chatlogs of "here's how a cold call turned itself into an obedient girly aspiring to enslavement", for instance. "Case study" as they're pompously called, or "field reports" or whatever, amirite ? "Learn from me", as fucking if that's how learning goes, you watch the surgeon play with knives and then go play with knives upon your sister's abdomen one evening.
Maybe I could have done it before she landed here, play it like a game, "wanna bet whether she actually comes or not ?". You know, to tease the usual sort of idiot mind out of the usual "plausible deniability"iii, to force the eternal "I'm not what I do, I'm what I think" moron into some kind of captivity in a web of real events, "if you knew she wasn't coming why didn't you bet". Not that this does anything, from experience, the lost stay lost, there on a stage in Omaha claiming they "couldn't find" the mirror staring them in the face. Why not ? What'd you expect ?
Yet there must be a limit, and if indeed I am yet under it, then no one alive is above ; for all the clamour and pretense, idle as all other words in this sad, atrophied language ever are -- there's no other more substantially, or even comparably public existence. I'm sure there's idiots being followed about by cameras, but this is not more, in the exact sense 24/7 security camera footage is not more A cote de chez Swann, but less. Infinitely less.
I also watch films. Since I'm constructing a filesharing server containing everything I ever reviewed I've also been rewatching everything I've ever reviewed. I go to write a new review afterwards, and faithful to the method I look up the old one first. Believe it or not it's every time the same exact thing I wanted to say, maybe I'd change a little bit here and there, but minor, cosmetic things. By and large, the diff's not worth the patching, so to speak.
And then, on top of all that, the more substantial points of policy, thereby eminently public matters, happen quite naturally in the forum of the Most Serene Republic. I could have made an article out of that, but to be honest this'd have been more akin to graft, deliberately misdirecting the public flow towards private capture. It just didn't work ; we can all print articles about it, after the fact, like I suppose in a sense this one, and like diana's, and so on -- but it, the it itself, belongs in retrospect exactly where it went and found its own place by itself.
I suppose I could fix some other bit of revered, classical or otherwise self-important bad prose, like I've already done dozens upon dozens of times. Truth be told, I've had Shackley's whatever loaded up ever since alf graciously provided the copy, but I couldn't be bothered to as much as read the title. Honestly I'd much rather read myself than whoever the hell else, nobody can fucking write worth a shit (in the sense that the very limited few who could are a) long ago dead and b) long ago read and re-read, RIP Twain).
This is how bad I have it! I have nothing I wish to say! I've already said it all! I'm not merely expressive, but thoroughly expressed! And the mechanisms of expression so fine, so refined, so efficient and ample and grand that should I somehow, sometime (not today!) come up with a trickle expressible, it'll have been expressed long before I even catch on!
I'm now going to have an exprimido and think about all this...
———I am not drinking myself under the table on tap water over here. Beach bums of Californite extraction confess that this is true, "man, I love the beach but I've never seen anything like this!". It's a fact, factual like the Sun's rays hitting straightest at the Equator, no more nor any less than that. [↩]Like say, picking randomly among a hundred or so possible examples, the girl who fell in love with me because I ordered her to and now it's all
Jul 18 23:02:45 *** good night, i love you!!
Jul 18 23:29:16 *** lol i hope in like two years, i tell you i love you and you still dont
Isn't it a great gem of a story ? Unrequited love, such a wonderful thing. [↩]Exactly like that old story,
no you don't get to "wait and see" so as to then claim the most convenient possible construction as your "sincerely held belief" "throughout"
Because this isn't the fucking internet, specifically in the sense that there's only one authority, and constructive retroversion of that nature works for the prime mover and for the prime mover only! Rando redditard gets no such privilege. [↩]
« Morning coffee ocean side
Fuck Argentina. »
Category: Zsilnic
Friday, 20 July, Year 10 d.Tr.
Le salaire de l'idiotie
Le Salaire de la peuri is -- other than a transparent vehicle for the director to exposeii his own wifeiii, very much in the Deep Throat traditioniv -- such a humongous, monumental pile of inept nonsense as to shatter any possible containment vessel.
Consider, pars pro toto, this much : when for inexplicable reasonsv some dangerous explosive had to be conveyed hundreds of miles by truck, and two trucks were sent (for security!) on the same road, and one went slow and then fast and the other fast and then slow and so on and so following, when this pile of utterly-not-al-mente pasta finally came to the obvious "dramatic peak" of the fast truck being behind and "can not slow down" while the slow truck was doing "no more than 5km/h" it was NOT the obvious solution to simply drive the slow one off the road for five minutes. Because yes, you can have roads as bad as not having them, but that doesn't change the fact that this film was made by (and for) idiots, which is to say on the basis of fixed categorical designs they're not at liberty to alter -- much like worm can't jump from apple to apple, much like tea can't jump from cup to cup, just so Henri-Georges Idiot can't think it'd occur to anyone, let alone experienced truckers, to simply take the damned thing off road for a little bit. Because this totally never happens ever, and so on.
It is truly a great loss to humanity that the ethnically French were ever permitted to make movies ; they're worse than the Germans at itvi, and they don't even have the excuse of producing the machinery. Stick to writing novels or pulling on your dicksvii or whatever it is you're doing, fellows. This cinema business utterly isn't for you.
———1953, by Henri-Georges Clouzot, with Yves Montand, Vera Clouzot. Uncharacteristically rendered in English as "The Wages of Fear", which is actually what it says. [↩]Let's understand something together. What do you suppose is the selling point of pretense ?
Consider the evident case of cars, more specifically the advertisement for them. Say you're an advertising creative, and you're to make the ad for the customer's car. Do you see why you'd bother even proposing a piece like they do these days, so utterly pretentious you could splice the ad and the cars randomly in any other combination and nobody'd know the difference ?
They had elections here recently, and the local twerps evidently hired some "experts" from fucking Florida, because lo and behold, there were briefly a whole bevy of cans of soup advertised, all in the exact pantsuit fashion of "proper" advertising, which is to say so pretentious as to not have any relation to the item advertised whatsoever.
You know, intuitively, somehow through the fact of aculturation among the idiots (which you flatter yourself with delusions of immunity from -- but they're delusional, thoroughly) that it wouldn't be proper to try and advertise a guy whose name is Winner in the vein of "hey, his name says it all". Because that'd be reference to fact, and reference to fact is verboten in pretenselandia, altogether and completely forbidden.
It's what people of my profession call a taboo -- it's not merely forbidden to speak such things, but even to notice them! For instance when a local fellow by the name Piza was proposed the slogan "Vote for algo! Vote for Piza!" he couldn't turn it down ; nor anyone in his team could point and laugh at the sheer ridiculous imbecility of it. To point at the failure of this pretense'd have been almost as bad as saying nigger!
Think how the pretense works : it's not ok to point out the unflattering relation between a guy whose name is indistinguishable from pizza in this language, the involvement of cheese and electoral advertising! And, because this is the big whoop, and it's also not ok to notice this ; I don't mean in the public manner the notice's here given, but privately. People whose business is to manipulate the unspoken and unspeakable biases in the minds of random streetwalkers (ie, advertisers, Skinner-box flautists) nevertheless actually detrimentally rely on the in-turn-unspoken assumption that the power of the taboo protecting pretense is going to be so great it will actually prevent the ill effects! Even if they're not language-mediated at all!
So what is the selling point of pretense ?
Consider the case of american football, say. This game, such as it is set out, is entirely built on the overwhelming nature of kinetic momentum and the considerable difficulty of acceleration ; it's a sort of "thermodynamics proposes but kinetics disposes" dressed up for people's play. Yes you can pick up a ball, and yes you can run on your two feet as fast as they'll carry you, but no you can't take it from here to there because there's a dozen other dorks just like you, spaced just like so, and it just dun' work. That's the whole idea of that sport, such as it is, and in terms of getting fundamental realities through thick orc skulls you can't even say it's an entirely wasted exercise ("yes you can shoot a gun and yes you can have the oldster empty that safe but no you won't make it out with it" -- as important a lesson as you could hope to bestow upon 20 year old "independent" schmucks).
Now imagine that some kids somewhere engaged in this game for the sport of it, which is to say for their own private enjoyment, without the adults goading them into it and without trying to impress whoever enough to get no-academic-strings-attached scholarships or whatever the hell. And among these kids... one could fly. I mean literally, he could just spread out his wings and fly away.
Evidently football no longer works, not like this. If the linebackers or whatever they're called can't rely on the guy having to make with his feet, the whole thing's gutted, period and full stop. So the kids will, necessarily, counter the reality of the flying kid with pretense. Conventional as all pretense, the idea will be that "flying is not permitted". And the kid with wings is more than welcome to choose : either be excluded from playing the game outright, or else acquiesce to the fundamental pretense : he's not going to use his wings. Notwithstanding that not using wings (which you have) when they're useful is a little nutty ; and preferring cerebral concussions instead is nuttier still -- he's not going to use them.
What is then the selling point of pretense ?
That's right! Pretense provides security! If the non-flying-football pretense is bought, security from the sudden, unmitigable doom of "well, he just flew off with the ball, sorry, we lose" is available.
If one advertises the car in such a way as to make no reference whatsoever to any specific, factual characteristic of the car in question -- then security from the very factual and rather inescapable characteristic of all cars (namely : that they can be driven into walls) is also available!
That's why it seems a little off when some inept, noobish advertiser breaks the pretense convention and purports to discuss the car specifically, as it is. This is why representational rather than aspirational advertising looks like the handywork of illiterate yahoos, of "putin doesn't understand how the world works" orcs that don't really get it : say what you will about the actual car, it can't be said it can't possibly crash. Whereas in the world of dreamers...
You see ? The selling point of pretense is security.
The correlate of the need for security, however, is exposure. I am a man who doesn't worry much about cunt, specifically because I'm surrounded by it ; the cunt in question doesn't worry much about rape, specifically because it gets raped on the regular ; adult women worth plenty of dough aren't afraid to walk the "bad part of town" at night decked in streetwalker shoes & cvasi-dresses because... they do it! The adult women worth jack shit who aspire to my slaves' position and imagine idly pretending to it is not only "almost just as good" but also "how you get there" in the first place... those are afraid of the dark, and of dark alleys and of random bywalkers. The chronic masturbator isn't fixated because he sees too much sex stuff, but because he sees too little, and by consequence imagines way the fuck too much!
Pretense is a figment of imagination, and the surest method to reduce imagination to silence is by exposure to reality! Which is why the teenager in the piece blushes under the tan : she's exposed, well and thoroughly exposed to the elements, such as they are, and therefore her needs of pretense are nowhere near JAP level.
This is generally the benefit of exposing the female : she becomes less annoying! And this is conversely also the disadvantage of protecting the female : the more protected she is, the more insufferable her imaginary security needs satisfied through unbearable pretense actually become! Which is why the woman slapped now and again is infinitely more pleasant companionship than the woman never slapped ; and which is why no rough-and-tumble pioneer ever encountered a civilised fellow from the metropolis so that they each left the other with the impression -- that the Westerner's overpolite or that the Easterner's overconceited, but always the other way around ; and which is why orphans, especially survivors of rapeorphanages, make infinitely better successors than the genuine porphyrogeniti scions.
Ultimately, this is why a safe world is the ugliest, smelliest, most disgusting shitsandwich man could ever put together for himself. So now you know. [↩]Vera Clouzot spends the whole reel barefoot and abused like the lowliest of pre-war creole whores -- shoes are like spice for her, and never a kind word, not ever.
She is, supposedly, deeply and unquestioningly in love with an idiot whose chicken-like chest is half covered in a sagged-out wifebeater (laugh not, it's visibly the deliberate trademark), one who can at the very most be bothered to open the door of the truck she's clinging to so she faceplants into the dirt and we can admire her cunt from behind. Add to this paragon of masculinity (as per the lights of un certain regard) that he falls in love at first sight with some older vagrant that stumbles into town and you have French wartime faggotry entire. This is what Alain Delon spent his "career" such as it was trying to cater to, a sort of inexistent, imaginary "ideal" male put together out of a rooster and a broomstick.
Ridiculous as it may well be -- ridiculous as it indubitably, quite factually is -- nevertheless it beats the alternative, and by a fair distance. [↩]What, you thought you're the first who came up with coercing the significant other to degrading acts whose recording memory she can't control ? D'oh.
Consider the fundamental ambiguity that's at the basis of human sexuality : is the man lying or isn't he ? Who controls the relation between fact and word, between deed and label, between thing and symbol, and, more importantly, much more importantly -- what's yielding this control signify ?
So yes, the question very much is who gets to decide whether "she meant" what she did and what she meant by the doing of it. See ? Not only your "deepest, darkest" whatever weren't even yours, specifically, but they weren't either deep or dark! They were anything but that, fully understood since the beginning of time by beings that were there to birth it. What now ? Gonna kill yourself ? 'Cuz that's how logic works at the age of 11, I'm sure. [↩]It is absolutely never the case trucks carrying unsecured TNT must be driven fast. There exists no such circumstance nor could there exist such circumstance. [↩]Between Vivre sa vie and Irreversible you have the history of nothing entire! [↩]Really the best part of the whole 130 minute strip of wasted reel is the three second scene of the negress showering naked outdoors. Here :
This was originally going to be a gif, because she is beyond feline, I have no idea how black girls manage to dance even while they shower with their back to the camera, but they do. However, while
ffmpeg -i twof.mp4 -ss 00:26:33 -t 00:27:01 -r 25.0 negress%4d.jpg
very happily extracted a few hundred frames and the Gimp is more than willing to Filter > Animation > Optimize for GIF (which makes frames transparent in all the spots where they've not changed from the previous frame) and then Floyd-Steinberg the whole kaboodle into a 256-color indexed palette, nevertheless the result, while smooth as butter, weighs a shade over 150 Megabytes. This probably has to do with the 960 x 720 resolution involved, which puts me against the wall : either delete frames, scale the thing down, or give up.
I'm giving up, you get to see a still instead of the half minute's worth of swaying hips. I apologize. [↩]
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No Such lAbs (S.NSA), February 2018 Statement »
Category: Trilematograf
Sunday, 04 March, Year 10 d.Tr.
Le grand blond avec une chaussure noire
Le grand blond avec une chaussure noirei is essentially a re-do of the insurmountable pile of lulz that was the Dreyfuss affair, brought up to date ("secret services"!111 as fucking if!ii).
The whole "he's good because he's bad" schtick is older than the Lombards, of course, but the specific sort of institutionalized insanity, of ritously enunciated riotous nonsense in the vein of "c'est les yeux qui trahit" etcetera...
The necessary byproduct of civilisation, exactly in the same sense garbage and pollution as piles of discarded packaging and puddles of slightly toasty 5W30. Just as suffocating, just as disgusting, just as repulsive. Yet how can you run bureaucracies without somehow twiddling the mediocre byproducts of amorous congress into some kind of narrow, improbable, mostly imaginary utility ? And what's it going to be built out of, besides spurious certainties, appeals to imaginary, absent authority and so on ?
Le grand blond avec une chaussure noire is funny on the short range because whatever, dude's brushing his teeth with shaving cream and who the hell heard of showing up at the airport with shoes of two different colors. Nevertheless, on the mid and long range it is hysterical, not because "look at those idiots", but because "I defy you to build anything taller than a nine year old out of better materials".
It's a legitimate quest, one that can take the knight errant unexpected places, but leaving aside the serious discussion of that challenge : laughingstocks is all states ever were, and all states ever could be, no matter how constructed, or why, or by whom. That's what this film is all about : matrimony or presidency, it's a fucking joke, and the same exact joke at that.
What can you do ?
———1972, by Yves Robert, with Pierre Richard (the original that Hugh Grant cocksucker's been trying to imitate) and an aging (but very nude) Mireille D'Arc. [↩]The French ever had such a thing. They spent the entire Cold War being kept out of the loop by all their military and political allies on substantial grounds of unmitigated idiocy and incomprehensible incompetence ; and they persist in the same exact vein to this very day. [↩]
« No Such lAbs (S.NSA), May 2018 Statement
Further Gay Bullshit : Todo sobre mi madre & La mala educacion »
Category: Trilematograf
Tuesday, 05 June, Year 10 d.Tr.
Lay the Favorite
Motto : There is such a thing as broken code that's fun to read.
It's called literature, and it has to be broken in certain ways.
Lay the Favoritei is the definitive sopirla piece of the NEET "culture"ii. Pretty much everything pertaining to that sorry lot is captured in there, and the age gap between the adult actors/crew discreetely laughing their asses off at the completely imbecile young retards versus the completely imbecile young retards taking themselves seriously and, like, totally-doing-it-reddit is so glaringly obvious as to necessarily pass unnoticed by the unintended audience. It's like a perfectly done Disney movie about a pair of slutty twin sisters and all the fun they had up in Chicago which you can watch with your five year old and he'll see an endearing bit of nonsense about two rabbits and no more. Except of course in this case the five year old is biologically thirty or so, which makes it anything but endearing...
The Mary Sue character, this "always-in-short-pants-and-blouses" mousy chick (hey, legs are out so she's still sexy, but cute and like, totally not skanky or anything, rite ?) has a father, who totally supports her and everything (read : thinks it's a great idea for her to go whore out in Vegasiii) and doesn't dieiv but nevertheless fades away in a totally-not-how-this-goes way so that Mary Sue can be adopted (quite literally, in the DJB manner) by a couple of you know, urban old ladies. The words "they adopted a special needs hamster" are, literally, included in the film. What more could you ask for ?
Every single trope of specifically-NEET failure, idiocy, worthlessness, inadequacy, you name it -- is included. In a most typical vein of Luciferian tradition the damned are strictly apt to see it as neutral characterization rather than the plain damnation it so very plainly is. The Mary Sue has very obviously regressed to the level of a pet dog, that has no understanding of causation but merely responds to emotional cuesv -- and a pet dog is included! and used for at least two visual gags based on the exact identity! Yet the very stupid "actress" that's "acting"vi (except not at all) literally thinks, in the used litterbox that plays the role of a brainbox in her case, that she's signifying and someone's about to thank her for her leadership.
I was entertaint ; and Bruce Willis was evidently just as entertained.
Pro tip : sometimes when they say it was fun working with you there's... more to it than that.
———2012, by Stephen Frears, with Bruce Willis, Catherine Zeta-Jones (who's so embarassed of this catastrophe she's not even in the top billed list). Apparently the nonsense was based on some inept piece of Mary Sue fic by one Mary Beth Raymer (a sort of fratire-for-chicks author, I'm guessing). [↩]Let's call it that, though "used adult diapers" would probably be more descriptive. [↩]But totally not in a skanky way or anything. Are you starting to see a pattern emerge ?
I hope you see a pattern emerge in a totally non-skanky way if you know what The New York Times thinks is good for you. [↩]As the "character" is to be protected, see ? She can't experience anything, that's why the inexistent tits require a bra even in bra-intolerant dresses. [↩]Literally -- now things are good, yee! Now they are bad -- awww! Like a three month old baby responding to mother's face without any inkling of a clue as to what the fuck happened behind that face, exactly so here. "It worked" or "It didn't work", what do you mean "how" ? A "business"! What do you mean... etcetera [↩]Her "acting" entirely consists of some kind of obligation implicitly foisted on the viewer to pretend to not notice that she's just being herself, and instead pretend that what the chair is doing standing unmoved is the very competent work of a totally not-chair "actor" that's merely ACTING the part of a piece of furniture, and doing SUCH A GREAT JOB OF IT!!11 [↩]
« Lucy
Ridoinculous taboos »
Category: Trilematograf
Wednesday, 10 January, Year 10 d.Tr.
Land of coffee, land of winds, land of oddly moistened bints
It is so windy here I can never find where the girl parked the car. No, seriously.
Moving on, this is a shop :
Exactly acrosss the street there's a different-same shop (which I actually prefer). To focus on the core :
Meanwhile in a different part of town, there's an entirely different if entirely related shop :
I did not buy anything because not really being part of this cultural tradition (admitting they have one), I do not know what to buy. In other lands, I can swoop in and pick the ~only useful and valuable item from a piled up collation of books-as-mere-items maintained by an intellect recently repurposed from floor washing, ticket tearing and other such monkeyism at the cost to my eye of half minute's survey ; but here I lack the hierarchy and consequently all those books are so many hamburgers to me, I couldn't pick among them.
Moreover, there's scant need for written poetry because you sea...
Sadly the mechanical eye is not very good at capturing the subtle hues, but I suspect you understand me nevertheless. After all, words are also not particularily apt for capturing...
Meanwhile in other vignettes, girl at optometrist's office, getting fitted for a new pair (ie, two of the individual items you insanely refer to as "pairs" of glasses, as if they were somehow a disparate or at least disparable item -- pair of tits is one thing, but pair of glasses ?!) : "What happened to your old pair ?" "I just lost them." "At the beach ?"
Motherfucker knew! They probably have a deal with the ocean, the optometrists here, they offer it baby turtles and in exchange it pilfers glasses. Anyway, I pulled both calves, both thighs and turned both ankles jumping waves, they had to carry me away on one of those strange shields they try to stand afloat on. IT WAS FABULOUS.
I was so dead, in fact, that the silly chicken vultures they have here kept flying over me, a couple meters above, in clear anticipation of a meal. They had to post guard at either side, palm leaf fans repurposed to shoo the necrophages away.
I died at sea, and was given a proper sand burial. After which I was revived, because that's the great advantage of dying at sea : you come back.
So here I am again, and see you later again, and so following.
PS. I know now why the locals refer to the cunt as "concha" : if girl goes into ocean dressed (what, a bathing suit counts!), ocean will deposit sand in her slip. And when you peel it off to take a peek, it'll look just like a little shell's been there.
It all makes perfect sense, you just have to know where to look.
« No Such lAbs (S.NSA), December 2017 Statement
Lucy »
Category: La pas prin lume
Sunday, 07 January, Year 10 d.Tr.
Lamb aspic
Followed splendidly by the world's best rum as far as I can presently telli -- Venezuela's Diplomatico. Try it sometime.
———Also participating in this telling : Nicaragua's Flor de Cana (meh) ; Guatemala's Colonial "Ron artezanal" (nice leather collar, I guess) ; Cuba's Habana Club (meh -- no, I get it, you think it's great, but that's because all you have to compare it with is the flavoured tubfare Diageo & co feed you sad lot, "Captain Morgan", "Bacardi" and such wormwood teas) ; Guatemala's Zacapa (I guess, if 24yo) and finally Costa Rica's own Centenario (which, if 24-30 yo, can in fact compare, but at 2 to 3x the price).
In the end, Venezuela wins, what can I tell you. [↩]
« Adventures con velas, and other things.
Morning coffee ocean side »
Category: Zsilnic
Sunday, 15 July, Year 10 d.Tr.
La Lupa
La Lupai is a posthumous theatrical resurrection of rural Sicilia.
It is a very elegant, most insistently filigreed fake. I feel inclined to forgive the falsity for the reasons and in the manner we always forgive artifice : ingenious industry is what we're all about, after all. Isn't it ? So when the black of the women, technicaly correct, yes, Sicilian rural females wore mostly black, dances like abstract, meta-ballet around the white highlights of the men... as I'm aware of the falsity therefore, therefore I'm not insulted by it.
These people fished out from who knows where prettier Roman arches, more accurate and didactically relevant ancient oil presses and truly beautiful clay amphorae, beautiful in a researched, inteligent manner borne of insistent reflection and good documentation... the result would be the exact opposite of what the fucktarded generation takes for a documentaryii.
But all that aside, the problems of the film touch to the core. A woman loves a man, the man is not interested in her. He accepts lordship over her, lordship and not partnership. Over her, and all her things, to be sealed in the blood of her daughter ; and she aquiesces. Unhappily, but in the end... what can you do ?
For all the artifice in the world, for all the intelligence, reflection and documentation, for all the undisputable technological advancement and very dubious socio-whatever progress, what the fuck can you do ?
Not that much, as it turns out. Embers dying in a pan and a rag on an armful of hay will readily attest to the matter -- and if your rag and your pan don't, it may be not because you're "advanced" but because you're regressed. Those people -- they had no problem understanding, roundly and thoroughly around, what their pan and their rag were telling them. That you're still struggling with yours doesn't speak in your favour -- consider the silent donkeys in the film also struggle with odds and ends of human products that far exceed their capacity of going around.
———1996, by Gabriele Lavia, with (a very proeminently billed) Monica Guerritore and an incredible animated olive (Alessia Fugardi). [↩]Have you noticed how the species decayed, by the way, under the pressure of "gonzo" ? How it's naught but unbearable dweebs talking about things they presume we agree are important, substituting their inane manner for any sort of content ? [↩]
« How things have changed!
Jap Deva! »
Category: Trilematograf
Saturday, 28 July, Year 10 d.Tr.
Kumho
So I went for a spell to the beach, right ?
Right.
Did I ever tell you about my tyres, by the way ? They're special order, brand Kumho. No kidding, that's what it says on them, an alternate spelling of Cum Whore. The [very competent] guys at the pit stop assured me they're the best, top of their shelf.
There's only one slight problem with them : whenever you let out air (such as for instance because you're attaching the lighter-powered little red frog guy that measures pressure / pumps air) it smells of stale cum like you wouldn't believe. It reeks! No kidding. How the hell anyone would manage to get cum past the valve and into the tubes (yes, my car rides on tubed tyres, because fuck "progress", I don't want it) is anyone's guess, but a fact's a fact. Biodiversidad, amirite ?
But let's not get distracted here, we were discussing cum hos and tyres. So! Earlier on the road (driving to the beach, you recall) there was this car up front, some Kia or some other dumb bimbo fare like that, and it kept sliding off the road. It was plain that through no direct prodding of the bimbo driving it, the car just naturally slid left. The poor idiot at the wheel kept steering it back towards the line, but as soon as she released whoop, there it went, back towards the ditch.
And then we noticed : the dumbass had wide tyres on one side, but narrow tyres on the other side. No joke. This actually happened, and I don't think it could've occured anywhere else.
~ The End ~
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Category: Zsilnic
Monday, 25 June, Year 10 d.Tr.
Kika
Kikai is the misnamed story of male confrontation, enstaged between the usual alpha and the usual beta. That the politically engaged derps involved in production insistently try to present male interaction from a female view, and go as far as to entirely spuriously name the production after a randomly chosen femaleii does relatively little for anyone.
The film is not very interesting because its ideal construction is extremely formulaic (the alpha "gotta have a fatal flaw", and what could his "fatal flaw" possibly be other than being a meaningless and incomprehensible if thoroughly detached serial killer, duh) and because it's filmed by poor people on a tight budget in the 90s. The 80s weren't this terrible for the Almodovar crewiii ; but because of the extreme social importance of 90s pornography in destroying the old version of female society its means of production are both widely recognizable and strongly associated. So no, you can't make "a film" in general on cheap 90s VHS the way you could have made "a film" in general on the cheapestt 35mm you could find back in the 80s.
That said, there are some working gags (such as the titular Kika admitting that her principal concern is divining whether she's getting fucked today or not ; or the tit-spotlights), and altogether the reconstructed allegory of "the press" in the shape of an annoyingly maleducated chick carrying the period equivalent of a Go-Pro is not without merit, at least as far as the 90s are concerned.iv
I suppose the only way to send this off is to say it's not an item for the general interest, but only conceivably interesting to the scholar, and even then rather limitedly.
———1993, by Almodovar, with his usual crew (they aged). [↩]Seriously, the "make-up artist" Kika isn't even in this film! She's a groupie of the film, struggling at the edges to make it in somehow, that's it. [↩]No, it's not just one person, it's a group. [↩]Meanwhile even this deserted, long abandoned press died (as death usually works in human society -- first the men figure out it's a corpse, then as it starts cooling the women get "empowered" into it, then it finally stiffs up). [↩]
« The girl that had the world ahead of her
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Category: Trilematograf
Tuesday, 29 May, Year 10 d.Tr.
Joe's enthusiasm
"I don't know about that, Angel..."
Joe didn't call Angel "Angel" because Angel was Angel's name, which it was. Joe called Angel "angel" because she was, literally, an angel. At least to him.
Not just to him alone, mind you. Plenty of other people could see the angle as well. For one thing, Angel's hair was honey-blonde and naturally curly. That's already pretty much enough, isn't it ? Angel also had a very simmetrical, ever so slightly oval face and deep baby-blue eyes. She was tall and slender, and when she moved she did it easily, gracefully one could say. As if she was floating about in a helpful breeze.
Then again plenty of men call their baby "angel", especially in Joe's millieu. Joe's daddy was a trucker -- he woke up at four-forty to drive that truck day in and day out ; to drive that truck so Joe could go to college (which didn't exactly work out all that well for Joe, but that certainly has nothing to do with trucks and colleges and therefore not with our story, either). Joe's daddy never called Joe's mom "angel" as far as Joe knew, which simply means he started the count too late, after an abortion and other occurences. Joe's daddy's brothers, though, all did, even if the angels kept changing, and their sons and friends and acquaintances and so following.
The Angel in question frowned playfully. "We said you were going to be enthusiastic about it, Joe" she cooed.
"We... uhh...you... umm. That's right!"
"Were you being enthusiastic right now, Joe ?"
"I... I wasn't... I..." he stuttered, helplessly. Angel's left eyebrow rose a shade. "No ma'am!"
"Were you being otherwise, Joe ?"
"I... Yes ma'am! I was being otherwise, ma'am".
"Aaand what did we say was going to happen otherwise ?" she toyed with the words, almost purring them out.
"You said... umm... we said there's going to be extra chores."
"Aand ?"
"And..." Joe's voice failed him, he just yawned inaudibly. Then he caught himself "extra rolls. Extra rolls, ma'am!" he yelped, almost like a recruit in trouble.
"How many extra rolls, Joe ?"
"One ma'am". But that eyebrow again. "One the first time, ma'am. Then two. Then... then more."
"Was this the first time, Joe ?"
"It was. It... uhm... it was whatever you say, Angel."
"I think actually it was the first time, huh. Wasn't it ?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Tell you what Joe, considering it was the first time and we did say it's only one roll for the first time and then two for the second, I'll cut you a break. How about you do three rolls, for the first time and for the second time, together. Would you like that ?"
"I... I... I would" yelped poor helpless Joe, somehow reduced, in spite of his muscular build and towering stature, to a heaping pile of whiffles and snortles by the twenty-one year old inexplicably towering in front of him, half his weight.
"You would what, Joe ?"
"I... I would like three rolls, ma'am. Please." then after a short pause. "May I get the table ?"
"Ah, one moment, Joe. Not just yet. Wasn't there more ?"
Joe's eyes widened. There was more. Indeed there was, plenty more, and his flimsy plot to deflect it had fallen completely flat. "Yes. Yes there was more, ma'am."
"What more was there ?"
"You said... I mean we said that if I'm not enthusiastic about it... if... if I'm not enthusiastic then... then when we go to buy the clothes you will ask your girlfriends to come along. And... and... and help me... I mean help you... us, help us pick."
"Pick what, Joe ?"
"Pick... pick..."
"Yeees ?"
"Pick the sluttiest ones." then after a short pause, recollecting himself, "Ma'am."
"How many girlfriends, Joe ? Wasn't it just one for the first time ?"
"It was... it was... you... we said just one, Angel. But it should be more."
"It should be more, huh. Yeah, I think so. I'm just going to invite over anyone who has time, we'll have a great party."
"A service party, ma'am ?"
"But of course."
"Yes ma'am."
"You didn't think we'd do something like that on the sly anyway. Did you Joe ?"
"No ma'am."
"And they'll have to take selfies and whatnot with you, of course."
"Oh... oh Angel..."
"Yes ?"
"Of... of course. Of course they'll take pictures."
"And put them on the web."
"Yes ma'am."
"So people can see what a pretty boy you are and how well you dressed for the trip, isn't that right, Joe ?"
"Oh yes... yes Angel. Yes ma'am. So they can all see..."
"What do you think, Joe, do it make it a couples event ? Should they bring a boyfriend each ?"
"Oh Angel!" Joe's voice had lost a lot in audible volume, but had gained even more in imperative desperation.
"Ok, alright, no boyfriends. This time."
"Yes ma'am."
"You know you've been putting it off long enough ?"
"Yes... yes ma'am."
"One of these days you'll have to break down and show real men your pretty true self."
"Yes ma'am. I will ma'am. Anything you say."
"That's a good baby boy. Ah, Joe, I'm so proud of you... now run fetch that table."
Joe leaped through the livingroom towards Angel's bedroom. It was technically a one bedroom apartment, but the bedroom was spacious enough, with a very nice king sized bed and even a few square feet's worth of walk-in closet. Of course it was Angel's bedroom, Joe just slept there on an old mattress on the floor. In fact, it was Angel's old mattress from her Freshman dorm. She said it'd be the best bed for him, to give him sweet dreams. Angel had been busy in her first year away from home, and the mattress was indeed well worn, uneven and lumpy in many places. Joe had indeed spent many sleepless hours contemplating the precise manner in which the item might've been so reduced over the course of many other sleepless hours...
The "table" was a modified Monopoly game. Angel was clever like that, she had re-made all the community chest and chance cards. The community chest ones were the worst -- or maybe Joe was just shy. The turns worked exactly in the same way as with the old game, except Joe was the only player (though they preferred to call it "sucker"). There was no $200 for passing go. Instead, Angel would distribute the property cards before the game started. She'd give them all to herself, or split them with her friends when they were throwing a party, maybe even leave some unclaimed in the bank sometime. Then Joe rolled the dice. If he landed on any piece of owned property, he had to buy it back from the owner, by opening his wallet. A week's wages for a little piece of paper saying "Boardwalk" on the face and "Anilingus qs" in black sharpie on the back was a little steep, but Angel wouldn't have it any other way. Then after paying for it, he had to perform it, too, and "qs" meant something in latin to the effect of "until she's had enough".
The rules had many variations, most of which ad-hoc, especially when there was a party going on and a turn could stretch over hours -- the girls could always drop back to Joe's table whenever there was a lull in conversation, and so they did. One popular variation was "backsies", where after buying and performing a card, Joe had to gift it back to the original owner, and "giftsies", where he could give it to any girl he wanted.
Sometimes, especially with Angels' closest friends, they'd play "Pimp". This meant the cards don't have to be bought, and the sucker only paid the rent value on the card whenever he landed on it, but the owners could build houses and hotels on the cards -- by buying them from the Pimp, which was always Joe's own angel, Angel. This could get very expensive, and Joe was never allowed to stop playing once he was out of money. Instead, he had to write IOUs. The girls had a lot of fun with this especially, they made him write elaborate IOUs with complicated guarantees and clauses and whatnot. Then in the coming days he had to earn his IOUs back, which almost always involved working as a maid and other such things. The girls were clever and inventive, and Joe's life hadn't had a dull moment he could recall, ever since that day almost a year ago he had first seen Angel at the club and, three walkers on the rocks later, worked up his courage to go talk to her.
But he couldn't, of course, simply bring the table over ; he'd have to get into costume first. It didn't take him very long. With practiced moves he opened up Angel's closet, selected one of Angels' outfits and flew back.
"My, my, don't you look fetching in my grease skirt. But... what's that ?"
"That's my penis poking out, Angel."
"Well it'd better be poking out, it's a really short skirt. But... why is it so small ?"
"That's just how my penis is, baby."
"Not much of one, is it Joe ?"
"Not really..."
"I mean... I've seen real men meat before, but it's nothing like this." she cooed in his ear while fondling his manhood.
"Were they... were they much bigger, Angel ?"
"O yeah, much. Much much bigger. And thicker. And... what is this ?"
"Oh, that's just a little penis aid, Angel."
"But what's it for ?"
"It keeps my penis short and small for you, baby."
"You mean it could grow big and strong if it wasn't for the penis aid ?"
"I think so..."
"Are you sure ?"
"Well... you've seen it, ma'am."
"Yes, some time ago. But... are you sure ?"
"I... I don't know."
"Wouldn't you like to find out ?"
"Yes ma'am."
"So why don't you take it off ?"
"I can't take it off. It has this little lock, see ?"
"Oh, that's right. Do you know who has the key ?"
"I do."
"Who ?"
"You do, Angel."
"Oh, that's right! So am I going to let you out ?"
"No, ma'am."
"Why not ?"
"My time's not up yet, ma'am."
"When is your time up ?"
"Only you know that, ma'am."
"Would you like to know ?"
"I... uh... yes. No, I wouldn't. Yes, please. I... I... not really. Actually..."
"Alright, well, let's play a game. What was it, you had three turns ?"
"Three rolls."
"What's that ?"
"I had to do three full turns, ma'am. Three full turns, however many rolls it take. And more if I'm not any good at it."
"That's right. We'll play on credit this time, you don't have to pay cash."
"Oh."
"How much do you think you'll end up owing me ?"
"At least ten thousand, Angel."
"Make it twenty. Actually, you know what, make it twenty-five."
"Yes ma'am."
« Trilema Gender Studies
What have I been doing ? »
Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Wednesday, 25 April, Year 10 d.Tr.
Iti minca cinii din straita
The titular expression is the superlative Romanian descriptor of hopeless, desperate stupidity. Let's look at it together.
Iti is the reflexive / passive, meaning that it denotes either an action done by the 2nd person to itself, or else an action done by a foreign person to the 2nd. Whether we're dealing with the former case ("iti maninci de sub unghii" = you eat from under your own nails) or the latter depends on whether an agent is stated.
minca is a regional form of the verb to eat (a minca, same as manger in French etc). Since it's in the third person we know that the above finds itself in the latter rather than the former situation.
cinii is a regional form of the noun for dogs (ciine, directly from Latin canem). So it'd appear dogs eat something-to-do-with-person-spoken-to.
straita is a regional name for that ancient item of garb, the food bag. Amusingly enough it arrived into Romanian most likely from Albanian! Anyway, all those knitted square bag things hung around the neck of hipsters ? Straite, totally.
So : "the dogs eat from your food bag", meaning that you are so fucking stupid the only way to feed you is to first feed all the dogs so they can't be arsed to steal "your" food which you're too inept and ineffectual to deny them. Consequently your survival depends strictly on whether there's enough food to satisfy all the dogs first, or in other words nobody can ever love you.i
There's a reason for disgrace, you understand. Ineptitude is that reason. I trust you follow the logic.
———Because how could they ?! You're not here for any direct reason, you're only here because you haven't been eaten yet, exactly like plankton. This makes you directly unaddressable, something that can't properly speaking be referenced, therefore incapable of identity and consequently not a proper subject of anyone's thoughts. [↩]
« And another day dawns, or Multipicture Megapost
Challenge accepted! »
Category: Trilenciclopedia
Monday, 22 January, Year 10 d.Tr.
It came out!
Remember how I was saying that in about five days' time a Monarch butterfly would sail forth ?
It did.
Here :
After a little while he had a sip of the Turkish melon juice breakfast graciously provided by the hosts, then took a short trip to an old shoe, after which we took him to the balcony. Once his wings were quite dry enough he took off, and well... adios, muchacho!
:)
« The principal-agent problem, or how America went away
Hey, women! Did you know that before the Pantsuited Hilarity gave you your civil rights, you were living in slavery ? »
Category: Zsilnic
Sunday, 28 January, Year 10 d.Tr.